“That comes as no surprise to me.” And I let the silence sit for a second. “But maybe that’s why you do it. You out yourself, going live or something. Because you have to reveal this corruption. It just adds to the story.” And then I shut up. I want to pump him up, not get so dramatic he becomes suspicious.
“Yeah, I don’t know if I can make something like that happen that fast.”
“No, you’re probably right. Would you need a full-on, live satellite truck?” I muse. “Or maybe you just use Skype. Or not. But what the hell, it would’ve been great, right? Everyone saying your name?” Oh, the timing couldn’t have been better. The elevator doors open and we’re at the thirty-seventh floor and now this Hail Mary scheme is all hinging on Nick’s ego.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Watching Nick Slants sitting in the corner of the green room eavesdropping on Billy makes me sick to my stomach. He made me stand with him at first. “Act natural,” he said “and no one will question us.” I shot him a disbelieving look as we passed by Billy, and Nick responded with snide remarks about my run-in with Sean downstairs, knowing I couldn’t respond the way I wanted to without drawing attention to us. I finally just walked off under the guise of gathering up a plate from the gorgeous snack spread. So now cheese, fruits, and gourmet little sandwiches are all stuffed on my small plate, but I can’t force a bite down.
I’m lurking in the corner when all of a sudden I panic—my makeup set bag will be a dead giveaway to Nick that I’m legitimately here working. He’ll put me together with Billy and blow the whole plan. I glance around subtly, trying to figure out where I put it down before I went downstairs and ran into Sean. The show starts playing on the screen. The opening monologue and accompanying band completely drown out Billy’s fake phone calls, but I know he’s working the plan.
Billy slams his fist into the arm of the chair and I jump in reaction. Almost losing the avocado off my plate, I have to concentrate on not making a mess for a second and I miss Nick’s reaction. A bomb could go off and Nick wouldn’t notice, he’s so engrossed in the angry details Billy is feeding him.
“I hate to interrupt, Mr. Fox, but the stage managers asked for you to go get your mic on. You’ll be on in a minute.” An incredibly young intern interrupts Billy and then scurries off just as quickly.
“Great. Just perfect.” Billy grunts. He rises to his feet and heads toward the stage. My makeup bag is right next to his chair. I glance around, hoping no one calls attention to it.
“Did you get what you need?” I ask Nick casually as he quickly starts to load up a plate. I thought he would leave right away. He’s eating? Now?!
“Can you pack this up for me to go?” He shoves a roast beef sandwich at me before I can answer. “I’m meeting a crew downstairs. I think I can break this live on my website. My IT guy is building me a platform now.”
Amazingly, his ego has him convinced this was his idea. Even better. I close up the box of food and without glancing back at my makeup kit or to where Billy’s headed backstage, I insist, “I’m escorting you back out of the building.” The suspicion in my voice is not feigned.
The cat-that-ate-the-canary grin on Nick’s face is so disgustingly sleazy. My fingers are itching to slap it off his smug face as we ride down in the elevator. It’s only when he’s gone back into the public lobby and I’m on my way back up that I realize either my violent disgust toward Nick or my protective feelings toward Billy kept me from feeling closed in on the elevator ride. Normally it would have been hard for me to catch a breath without my mental exercises, but today, I was too busy seething to even notice.
“BILLY, I CAN’T thank you enough for what you’re doing for me. Really. You are amazing. And I’m so grateful.” Something changes behind his eyes as I am quickly applying a rice-paper blotting tissue across his forehead before he goes on camera.
“You’re welcome,” he says quietly, watching the backstage monitor. We’re near the sound guy, who is still futzing with his mic.
“Wait, did I say something wrong?” I whisper, confused by his distance. And I scoot out of the way to let the already annoyed audio guy get in to clip the mic to the front of Billy’s shirt.
“It’s nothing. I’ve got to concentrate now.” There is an unwritten code about disrupting performers before they go on. Actually, it probably is written down somewhere. And I would never, ever want to upset Billy, or any performer, before he had to get out there in front of an audience.
“You’re good.” The sound man waves him off with a thumbs-up.
When Billy tries to step past, I am just as surprised as he is that I’ve moved my diminutive body to try to block all six feet plus of him from getting around me. He’s stuck between me and the soundboard and lighting equipment; the only escape would be to walk out onstage.
He sighs heavily. “I don’t want your gratitude, Alex. Don’t you get that?” He puts his hand over the mic under his shirt.
“Well, I’m sorry, but I can’t help it. You’re saving my butt and I appreciate it.” It’s so weird to be whisper-yelling this at him, especially when the audio guy glances up and gives us both a dirty “shut up” look.
“So what happens now?” There’s a tiny smile he tries to hide that confirms for me how ridiculous I must look using all 120 pounds of me and my 10-pound makeup bag to block him into this corner.
“We’re talking about whatever it is we’re not talking about.” Clear as mud. He just looks at me. “You know what I mean.”
“Can we do it after? I’m going on in a second.” He nods toward the stage manager, who I can now see in the dark waving his script, gesturing us forward.
“Yes. Of course,” willing to be conciliatory, as long as he agrees to talk. I step aside pseudo-graciously and watch Billy talk briefly to the stage manager. I still feel disgruntled and now also embarrassed for almost interrupting production.
“I’ll be right back,” Billy whispers, coming back over to me. “Don’t go anywhere.” He says it in a joking tone, but his eyes aren’t laughing. I nod back at him and turn to watch the monitor as he goes out onstage with a Texas swagger and a little extra twang in his voice. The consummate professional—you would never know from his quick interview and very funny sketch bit that he was under any kind of pressure at all.
“WHAT WAS YOUR boyfriend doing here?” The minute Billy’s handed the mic back to the audio guy offstage, he catches me off guard with the direct question.
“What?” The out-of-left-field subject change is taking all the air out of me.
“I heard Nick Slants saying something to you about your boyfriend being downstairs when he got here. Is he here in New York?
“Um, yes, he kind of showed up here, I had no idea,” I stammer, keeping pace with him as we head back to the dressing room area.
“Were you going to say anything to me about it?”
“I wasn’t keeping it from you. We’ve had so much going on, and he just appeared out of nowhere.”
“Right. Okay.” He checks his watch. “I set the time for six so Nick would have a chance to pull his shit together. So let’s talk about it now.” Somehow his tone doesn’t seem to fit the offer. But his voice is back to normal volume since we’ve exited the heavy soundstage doors.
“Sean showed up at the studio when we thought it was Nick waiting for me downstairs. It was Sean.”
“Why? What’d he want?” We’re in his assigned dressing room now. Billy kicks the door shut and peels the fancy dress shirt off over his head without even unbuttoning it.
“He asked me to come home.” It’s difficult carrying on a conversation with a half-dressed Billy Fox; as it turns out, the subject matter does not stop me from getting distracted by the view. Focus, Alex. I don’t want him to think I was keeping secrets. “He proposed to me.”
Billy turns to me, his worn Texas A&M sweatshirt in his hands. “What did you say?”
“Well, I never got the chance to say anything. That’s when I saw Nick, so I just got rid of
Sean as quickly as I could.”
“Got rid of him how?” He pulls the maroon sweatshirt over his head and I’m distracted by wanting to run my fingers through his messy blond hair. He brushes a hand carelessly through it before bringing my focus back to the point. “What is Sean thinking right now?”
“About me and him? I have no idea.” That’s not quite true. “He thinks I’m thinking about it.”
“Are you?” he asks, casually leaning against the small dressing table in the room. After I finished his makeup earlier, he’d switched off the neon overhead lights, so the room is now softly lit by the row of Hollywood makeup lights around the small mirror. It makes it hard to see his face in the shadows.
“No. I’m not. I don’t want to go back,” I say to him firmly. “I don’t blame you if you don’t believe me, after the way I’ve leaned on you to help me through this whole disaster. But that’s not who I am anymore. I want to stand on my own two feet, clean up my own messes, and marry someone who wants me for me. Not the package that comes with my parents’ construction company. I’m not a line item on an acquisitions spreadsheet.”
“Who are you convincing? Me or yourself?” He’s still backlit by the mirror and lights. And I have no idea what he’s thinking from the tone of his voice.
“You. Me. I don’t know, all of the above. It doesn’t matter what I say, though, I have to actually do it.” I only have one step to pace away from him. But I can’t help it. I slam my bag on the ground and kick my foot against the wall. Frustration is practically choking me. “I keep saying I want to take care of myself, but every time there’s a problem I would always run home to Dad. And then Sean. I thought a fresh start in New York would be enough to break the cycle, but apparently not. Here I am, in the middle of another disaster. Only difference is you’re helping me instead of them.”
“That’s not quite how I see it.” He hasn’t moved a muscle, but there is so much warmth in his tone that I can feel his smile. “Are you kidding me? I had to force you to let me help you, Alex. That’s not repeating bad behavior. Letting me be a part of your plan is just plain ol’ common sense.”
“No, I should have figured out a way without involving you… or anyone else, for that matter,” I add, thinking of how Janeé and Andy and the others could get in trouble for helping me.
“There’s a difference between getting other people to solve your problems for you and asking your friends for help when you need it. A big difference.” Somehow the room seems so much smaller as Billy moves closer to me.
“Not really,” I say. Trying to stay strong, I deny the easy out he’s giving me.
“Alex, believe me. There are a lot of people out there who willingly play the victim at every opportunity. Maybe you were like that in the past, but you certainly aren’t now. The woman I know is strong, tough, and willing to go for broke when she knows she’s right.” He smooths my hair behind my ear and then leans his hand against the wall by my head so he can lean in closer. “I’m not the one pulling the strings here. Sure, I asked a friend to help me prank a nasty reporter. You’re the one risking everything, as much as I hate it. You had to get Slants to up the ante by going live. You’re the one who will have to make this news tonight. And you’re the one who will have to convince that editor and Hillary’s lawyer that it’s enough. You’re doing those things, not me.” It’s hard not to believe him when his smoky voice is so passionately washing over me.
“Well, since you put it that way…” I let out a short laugh. His lips are so close to mine, I can feel his breath. I start to reach forward to close the gap when I feel a firm hand on my shoulder.
“Don’t get me wrong, sweetheart. I want to kiss you right now more than anything.” He’s staring at my lips, but then he blinks. When he reopens his bright blue eyes, they’re gazing intently into mine. “But I think you need to sort a few things out with that man who’s waiting for an answer from you. Don’t you?”
CHAPTER TWENTY
It’s 7:52 a.m. and I’m standing outside a huge skyscraper on Sixth Avenue sipping the Starbucks latte I sprung for this morning. I need the caffeine dose to back up the extra cover-up I had to layer underneath my eyes to hide the dark circles. I’ve been standing here since seven o’clock waiting for Liz Daniels, attempting to appear much more confident than I feel.
As the managing editor of one of the most powerful magazines in the country finally gets out of her town car, I juggle the papers tucked under my arm. Mixed in with the tabloids hot off the presses are printouts I spent the early-morning hours compiling from every blog post and online article I could find detailing Nick Slants’s fall from grace.
Apparently I’ve wasted several trees, because Ms. Daniels does not proceed to the revolving doors or in any way try to evade me. In fact, to my surprise, she meets my eyes and steps directly up to me.
“You’ve been busy,” she says, assessing me.
“Nick Slants brought it on himself.” I find myself feeling defensive.
“Of that I have no doubt.” She looks at the fistful of papers I am still clutching with the tenacity of someone who knows her livelihood is on the line. “So? Tell me,” she prompts.
“Nick Slants went live on his website last night with a story that was completely false. He had no real sources, and he’d done no real research, so he embarrassed himself by hyping up his big ‘exclusive’ exposing some Hollywood sex scandal, which turned out to be a couple actors rehearsing a scene for a movie. It seems clear if he’s ever taken seriously as a journalist again, it won’t be for a very long time.”
“Nick has successfully walked that tightrope for years. How lucky for you that he crashed and burned when you needed him to most.” I’m face-to-face with a woman who has successfully risen to the top of a dog-eat-dog industry, and she’s not afraid to let me know it.
“Given his current reputation, your magazine won’t publish his byline probably ever. And you’re unlikely to get scooped by anyone else, am I right? No one will take him seriously, not for years.”
Liz Daniels finally takes the papers from my hands. She leafs through several pages before handing them back to me, and finally I see a hint of personality slip through her ironclad shield. “Impressive.” A tiny smile appears at the very edges of her perfectly lined lips. “No, I won’t print anything Nick Slants brings me. No legitimate publication will.”
“Can I get that in writing?”
I CHECK MY WATCH as Janeé waves me through building security with a knowing smirk. It’s 9:51 a.m. and I wouldn’t put it past Hillary P. and her lawyer to hold me to the ten o’clock deadline. Squeezing the pocket of my purse for the reassuring presence of my phone has become a nervous tic since I stole someone’s cab at Sixth and Fifty-seventh. I was right to set aside my principles in healthy appreciation for morning rush hour Midtown traffic. Finally the elevator arrives and it’s a fully loaded cab as we head back up to the thirty-seventh floor. Nine fifty-four. Which you’d think means I’ll make it, except in New York, people ride the elevator for just one floor, so by the time we get to thirty-seven, we’ve stopped at almost every level in between. I’m starting to sweat as I sprint-walk down the hallways toward Hillary’s private dressing room area.
I knock on her door without waiting to catch my breath, and so when Fircham opens it, one hand is still clutching the stitch in my side. Casually, I use the back of that hand to pat away the beads of sweat that are gathering on my upper lip. I’ve seen enough Discovery Channel to know I don’t want either of these sharks to smell blood in the water.
“You’re back,” Hillary P. states, nonplussed.
“You made the deadline.” Fircham looks at his Rolex, confirming it. “Just barely.”
“We had an agreement,” I say with all the confidence I can muster. After everything Billy did, the gauntlet we both survived over the last forty-eight hours, this is the real moment of truth. I have to convince them it’s enough.
“Well?” Hillary deadpans. Immediately I’m thro
wn and pause for a second to regroup. Unlike Liz Daniels this morning, either Hillary has not been kept informed of the downfall of Nick Slants or she’s playing dumb to make me work for it. I’d be a fool to assume the first.
“If you’ve been following the big Hollywood story since last night, you know that Nick Slants has publicly made a fool of himself. If anyone took him seriously as a reporter or a journalist before last night, they certainly don’t now, and they very likely never will again.”
“So? What does that have to do with what you did?” She’s been doing her best Goodfellas impression, staring me down, but now she casually turns to lean into her beauty mirror to examine her lipstick. “You broke your deal, telling stories about me to the press. It doesn’t matter that he’s a fool. It doesn’t change anything.”
Up until now I was addressing Hillary. Confronting Hillary. It hadn’t occurred to me that she wouldn’t get it, but I know the lawyer will. Fircham has been silent behind me. No way am I going to let him off the hook.
“What Nick Slants did last night changes everything. He brought himself to national attention with a supposed jaw-dropping breaking story, and it turned out to be a big hoax. He had nothing, no sources, no journalistic integrity. He took one out-of-context quote and blew it up into this huge story that was nothing but hot air. Something I think we all already knew he was capable of.” I include Hillary in that. I’m sure she’d love the opportunity to save her pride by believing Nick’s story about her was equally unfounded.
Fircham walks over to his briefcase and some files he has stacked on Hillary’s dainty coffee table. I wait for him to say something, to tear up the confidentiality agreement. I wanted some grand gesture to let me know it’s finally over. But he doesn’t do anything. He just looks up at me, above the rim of his reading glasses, and says, “Go on.”
“Don’t you see?” I look between both of them. “With the beating Nick Slants’s reputation is taking all over the media, he’s a laughingstock. His story is sparking a debate this morning all over the news about the journalistic integrity issues with bloggers and social media. No one will take him seriously. Meaning that he won’t be able to publish that article about Hillary at all. No one will pay him a penny for his story.”
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