Hard to Hold (The Hold series Book 2)

by Arell Rivers

  My breath stops altogether. Probation. The last account rep she put on probation was fired less than two weeks later, and I haven’t seen her working in the industry since. That was two years ago. My nightmare is complete.

  The cellphone slips from my numb hand as Greta’s words ricochet through my head: Married. Hooked up. Married. Photos. Hooked up. Starr Nelson. Married. Probation.

  My laptop boots up, and I go directly to a gossip site. There, in living color, is the marriage certificate signed by the Reverend Frisco Lemmon, plus photos of Cole with a blonde woman, Starr Nelson—his wife?! There they are kissing, smiling and holding champagne flutes, leaving Caesars in a taxi. And one is clearly of them in bed. In bed.

  My stomach revolts. I make a mad dash to the bathroom and lose its contents. Sitting on the tile floor, I rest my head against the bowl as tears flow freely.

  I don’t have the luxury of time to wallow in my sorry excuse for a life.

  Struggling to my feet, I rinse my face and brush my teeth. I need to approach this with a clinical eye. Somehow. Thankfully, the familiar walls that have protected me for so long start to reform around my heart. On shaky legs, I return to the bed and force myself to read all of the news accounts from last night. The beginnings of a strategy start to form. At precisely seven-thirty, I call Greta.

  “At least you’re timely. What do you have for me?”

  Taking a deep breath, I explain my ideas. And then wait for her response. Finally, she says, “I think that should do the trick for now. Email me the proposed press statement in fifteen.”

  I quickly draft a short statement and send it off to Greta. Five minutes later, she emails it back to me: “As a Band-aid, this will do. A full follow-up will be required by Monday morning, obviously. Speak with Cole and get this released by nine a.m. I called an emergency meeting for two this afternoon. Be here.”

  Closing my eyes, I pray this strategy will work. It has to. My job is the only thing I have left.

  I have three things to do now. Find a flight to LA, call the talent and release the official statement to the press. I can’t bring myself to use his name. The need to feel like I’ve accomplished something is overwhelming, so I choose to schedule my return flight first. Within ten minutes, I’m booked on an eleven o’clock flight. First task done.

  Looking down at my sleepwear, I shake my head and rummage through my luggage to find some proper work attire. Maybe it’ll help me feel the part. I quickly don a white blouse, grey skirt and nude kitten heels. It’s Sunday, so Greta won’t expect a blazer, too. I hope.

  As I’m repacking, the case containing my birth control pills falls to the floor. My hand hesitates above it. I started taking these a month ago. Last night was supposed to be the night I told him that we didn’t have to use condoms anymore. As if. But the pills do regulate me, so I put water into a glass and take the dose.

  The only thing left for me to do is to call the talent. Delaying this call won’t make it any easier and I certainly don’t have time to waste before releasing our statement. Inhaling slowly, I dial the hotel from my cell. I don’t want to use the phone in the room, as there’s no need for him to know where I am.

  My call is redirected to his room. Is he in his room? Alone?

  “Hello.”

  I close my eyes and swallow the lump in my throat. I can be a professional about this. I have to do my job. While I still have one.

  “Mr. Manchester, Greta informed me of the situation regarding your marriage and wanted me to relay her proposed interim strategy.”

  “Rose—” There’s a hitch in his voice, but I don’t let it derail me. I can’t.

  “Greta suggests we issue a statement at nine this morning. Would you like me to read you the release or would you prefer that I email it to you?”

  “Where are you?”

  “Mr. Manchester, that doesn’t matter.”

  “The fuck it doesn’t.”

  “The statement needs to be released shortly. Do you want me to email it?”

  “Rose, we need to talk.”

  “What we need is for you to approve the statement.”

  “Are you with Marco?”

  How could he have believed Marco? And even if he did, why didn’t he try to talk with me before running after an easy lay instead of being an adult and facing our problems. My voice takes on a harsh edge. “The media statement—”

  “For fuck’s sake, read the damned statement. Then we’re going to talk.”

  Tying a tight tourniquet around my heart, I read, “During Ozzy Martinez’s concert in Las Vegas last night, Cole Manchester debuted his new single, ‘No One to Hold,’ which honors his mother who passed away earlier this year from lung cancer. Afterward, he spent some time with his fans. One fan, Starr Nelson, ordered champagne to celebrate Mr. Manchester’s return to the stage. After drinking a glass and posing for a photo, he bade her good night and returned to his suite. Mr. Manchester and Miss Nelson were not married last night. He has been dating French model Emilie Dubois since July, and they were in New York City together just days ago.” I pause. “The statement will include photos of you and Emilie.”

  Harsh breathing comes through the other end of the line. Finally, he says, “That’s fine.”

  “While it doesn’t address all of the photos, or the marriage license, Greta feels this release will buy us until tomorrow with the media. She is developing a full responsive strategy this afternoon.” I pat myself on the back for not choking.

  “Rose, I didn’t get married last night. I swear to you.”

  I don’t want to ask him this, but as his publicist, I must. Using my most professional voice, I say, “I understand you were drunk when you hooked up with Ms. Nelson and left Caesars, and there’s a marriage certificate, signed by an officiant. Are you sure?”

  “Dammit, Rose. Yes, I’m sure.”

  What stands out to me most are all the things he didn’t deny—leaving the hotel or hooking up with that skank. “Thank you, Mr. Manchester. I’ll ensure the statement’s released now.” I rush to kill the call.

  Tears threaten again, but I clamp them down. I don’t have time to cry. Quickly, I send the statement off to media outlets and shut down my computer. My cell phone rings.

  “Hello, Greta.”

  “Is it done?”

  “Yes.” Without another word, she disconnects.

  My cell rings again and I almost answer on reflex before realizing it’s the ringtone reserved for the talent. Swiping “ignore,” I put my phone on silent and toss it into my purse. After leaving a thank you note for Ozzy on the bed’s pillow, I quietly make my way to the bedroom door with my luggage in tow.

  In the main living room, men and women in varying states of undress are passed out everywhere. Empty liquor bottles and glasses are strewn about. This is how Cole tours. My stomach lurches.

  I tiptoe to the front door, but before I can open it, a woman’s whispered voice reaches my ears. “Good luck, Rookie!”

  I stop and turn around, following the direction of the voice. Waving to me from the sofa is McKenna, wrapped in a blanket. Her brown eyes are light brown, the color of a latte. I return her wave and exit the suite.

  Walking briskly down the hall toward the elevators, I come to an involuntarily halt outside of Cole’s suite. I can’t bring myself to move forward. Like a thief in the night, I press my ear to the door. Silence. My fingertips lightly caress the door as tears threaten again.

  Why am I torturing myself? Shaking my head, I make my way to the elevator, which whisks me down to the lobby. Away from Cole.

  Sunday afternoon

  A FEW HOURS later, I pull into the gated entrance to Cole’s mansion, grateful I parked my car at the airport. Roberto tailed me here, having somehow managed to snag a seat on the overbooked flight to LA. I have about an hour before I need to leave for Greta’s, which should be more than enough time to pack my things. After all, I only stayed—okay, lived—here for a little while.

  I use the key
pad to gain entry to the driveway, then park my car at the front door. Roberto stays behind with Shawn, another guard with Nolan Kates’s PI firm, this one tasked with watching Cole’s house. Maybe the stalker will go after Starr now. I can only hope. I’ve certainly had my fill of nasty notes, car vandalism and attacks with dead flowers to last me a lifetime.

  My footsteps reverberate on the marble floor. Smothering a sob, I leave my key on the table in the foyer. I won’t be needing it again.

  Tears course down my cheeks; I angrily swipe at them as I grab some garbage bags from the kitchen. On heavy feet, I trudge upstairs to the spare bedroom that Cole had dubbed my “Command Center” and make quick work of gathering up all of my papers, notepads and files. Within minutes, this room is clean.

  Leaving the garbage bag filled with my files at the top of the stairs, I trudge down the hallway that seems to be getting longer with each step. When I stop in front of double doors, my heartbeat pounds like I ran a marathon. Our bedroom—no, Cole’s bedroom—lies beyond. I push the doors open.

  The memories that spring up overwhelm me—it’s like a movie reel on a loop everywhere my eyes land. Cole naked and happy. Cole and me making love in the bed, us having sex in the shower. Every surface of this room holds a taunting memory. It’s as if the four corners of the room are saying, “See what you had? Well, you lost it. You’ll never have it again.”

  No! Cole cheated on me. He did this to us. I can’t let my regrets about Mom and Marco cloud that truth. Maybe what I did was wrong and stupid, but what he did was worse. I square my shoulders and go about collecting all of my clothes, toiletries and jewelry in another garbage bag, stripping the room of any evidence of our shared history.

  One of Cole’s T-shirts from his first tour lies in a ball in the corner of the closet floor, the walk-in closet that’s bigger than my bedroom in my rental. Bending down, I pick it up, inhaling Cole’s unique scent. I can’t catch my breath.

  The sound of my cell phone’s alarm startles me. I have to leave here now in order to make it to Greta’s office on time. Recklessly, I stuff the T-shirt into the duffle bag I had stowed in here weeks ago, and leave the room. I certainly can’t afford to be late.

  Back in the foyer, I take one last look around. I never really fit in here. I share a tiny rented house while Cole has spacious homes on both coasts. Although he always made me feel important, like it didn’t matter that he was a big star and I was just a publicist.

  Until he didn’t, a little voice reminds me.

  A sob escapes as I exit Cole’s mansion for the last time and walk to my old car, the one that once belonged to Chris Morgan. Placing the garbage bags filled with my belongings into the trunk, I climb in and head to the office. There’s something poetic about the symmetry of driving away from the home of the man I love in the car inherited from my former fiancé.

  At precisely one forty-five, I pull into the parking garage attached to the Greta VonStein PR Agency. Roberto parks nearby. Adjusting my ponytail, I grab my purse and laptop and make my way inside the building. I keep my head held high as I walk toward my office, but the noise level drops off as soon as I enter, indicating I’m the main topic of conversation. Great.

  “Everyone into the conference room,” Greta announces. Once we’re all settled, she begins, “As I’m sure you know by now, Rose Morgan had a massive failure with her talent last night.”

  The remains of my heart drop to my stomach as all eyes turn to me. Keep your professional mask in place, Rose.

  “We have manufactured a relationship between Cole Manchester and Emilie Dubois over the past few months in anticipation of his upcoming world tour. Last night in Vegas, he debuted his newest single. However, the talent couldn’t keep it in his pants after the concert and hooked up with one Starr Nelson. Now a marriage certificate and accompanying photos are all over the media. This morning, I issued a short statement denying the marriage, but need to formulate a full-court press to fix this debacle. One that easily could have been contained if Miss Morgan had done her job properly.”

  I cover up my groan with a cough.

  “I’m going to use this as a teachable moment. Melanie, what did Miss Morgan do wrong?”

  Oh, God. These people aren’t my friends. I don’t go out to happy hours or clubs with them after work, preferring not to waste money gossiping about office politics in my free time. Melanie is one of the two bitchiest assistants here. She’s always seemed jealous of my multiple high-power clients.

  Melanie gives me a snide look and responds, “She didn’t monitor the talent’s extracurricular activities appropriately, resulting in this current”—she pauses for dramatic effect—“disaster.” Her fingers run through the tendrils of hair framing her face, making her ponytail appear less severe than mine. How does she manage to skirt Greta’s dress code?

  Greta responds, “Correct. Not only was Cole’s surprise debut of his single barely mentioned, but now he’s married—although he denies it—and Emilie’s people were blindsided.”

  Under the table, I pinch myself to divert the pain.

  “Melanie, I’m reassigning Jessie Anderson and Brandan Rogers to you. Miss Morgan is going to have her hands full with this ‘disaster,’ as you so aptly described it.” Melanie demurely nods her head in Greta’s direction while maliciously beaming at me.

  I can’t let this go by. Choosing to parallel how she’s addressing me, I say, “Miss VonStein.” All eyes zero in on me. “I don’t think it’s necessary to reassign Jessie and Brandan. They have only worked with me, and their public relationship is moving forward on track.”

  Greta shoots me a look that would melt steel. I slump back in my chair, wishing I had kept my big, fat mouth shut. “This is not up for discussion. I might remind you that Cole’s public relationship with Emilie was ‘on track’ before last night as well.”

  Muffled snickers gurgle from around the room. I keep my eyes trained on the table in front of me.

  “Now, we have to get on top of the Cole situation. Kim, I’m adding you to his team.” And she’s the second bitchiest assistant.

  Kim picks up her pen and gives Greta the intent look of a puppy eager to please. Her fingernails, complete with designs and embellishments, catch my eye. My French manicure, the only one allowed pursuant Greta’s written policy, looks positively frumpish in comparison.

  “Of course, Greta, anything. I’m more than happy to do jump in to correct this disaster.”

  Greta nods her head. “The rest of you are on standby. Be ready to pitch in at any moment.” Murmured assent runs through the ranks. “Everyone but Miss Morgan, Melanie and Kim may leave. Make sure your cell phones are with you at all times.”

  The room empties. Shari Yonge, the only coworker with whom I have a work-related friendship, squeezes my shoulder on her way out. Her light brown hair is too short to be put into the regulation ponytail.

  “Rose, I want you to hand over your files for Jessie and Brandan to Melanie while Kim and I strategize about the best way to salvage Cole’s career.”

  Probation is painful enough for me to endure, but now Jessie and Brandan are collateral damage. Please let this be over quickly.

  Melanie follows me to my desk, where I dutifully pull out my print files and email her my strategy/long-range plans for the fake couple. I can’t let her see how deeply this is affecting me.

  “Now Melanie, their relationship is just for publicity. Brandan’s a pretty nice guy, actually, but he’s getting a bit wild here in LA. I’m sure you remember how he punched out a paparazzi after his recent DUI. Jessie puts up with him because she is a professional.”

  “I’m not stupid, Rose,” Melanie snipes, adjusting her ponytail. “I can read the strategy and pull it off, better than you. This is my shot to show Greta what I can do, and I’m not going to fuck it up like you did. Jessie will do whatever I say because she knows she’d be nowhere without Greta’s name behind her.”

  I like Jessie and don’t want her to suffer for my stupidity.
She and her girlfriend, Amanda, came to my rescue and cheered me up after my rental was broken into. She’s more than a client to me. However, Melanie can’t know that because Greta disapproves of us becoming “too chummy” with our accounts.

  “I always keep my talent involved in the planning. After all, it’s their careers on the line.”

  “I can see how well that worked out for you with Cole.” That statement hangs in the air as I struggle to get some air into my lungs. Melanie continues, “I’ll take it from here. Your advice is neither needed nor wanted.” She grabs all the files from my desk and struts out of my office.

  “I need to call Jessie and Brandan to inform them of the change and introduce you,” I say to her back.

  “No need. I can make my own acquaintance,” she replies, waving her hand without breaking stride or even turning her head.

  Reaching for a pen, I write Call Jessie and Brandan on a scrap of paper, and place it by my phone. As if I’d forget. I return to the conference room, where Greta and Kim are still huddled, and place Cole’s working file on the table.

  “I’ve given Melanie the files for Jessie and Brandan.”

  Greta nods. “We’re going to hire a private investigator to locate this Starr Nelson and see what it will cost to get her to stay silent and divorce Cole.”

  I wait for more, looking from Greta to Kim and back.

  Nothing.

  I clear my throat. “He denies the marriage ever happened.”

  Kim pipes up. “Cole was obviously with her last night. The photos tell the story. He got drunk.” She points to the photo of them with the champagne flutes. “Left with her.” She tosses out the photo of them leaving Caesars with a taxi in the background. “Got married and then celebrated.” She shows the marriage certificate and picture of them in bed. “We just need to get rid of her. We can play up the ‘What Happens in Vegas, Stays in Vegas’ theme.”

  If only.

  “But if they didn’t get married, we can take a different path. The statement I released denies the marriage”