by Arell Rivers
“Starr can take whatever spotlight she can find now,” Greta scoffs. “Cole’s out of her orbit, so she’ll be someone else’s problem.”
The server hands me a drink in a martini glass. I don’t even ask what it is, I just take a swig. Too strong. Coughing, I lower the glass.
After a while, Russell says, “Ladies, we’re heading out. Congratulations on the media coup.” Both he and Jon toast us, then leave, crossing the dance floor toward the exit.
Kim scrolls on her phone, laughing. “Well, we didn’t have to wait too long.”
I don’t know what she’s talking about, and I don’t much care. I need to have an honest talk with Greta about how I can get my career back on track. How do I get off probation? I better just address it directly.
Taking a deep breath, I open my mouth to do just that when Kim exclaims, “Starr is totally unhinged. You have to hear this one.”
Stifling my urge to throttle Kimmie, I give her my attention. She looks from Greta to me, her eyes dancing. “Starr just released a long rant on social media. She titled it ‘The Real Reason.’”
My blood turns to ice cubes, the hard edges hitting against my veins like a pinball machine on tilt. I close my eyes. Please don’t let this be about Cole and me.
Kim reads from her phone, “Rose Morgan, his publicist”—crap—“is the reason I’m being treated so badly in the press. Cole Manchester and Rose Morgan have been maintaining a secret relationship for months.”
Kim stops reading, but continues to scroll down. Her laughing stops. “She posted photos.”
Her mouth drops open. Accusing eyes burn into me. “There’s a picture of you and Cole kissing.” She turns her phone so that Greta and I can see.
My brain struggles to comprehend what I’m seeing. Oh. My. God. It’s over. Lisa made a deadly surgical strike. I’m through. My shoulders slump.
What can I do? I have to own this. Notching my chin up, I meet Greta’s venomous gaze. Before I can force a word out of my mouth, she says, “Strike Three. You’re out. Kim can handle everything from now on.”
Kim’s expression changes in an instant; her smile looks as if it could break her cheeks.
I stiffen my spine and begin, “Greta.”
My boss hisses, “I’m through with you. And PR is through with you. I hope he was worth it.”
Both of our eyes travel to Cole, who has moved so that he’s in our direct line of sight. He’s kissing Emilie, his hands on her butt. My stomach cramps.
“I took you under my wing and taught you everything you know,” Greta sneers. “And this is how you repay me? No one in the media will ever take another one of your calls again.”
“But, Greta . . .”
She leans down to my ear. “And, by the way, my PI told me all about your so-called relationship with my talent ages ago. I kept you around long enough to fix the mess you made. Don’t even think of double-crossing me. You signed a non-compete. Get of out my sight. Now.”
Later Friday evening
HOW CAN THE music still be blasting, how can people be dancing and laughing and drinking? My world just stopped on its axis, yet it somehow continues to turn for everyone else.
My heart pounds three times as fast at the song’s bass drum. Clearly, I’m losing my mind just like I’ve just lost my job. One that I loved and was really good at.
No matter what, I can’t cause a scene. Kim would love that. Greta probably expects me to grovel at her feet. No. I refuse to prostrate myself at Greta’s contrived altar.
With a roiling stomach, I accept my fate. When I gave in to Cole all those months ago, I knew it could one day come to this. I can’t even process Greta’s last comment. She knew about us?
I bring the glass of firewater to my lips, tip its contents back and hand the now empty glass to Kim with numb fingers. “As you wish.”
Turning on legs that somehow move forward despite the tingling sensations racing up each limb, I walk toward my boyfriend. Who’s now wrapped around Emilie, completely unaware my life has just imploded.
Perhaps this can all be played off as the rantings of a Photo-shop proficient lunatic. After all, it’s much more plausible that Lisa’s putting out another crazy story than that she’s telling the truth. If I don’t cause a public scene with him, maybe his publicity campaign won’t be thrown off track.
I alter my course. “Jared, I need to leave. Now.”
“What about Cole?”
“He’s fine.”
He touches my arm, concern evident on his chiseled face. “He’s just acting, you know.”
I bite the inside of my cheek. “I know.”
My voice sounds harsher than I intended, but my body is screaming to get out of here. “I just need to leave. Take me home, please.”
“I have to let Wills know we’re leaving.”
Across the room, Wills appears to be enjoying the Cole and Emilie show about as much as I am. “Text him from the car.”
I tug on his arm. My willpower is rapidly dwindling. I won’t be able to hold the tears at bay much longer. “Please.”
“Okay. Let’s go out the side door.”
Side door. Yes. Not out the front where paparazzi will be waiting to pounce. Good. Jared opens an unmarked door and quickly steers me into a small vestibule that leads outside.
I take a deep breath and collapse against the wall. “Starr just outed Cole and me. With photos.”
“Shit.”
An irrational, desperate laugh escapes my lips. “Yeah. That about sums it up.”
I can’t say that I lost my job. If I speak the words out loud, it will be true.
“Let me text Wills and let him know what’s going on.” When he finishes, he points. “My car is parked just outside.” We walk to the door, and he sticks his head out and looks around. “All clear.”
He wraps his huge arm around me and guides me into his car, both of our heads bowed. “Thank you. I don’t know what I would do without you.”
“Just doing my job.” He turns on the ignition.
“Can you take me back to my office?” Former office. “That’s where my car is.”
“We can get that tomorrow.”
Panic rises, choking me. I have to protect Chris’s car. “No, I really want my car. I want to make sure it’s parked at my rental.”
I choke down a sob. Before I know it, tears stream down my cheeks. Hands over my eyes, I shield my face from my bodyguard.
“Here.” Jared waves a tissue.
Sniffling, I take it and dab my eyes. But it’s going to take a lot more than one tissue to heal this wound.
Where is Lisa? Why can’t Nolan or the police find her? How could she do this to Cole and me?
She’s a lunatic. Or maybe I’m the lunatic for having allowed myself to believe we could get away with this. So long as Cole doesn’t make a scene when he realizes I’ve left, perhaps we can salvage the situation in the press. Yeah, we’ll just put it all on Lisa as a stark, raving mad stalker.
Correction: Cole’s publicist will handle this. Not me. I’m not his publicist anymore. Or anyone else’s. Greta vowed to blackball me. What am I going to do? I start crying again. Silently.
“Rose, you can’t drive like this. I’ll take you to Cole’s house and we’ll sort the car out in the morning.” He hands me another tissue.
“No.” I blow my nose. “I have to get my car before Greta has it impounded.”
His eyebrows raise. “Why would she do that?”
I have to speak the words. “Be-because she fired me.”
Silence.
Jared doesn’t say anything, simply turns the car toward my former office. When we pull up to the Greta VonStein PR Agency, he asks gently, “Do you have anything personal in your office you want to pick up?”
I nod. I let us in with my office key, and we clear all of the personal items from my office, including the stupid prom photo of Marco and me. Removing the office key from my guitar keychain, I leave it on top of my desk.
> Jared carries the two boxes to my car. He inspects it and gives me the go-ahead to drive back to my rental. We discussed this arrangement while packing up my office. While he’s not thrilled, he understands why I want to go back to my place instead of Cole’s house. The paparazzi must be camped out there by now.
Once inside, I collapse on the sofa, the boxes from my former office at my feet. I’m numb. I can’t cry anymore. I can’t scream and rail against Greta, Lisa or the universe for ruining my career. I can’t process anything.
I’m still sitting on my sofa, my hands picking at a throw blanket while I stare into nothingness, when Cole comes in the front door. I have no concept of how much time has passed, although it’s still dark outside.
Kneeling in front me of me, he whispers, “Rose.” He places both of his warm hands on my cheeks.
I murmur, “It’s all over.”
“No one will believe Starr. She’s used Photoshop before.”
Cole’s eyes are filled with so much love. He’s my lifeline. I launch myself at him, toppling us both on the floor. Wrapping my arms around his neck, I devour him with my lips.
He removes my ponytail holder and runs his hands through my hair, massaging my scalp. He’s trying to calm me down, offer me comfort, but all I want is to forget. Forget everything.
He sits us both upright. My hands find his belt and I undo it, not breaking our kiss—if the frenzied dance our mouths are doing can actually be considered kissing. My fingers fly to the buttons on his jeans, quickly opening the top two before Cole’s hands descend on mine.
He removes his lips from mine. “Stop.”
What? I need this, need him. “Cole, I need you.”
I move forward to retake his mouth when his palms cup my cheeks. “Sweetheart, what’s this?”
He swipes his fingers over both my cheeks and holds them up to me to show me the wetness. Am I crying? While trying to seduce the man at the center of my universe? It’s too much. Laughter erupts, even as tears stream down my face.
Cole pulls me into his body, his arms encircling my back, rocking me. “Shhhh. It’ll be all right.”
How can it be all right? I want to scream I don’t have a job, but I can’t form the words. He kisses my neck and strokes my back, offering noises of comfort.
“I love you, Ro. We’ll get through this together.”
I gulp air and lean back, hands on his broad shoulders. My head shakes from side to side. I open my mouth, but nothing comes out.
“Let’s get a change of scenery.”
Silently, I get to my feet and rearrange my skirt so that it covers my butt. I start toward my bedroom.
“That’s not what I meant.”
Turning to him, I manage to choke out one word in a raspy voice. “What?”
He smiles. “She speaks. I was worried there for a moment.”
He comes up to me in two quick strides. “Pack a bag. We’re getting away from here. From LA. To somewhere we can sort through everything.”
Placing a gentle kiss on my eyelids, Cole promises, “I’ve got you.”
Saturday
SUNLIGHT STREAMS THROUGH the bedroom window, casting shadows across Cole’s jawline. The rays highlight his stubble, which is starting to turn into a full-fledged beard. Swiveling my head on the pillow, I find the clock: nine a.m. Even though we made it to bed only a couple of hours ago, my brain won’t shut off.
Carefully, I remove the blankets from my legs and creep out of the bedroom, bending to pick up the shirt and yoga pants I wore here last night. Once dressed, I make my way to the big kitchen, smaller than Cole’s but decorated in a French country style with gorgeous, ceiling-height bone-colored cabinets and sparkling quartz countertops. The centerpiece is a light blue wood island with inlaid Carrera marble.
Amanda and Jessie graciously let us borrow their Topanga retreat for the weekend while I sort out the mess that is my life. I don’t want to search through their cabinets for tea even though they told us to make ourselves at home, so I use the Keurig on the counter to make a coffee.
Taking my cup, I go outside onto the beautifully landscaped patio. Sitting at the bistro set, I place my mug on the multi-colored tiled table to cool down. Bees hunt for pollen in a nearby flowerbed. Across the stone walkway, a spider weaves a web and waits for its next meal.
What am I going to do? I can’t be dependent on Cole. If Mom’s struggles taught me one thing, it’s that I need to stand on my own two feet. I take in the mountain view and sip my coffee.
Mom’s probably already seen the news. Even though I haven’t checked, I bet Starr’s latest bombshell is the first segment on all the entertainment news programs and websites. I pick up my phone, but open my email icon before calling her. All of my work emails have been erased, which feels like a punch in the stomach. Greta sure works fast.
Swallowing a sip of my coffee, I dial Mom. She picks up on the first ring. “Hi, Mom.”
“Rosie. What the hell is going on now? I saw a report that the Starr woman said you and Cole are a couple. And photos of Cole and Emilie out clubbing last night. Tell me you’re not still with that menace.”
I purse my lips. How to respond? “First of all, Cole is not a menace. He’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me.” Tears of frustration start to fall. “I love him. He loves me. That’s what’s important.”
“Until he decides he doesn’t. And from the looks of him and that model, it seems like he’s on his way out the door. And where will that leave you?”
I swipe at my tears. “I’ve told you, Cole and Emilie are just acting to get media attention.”
“Well, they certainly had it last night. His hands were all over her.”
I pick up my coffee. “That’s because I told him to do that. I told him, Mom. I was there.”
“That’s a messed up world you’re living in.”
She and Cole agree on this one thing, at least. I mutter, “We’re just giving people what they want.” I take another sip of my coffee and put the mug back on the table.
“Then tell me how Starr’s confession fits into that package you’re presenting?”
I sigh. “It doesn’t. It’ll be played off as the rantings of a crazy stalker, one who’s proven she’s fluent in Photoshop. Starr’s already known as a liar, so no one will believe her.”
“The boy who cried wolf.”
“Yeah. Something like that.”
“Is Greta happy with this strategy?”
I swallow hard. I have to come clean. “I don’t know,” I say in a low voice.
“Speak up, I didn’t hear you.”
“I said, I don’t know.” Deep breath. Here goes nothing. “She fired me.”
“What??!”
I pull the phone away from my ear to lessen the impact of her scream. Even though I can’t see her, I’m sure Mom’s standing at attention by her cleaning supplies, gearing up to scrub every surface in her house. It’s what she always does when she’s stressed.
She spits, “Greta fired you because you’re involved with that Cole, didn’t she?”
“Yes.”
“Great. Just great. Now you see what that boy has done. I suppose he said he’ll take care of you, pay all of your bills, right? Oh, this is just wonderful.”
While she’s ranting, something snaps inside me. My hands form fists. “Mom, stop it. I’ll figure something out; I always do. And I meant what I said: Cole is the best thing that ever happened to me.”
In a shrill tirade, she continues, “Right. He’s such a great thing that he got you fired. And that former boss of yours has been doing PR for ages. She knows everyone. If she tells them not to hire you, they won’t. Your career is over. All for a stupid boy.”
Modulating my own voice lower, I vow, “Mom, I said I will figure this out, and I will. Cole’s worth it. I’m going to hang up now.” I don’t wait to hear her say another word before I disconnect.
Nearly hyperventilating, I run my hands through my hair and ignore Mom’s repeate
d calls. My life has to get better. I’ll start making a list of PR agencies to reach out to this weekend.
My phone pings with an incoming text. I check my phone—Marco. Great. Against my better judgment, I open the message:
Your mother told me you’re looking for a job. Great timing! Just so happens I’m moving to LA to open a new office. Come work for me. Call me.
Before I can even process this text, Cole steps onto the patio. He’s wearing jeans and an LA Lakers T-shirt, his hair messy in an effortlessly sexy sort of way. I quickly turn off my phone as he says, “Greta called, but I didn’t pick up. Let’s listen to her voicemail and call her back. We’ll come up with a strategy together.” He picks up his phone.
How much more can I take? I scream, “No! Don’t do that.”
He looks at me in obvious confusion. “Greta fired me. She knew about us and she fired me.” I double over, wrapping my arms around my stomach as tears track down my face.
Cole’s cellphone lands on the table a split second before his arms surround me, his musky scent infusing me with peace. Once again he’s comforting me. How much longer before he decides he doesn’t want to deal with this anymore and dumps me? My sobs turn harsh.
In a low voice, Cole asks, “Why didn’t you tell me this last night?”
“I.” Sob. “Don’t.” Sob. “Know.” Sob.
“Shh, it’ll be fine.”
He rubs my back as he pulls out a chair next to mine. He scoops me onto his lap, swinging both of my legs to one side. His arms are around me, his chin on top of my head.
Rubbing my arms, he asks, “You know what?”
“What?”
“I’m kinda happy that bitch Starr told the world the truth. I’m proud that you’re on my arm and I want to show you off. We’re free to be us now.”
“Are you crazy?”
He chuckles and runs his knuckles over my cheeks. “Nope. I can dump Gruesome and hire the Rose Morgan PR Firm. They’re the best in the business, you know.”
A watery laugh escapes my mouth. “Greta already threatened to blackball me.”
“Let her try.”
I rub my hands against my forehead. Tears finally stop falling. “I’m still not prepared to run my own firm.”