The morning beep of my alarm comes way too early at six a.m. It feels like I just fell asleep five minutes ago. I groan, hitting my clock to stop the incessant noise. A minute later, the smell of coffee slowly wafts from the kitchen, drawing me to all its deliciousness. As usual, I notice that my phone is lit up from the previous night’s activities. Thursday, Friday, and Saturday nights are the hot nights in Hollywood and when all the rumor mills are churning out the salacious details of the rich and famous. So no matter what day it is, I’m up at six a.m.
Scrolling through the events, however, I see it was a rather quiet night. There are, of course, pictures of Tyler when he arrived at the restaurant and when he left an hour later, but nothing else. An ex-socialite was arrested for an alleged DUI, but all in all, everything was calm. Realizing there’s no celebrity fires to report, I change into my black workout shorts and matching sports bra to hit the treadmill. My morning run has always been my sanity—five miles, seven days a week, rain, shine, or heaven forbid, celebrity chaos. This morning, I especially need this distraction to get out of the funk from yesterday’s turn of events. After I powered through that distance, though, I take another quick shower before I walk into the closet and grab a white pencil skirt and a white long-sleeved shirt with sheer sleeves. Reaching for my black heels, I’m ready to kick today’s ass—but first, my latte.
Grabbing my phone, I head out to pick up two lattes, barely making it to my desk by nine. I stop at Karen’s desk, our receptionist who is super pretty but is honestly a horrible bitch. You know what they say, “keep your friends close, but keep the person who knows where the bodies are buried even closer.”
“Good morning.” I smile at her, handing her the other latte I bought. There’s a Keurig in the break room, but she turns her nose up at it. Too commonplace for someone of her stature, I guess. She’s got the whole “champagne taste on a beer budget” mentality down to a science.
“Finally, someone who really knows me.” She smiles at me. “I swear to God, if they don’t get me a Nespresso machine”—she leans in a touch—“I’m going to run over that Keurig and throw all those K-cups in the trash.” She brings the coffee to her lips. “This,” she says loudly, raising the cup in her hand and looking around to see if anyone is paying attention to her, “is life.” She slings her golden locks over her shoulder, and her blue eyes look almost human as the coffee finds its way into her bloodstream, tamping down the beast that lives within.
“Enjoy, my friend.” I smile to myself as I think mission freaking accomplished. I walk into the back where six cubicles with two desks each are located on either side. I turn into my cubicle and see that I’m here before Brooke. I’m not surprised because she is the “Night Writer” as we call her. All those overnight celebrity reports and sightings from this morning? Yeah, it’s all her. She also works more out of her home office than in the actual office, but who can blame her. We both started here around the same time, so she’s also one of my closest friends, and we agreed to always share breaking news with each other first. In this business, it’s hard to find people you trust, but Brooke is one of those people. We also bounce stories off each other, and every Sunday morning, we meet for brunch to go over the week before.
While I’m waiting for my computer to boot up, my phone rings. Looking down, I see it’s Cedric.
“Cedric, my man, what do you have for me?” I laugh at the cheesiness of what I just said to him, but he’s my biggest informant.
“Jess,” he says, “I was just thinking of you, so I had to pick up the phone to hear your beautiful voice.”
I can’t help but shake my head at him, knowing full well the only thing he was thinking about was how much he would charge me for whatever news he’s about to share. “So the fact that I have floor seats to tonight Lakers game has nothing to do with this phone call, am I right?”
He laughs. “Darlin’, what I have is worth season tickets, so get ready to show me the money.”
“Ummhmm, let me be the judge of that,” I tell him.
“A certain football star was seen leaving his hotel room . . .” He starts talking, and I take a sip of my latte that I’d almost forgotten about.
“Cedric, that isn’t really news,” I muse.
“This football player just so happens to be a couple of weeks away from becoming a father . . . and his baby momma is a certain runway model.”
I sit up in my chair. “No freaking way.”
“I have pictures, and someone fished out a video that was taken at a strip club six months ago. You don’t need sound to see him cozying up to some Instagram model, or to see where his hand ventures,” he tells me. “And it can be all yours for the bargain basement price of 80k.”
“Cedric, you are out of your mind,” I tell him, and he waits for a second. “But you send me what you got, and I’ll see what I can do.”
“Check your inbox.” He disconnects, and sure enough, the next big story is sitting in my inbox, and it has my byline written all over it.
Chapter Three
Tyler
Today’s top story: A certain runway model is in labor hours after a video of her fiancé’s indiscretions surfaces.
“Hello.” I hear someone say and finally look across the boardroom table toward Ryan, the owner of HillCrest productions. Men in stuffy suits who have no idea what they are asking of me sit around the wood conference table. They want me to pack my stuff and travel with the press, the same people I run away from, for thirty freaking days. The same ones I hide everything from, all for a press tour. Thirty days, ten stops, with ten handpicked journalists. It’s easy for them to ask me to do this because they aren’t the ones going out there.
“I’m sorry, what were you saying?” I ask, leaning back in my chair. “If I heard you correctly, you set up a tour I do not want to be on where I’ll be surrounded by press every minute of every fucking day. A fucking tour where I have to be ‘on’ the whole time.” I look up at the ceiling in complete exasperation. When Ryan came to me with the script, I knew I would take the role . . . not only was the script kickass, but the director was also someone I was dying to work with. Along with the fact they would pay me to skydive, ride motorcycles, bungee jump, and do all my own stunts, it was a no-brainer.
“We’ve almost got the plane ready,” Stephen, Ryan’s vice president, says, then looks around at the table. Maybe he’s hoping for someone else to speak, but no one does. “We have chosen ten journalists to come with you and get a firsthand look at the worldwide release of this movie. You will be giving exclusive interviews each day to promote the hell out of this film. We are sparing no expense on this. The contract you signed stated you would participate in the press junket, no matter the details.”
“Who is going to be traveling on the plane with me? Which members of the papz will be annoying the shit out of me for a month?” I ask them and then look over at Cassandra, my personal assistant. She is taking notes on her phone of this whole meeting and will probably have everything lined up to make this happen flawlessly. When I broke into the game twelve years ago, I had no idea what I was getting into. The only thing I knew was that they were paying me a shitload of money to pretend to be a guy who loved his wife. Little did I know, that small cameo would lead to my next big gig, and from there, it just snowballed. I couldn’t keep up with anything. I didn’t know where to throw myself next, and my agent brought Cassandra in to keep me organized. At first, I fought it until I saw what she was capable of. My life was scheduled down to the minute. I knew where I had to be and when I had to be there. She made sure all my needs were met, she made sure I had a tux when I needed a tux, and she could tell just by the look on my face when I needed to escape and not be found. She just knows everything. Where I go, she is right there, and although we don’t live together, she is basically my wife without the fringe benefits. She knows her shit and is paid very well to keep my insane life organized.
He starts naming the reporters, and I have no clue who half of the
names are until he gets to the one I dread the most. “Jessica Hawthorn from—”
He doesn’t have to finish before I put my hand up, making him stop in his verbal tracks.
“Not her,” I say, then look at Cassandra who shares a similar look with me. “Anyone but her.”
Stephen looks at Ryan and then back at me. He takes his glasses off. “That’s the only name that is non-negotiable.”
“Everything is negotiable, Stephen.” Smirking at him, I give him the “are you fucking kidding me?” stare down, but he just leans back in his chair and returns the look. “You just have to know what to negotiate with.” I get up, then look at Cassandra, who follows suit, grabbing her Hermes purse.
“This one isn’t,” Ryan says. “If there is anyone who is going to be on this press tour, it has to be Jessica.” I shake my head in the negative.
“I think it’s fair to say that Mr. Beckett is firm on this,” Cassandra says from beside me; the voice of reason when I can’t find my own.
“That’s a bit awkward now, isn’t it?” Ryan says. “Because so are we. You don’t go on a mega press tour and not invite the biggest entertainment journalist along for the ride. There’s no negotiation here, Tyler, so nut up and pack your bags.”
Rolling my eyes, I say the first thing that comes to mind. “She isn’t the best.” I think about the last time she interviewed me. She had a sheet with questions she could ask me as well as topics that were not to be broached, you know, like questions about my private life. She played nice for one question and then threw out the rest of the approved topics before diving into the nitty gritty. “What does your girlfriend think when she turns on the television and sees you on all the tabloids?” I smirked at her, got up, unclipped the mic from my shirt, and pulled it out. She leaned back in her chair, looked over at her camera guy, and said, “I guess that’s a wrap.” Raising her eyebrows, she wore a look that said I win. She didn’t even try to get me to sit back down and stroke my ego like other journalists would have done. She did nothing but put her hand up and wiggle her fingers goodbye, wearing a satisfied smirk on her face the whole time.
“She gets one shot,” I tell the room and see the smile on everyone’s face. “The minute she steps over the line, I want her off the press junket, you hear me?”
Ryan leans back in his chair. “We have a deal.” I look over at Cassandra as she nods at me. “The early reviews for the movie are coming in, and people are saying it’s the best of the year and your best work to date.”
I halfway listen to them raving about the movie before I finally walk out. I don’t say anything to Cassandra in the elevator. When she finally gets to the car, she looks at me and says, “How long is this silent treatment going to be? I need to know so I can add it to my calendar.” She says in that exasperated tone she takes with me when I’m being difficult on purpose. We get into the car, and all the while, she continues typing away on her phone.
“Cass, you know she is the biggest pain in my ass. Why did I agree to them scheduling her on this junket?” I finally say. “She has tried, albeit unsuccessfully, to dig up anything I have to hide.” Stopping at a red light, I look over at Cassandra, reminding her, “And last year, she had people believing I was in rehab. For fuck’s sake, my mother was in tears.”
“I mean, that’s not exactly accurate. She didn’t make people believe that; she just planted the seed of doubt. It didn’t help that you went into one of your off-the-grid moments and refused to take your phone. Do you know what it took for me to contact you? I had to call a guy who knew a guy who had a fucking donkey and some time to spare.”
“I was in Mexico, Cass. I had just fucking finished training in Utah. Eight hours a day in the gym in seclusion, and I needed to rest,” I snap back at her, thinking of how much training I had to endure. I wanted to perform my own stunts, and in order to do that, I needed to train as though I was racing in the next Iron Man triathlon. My meals were specially prepared, and I had trainers and training assistants who kept me on my toes . . . and because of that, not one ounce of fat remained on my body, and I performed all my own stunts flawlessly.
“I know that.” Nodding her head, she continues, “And if you would have granted even one interview, the rumors and gossip would have all gone away.” When she raises her eyebrows at me, I’m about to argue until a car honks at me. I look back up and see that the light is green. I don’t bother talking to her the rest of the way to my house, accepting defeat in this battle of wills.
As we continue the drive to my house, her demeanor shifts, and she’s in work mode all over again. “You have training with Norman tonight at six for three hours. You have nothing tomorrow. I’m putting packing on the schedule for Saturday, and I’m going to have Monica stop by and coordinate your outfits for the tour.” I knew she would already be preparing for this shitshow. “I just got an email with the itinerary, and it’s going to be hectic, to say the least. I also just booked you a month off when we get back because I know how cranky you’ll be. I just need to know where you want to go, and I’ll take care of the logistics.”
“You really think it’s necessary to go through all the fuss with the clothes?” I ask her, pulling up to my gate and pressing the button for the gate to open. “But it’s a good idea about going away. You can schedule yourself off, also.”
“I really do think it’s necessary to go through all the fuss,” she huffs out while I make my way up the winding driveway and park the car by the side of the house. “I don’t know why you’re complaining. All you have to do is leave your bedroom and let them make the magic happen.” I nod, realizing she’s right. The crew comes in, takes pictures of all my outfits, and then packages everything together. It’s like I’m a toddler, and my mother picks out my clothes, color coordinating everything down to my underwear. I walk into the house through the garage with Cass following me. My lambo and Ferrari both are parked in there. “If you don’t need me for the rest of the day, I’m going to get going and start the planning for the next month.”
“Yeah, you can go.” We enter the kitchen. “Before you get into the weeds with all the logistics, we need to go over a list of questions that I will answer and those I won’t.”
“Already on it, Ty.” She walks to the front door. “I do need to know what you’re doing after your month off, though. You have no filming till the new year, so the world is literally your oyster.”
“Fuck . . . a whole six months to myself.” I smile, grabbing a water bottle out of the stocked fridge. Another thing Cassie takes care of for me. “I think I’ll go stay at the ranch. Off the grid just enough but it won’t require a donkey to get my attention.” I smile at her, knowing she does truly love me even when I’m being a petulant, yet color-coordinated toddler.
Shaking her head at me, she tells me, “I just need the dates, and I’ll make it happen.” And with that, her work is done. She turns and walks out of the house, slamming the door behind her. I take my phone out and sit on one of the stools at the island, dialing my father.
He answers after four rings, his voice gruff. “Hello.” I’m not surprised that his voice is gruff. The only time his voice would have a different timbre was for my mother.
“Hey, Pops,” I say. “It’s me.”
“Son,” he says, and I can see him in my head smiling while he says that. “What are you up to?”
“Not much, just checking in. How is everything?” When I got my first big paycheck, I did one thing with it—I made my parents retire. My mother was a high school teacher, and my father had worked in construction all his life. He would start the day before the sun came up and return twelve hours later wearing his construction boots and dusty clothes with a tired as fuck look on his face, but he did what he had to do to support his family. So it was the best thing I could do for my parents when I paid off their little mortgage and gave them enough money to live. My father fought me tooth and nail, refusing to take my money, but he could only refuse so much. I went over his head and walk
ed into the bank and paid off the mortgage. He wasn’t happy with me back then. I knew this when he said he would kick my twentysomething punk ass.
I smile now, thinking back to that day almost twelve years ago. With my second big paycheck, I bought them a ranch in Montana that sits on four thousand acres, secluded from everywhere and everyone. A huge barn with a stable where I have five horses. It even has cattle that roam the area. Just seeing the mountains, it’s everything. Nothing can touch me there. When I flew my parents in and saw my father’s eyes, I knew without a doubt they would be the ones living in the house most of the time. His face was shocked when I handed him the keys. Now, ten years later, he spends all day on his horse or in the barn. Either way, it’s been the happiest time of his life, and I can smile, knowing I gave him that after all he sacrificed for me growing up.
“Things are good. Busy. The weather is finally starting to get warm,” he says. “Barn roof was leaking.”
“Did you call Cassie?” I ask him.
“Why the hell would I call Cassie?” he says, laughing at my question. “I got the ladder out, and me and Miguel went up there and fixed it.”
“Dad, we have people for that.” I shake my head. He is not the ideal retiree. He’s always working, always going. Still gets up at six every morning. “My body is its own alarm clock,” he told me the last time I went down there. With so much land, I had my own house constructed near them. Not too far away, but far enough that I have my own space.
“Yeah, I also have two capable hands,” he huffs out. “Besides, it was an easy fix.”
“How’s Mom?” I take a drink of water, thinking about my mom. After I showed Dad that I had paid off their mortgage, she just placed a hand over his and blinked the tears away. Then she grabbed my face and kissed my cheeks right before she buried her face in my chest and sobbed tears of joy.
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