Page 49 of Fame & Obsession

I eye it suspiciously before answering. “VinylEditorial Department, Phoebe Ryan speaking.”

“Dixie, so glad I caught you.” The raspy voice of MetroGroup’s editorial director croaks on the other line.

Ellison Young’s husky voice is unmistakeable, deepened by years of smoking and a fast lifestyle. We met briefly at Ralston Media’s Fourth of July picnic, where she’d been amused by my accent and took to calling me Dixie. I’m not particularly fond of the nickname, but because of who she is, I act like it’s the most creative thing I’ve ever heard.

“Hello, Ms. Young,” I chirp, twirling the coffee cup around my forefinger.

“Oh, doll, it’s Ellison.”

“Okay, Ellison, what can I do for you?”

“Look, Dixie, I’ve got Victor here. We need you to come to my office.”

Apprehension rolls in like a freight train. “Right now?”

“If you’re not busy.”

“Mr. DeMarcus is there?” I grip the armrest of my chair.

“He’s the one who asked me to make the call.” She leaves no pause for comment. “So, I’ll tell him you’ll be here in ten, all right? Thanks.”

“Elli—” I don’t even finish her name before she’s already hung up. Pulling the receiver away, I hold it in front of my face and stare at it.

Whatever just happened involves Victor DeMarcus. That means no arguing and get my ass moving. Grabbing a notepad and a pen, I take to the hallway with my heels skirting the corners like they’re on rails.

As I approach the MetroGroup editorial offices, I smooth my dress, then tentatively knock on the door.

“Come in,” Ellison calls through the thick wood.

Opening the door, my confidence falters as my gaze settles on a familiar pair of smoldering green eyes. I want to take my shoe off and sink the heel right in between them.

What game does he think he’s playing? This is my job, not some egocentric battle of the sexes.

Barely contained anger burns inside me, so I tear my eyes away in an act of self-preservation. Otherwise, I’m going to lunge across the table and strangle him with the telephone cord.

I direct my attention toward Ellison. “Ms. Young, you wanted to see me?”

She waves a sleeveless arm in the air, her trademark brightly colored outfits and brassy blonde updo shining like a beacon in the bland conference room. “Doll, I told you it’s Ellison. Kudos on the quick follow-through. You’ve got fire in your eyes and a rocket booster up your ass. I like you, Dixie.”

My anxiety heightens. “So, what can I do for you and Mr. DeMarcus, Ellison?”

Do you feel that? That’s the cool breeze of me ignoring you, Fancy Pants.

She nods to the chair in front of me. “Have a seat. We need to talk.”

Unease settles in the pit of my stomach. I don’t know if it stems from fear of the unknown, or because the seat she’s referring to is beside Julian Bale. It also doesn’t help that the bastard is grinning like he’d just won the fucking lottery.

Slowly sinking into the chair beside him, I keep my gaze averted to my right, where Ellison is seated. Victor DeMarcus sits regally at the head of the table, his face stoic. Ellison might get a kick out of me bitch-slapping Julian Bale into next week, but I doubt the straitlaced VP of communications for Ralston Media would be as forgiving.

“Are you well-read in the autobiography genre, Dixie?” Ellison’s red lips move rapidly as the words coming out of them struggle to catch up.

Hell no.

“Absolutely,” I lie.

Ellison throws her arms up in a touchdown sign and smacks DeMarcus’s arm. “See there, Vic? We’re halfway done!”

“I’m still not clear as to why I’m here, Ellison.” I run a hand through my hair, exasperated at their ambiguous, coded communication. “Did you want me to interview someone?”