Page 19 of The Bad Girl

Chapter 8

Nadine

The scent of strong coffee greets me as I rouse, refreshed, and in a strange bed. It takes me only a moment to realize where I am, and as I stretch out my limbs, a shrill voice catches me off guard.

“I think we need more teals. The pink is nice, but it’s overdone. We can’t make it look textbook, it has to be natural.”

Natural?

I peek out from an oversized comforter to see a slight woman standing at a clothing rack, clipboard in hand, handing an armful of clothes to one of two waiting women.

“And we’re not trying to go goth here either. The 80s aren’t back in style, condolences to those who lived through the era.”

Scanning the room, I see four racks of clothing, all full and unable to fit more. Shoes are piled in crates, hundreds of pairs, all looking incredibly expensive. There’s a tray on the end table next to the bed, holding what appears to be my breakfast.

“Off with you!” the woman barks. “Go, go go!”

My attention returns to the woman commanding the room. She stands all of five-feet tall, maybe even an inch less, with shocking red hair cut in pixie fashion. She’s wearing a black tank top and skin-tight silver pants with rips in the knees, stylish black boots on her feet.

She’s pretty, edgy, and all the things I could see Tom going for. Her upturned nose is adorable, completely mismatched from her domineering presence.

Her gaze falls on me. “She’s up.”

Despite her looking directly at me, it takes me a moment to realize that it’s me she’s talking about.

She pins the clipboard between her left elbow and her body and approaches the bed, offering me her hand.

“Stacey Hanes here. I’m one of InStryde’s PR reps.”

I blink, unsure of what dimension I just woke up in. “I-I don’t need a PR rep—”

“Sure ya do, and I’m the best for this job. PR is all about how the outside world sees you, and from what I’m being told, you need to shake the squeaky clean persona of yours.”

“Yeah, but a PR rep?”

“I already have posts drawn up for your Chatterbox. It goes back nearly two years to look authentic. Still, we’re going to have to stage a bunch of photos.”

“Stage pics?”

“We could photoshop you onto a few bodies. I mean, with Max’s resources, we’d have access to the best of the best.”

“Hold on, you’re going a little fast for me.”

The pint-sized woman sits beside me on the bed.

“Nadine, I’m gonna shake your world. I’m gonna take off the child-proof lid. I’m gonna rip that tag off your mattress. I’m gonna sharpen your sheers.”

“Holy fuck, can you just hand me the damn bagel from the nightstand?”

Stacey’s brow lifts in surprise, but she complies, handing me the plate of food.

I look at my phone to see it’s Sunday morning, seven o’clock. I slept for damn near eighteen hours, which for someone with time-related anxiety can be unnerving.

As I eat, Stacey tornadoes around the room, throwing half of the clothing from each of the racks onto the floor, yelling obscenities every time she encounters anything that screams edgy tween.

There is NO way I can work with this woman—she’s crazy!

A knock sounds on the open door, and Maxwell strides into the room, his gaze falling on the discarded garments strewn across the floor.