Page 9

9

QUEEN OF THE MEAN GIRLS CLUB AND LEADER OF THE HOUSE OF FAKE

Emma

“ W ell, well, well. If it isn’t the shiny, new superstar. What are you doing sneaking around the supply room?”

I jerk when I hear the smooth, condescending tone hit me from behind.

I flip around and do my best to not show that I’m startled. My heart that had been beating too fast for my health or my age goes into overdrive. Still, there’s no way I’d let on that she unnerves me at every turn.

“Hey, Molly. Are you feeling better? You look great. And what are you doing here on a Monday?” I deflect through lies.

Molly Minders, queen of the Mean Girls Club and leader of the House of Fake.

At least that’s what I named her in my head on day two of working at WDCN.

“Thank you,” she quips as she looks down her skinny nose at me. “That nasty bug is still working its way through the station. I’m filling in on the main desk until Drew is better.”

Molly looks like shit. The karma flu really did a number on her. She’s more gaunt than her regular boney, and if she contoured her pale skin any heavier, she’d look like the taxi runways at Dulles International.

Mean-mean Molly isn’t quite the Queen Bee at the station, but she does sit in the number-one chair on the weekends. Drew is the face of WDCN and has been for over a decade. He’s been nothing but cordial and professional to me, even though we haven’t worked together. It’s notable because I’m the newbie high school sports reporter, and he’s logged five hundred years in the industry by now.

“You get to anchor the news during the week.” I shoot her a fake smile. “What a great opportunity for you.”

She frowns, and unlike my smile, hers isn’t fake. “I am the official stand-in when Drew is gone. Everyone knows that.”

“Sorry,” I offer and give my hand a slight raise. “Everyone but me. But you set me straight.”

“What are you doing here?” she demands.

“Picking up my equipment. I’ve got an assignment first thing in the morning. You know, back to the grind—high school sports and bowling alleys. Maybe I’ll get some pickleball tournaments tossed my way this spring. A girl can dream, right?”

She crosses her arms and narrows her eyes on me. “Everyone assumed you’d come back from Vegas and demand higher profile stories.”

“ Everyone … wow. I’m honored so many people are thinking of me. You know, I’m just happy to be here. I’ll go where the station needs me.”

An ugly sneer curls her ruby-red lip. “So selfless. You’ll never get anywhere with that attitude.”

“I don’t know. It got me to Vegas. I’m just going to do my thing and ride the wave.” I glance at my watch. “It’s getting late. I’m sure you want to re-contour and empty a bottle of hairspray. I’ve got to drive all the way back to the country, so I’m just going to grab my equipment and let you work your magic.”

She doesn’t move. “What’s wrong with my makeup?”

I wave my hand between us. “Nothing. It’s perfection. You have to go heavy so the lights don’t wash you out. You’re a pro. I should take some tips.”

She rolls her eyes like she’d rather rip her fake nails off with pliers than teach me how to paint runways on my face. She turns for the door to the equipment room and holds her head high as her heels click on the floor with almost as much attitude as her helmet hair. “Enjoy the attention while it lasts. The world will forget about you in no time.”

I can’t help myself. “I hope so. I got a hand cramp signing autographs in the airport today.”

She lets out a loud grunt that sounds like she might actually be in pain before she slams the door.

I exhale. If this interview turns out the way I hope it does, Molly Mean Face will be grumpier than ever.

I need to get the hell out of here. I called and told my producer, August, that I planned to stake out the Founders main offices at the stadium first thing in the morning to see if I could get a statement from anyone. He approved it and wished me luck. I could tell he thought it would be a wasted effort and told me not to spin my wheels too long.

What I didn’t have the nerve to do was tell him about the actual interview Jack promised me. There was no way I was going to promise anything like that and underdeliver. If this turns out the way I hope it will, August will be the happiest employee at WDCN by this time tomorrow.

After me, that is.

I grab the bag, a light, and tripod. Working with Ross all week was a treat. I’m used to being a one woman show and lugging my own camera around for things like this. The impending interview might be monumental, but working on my own is old hat at this point.

I might not be skin and bones or have every plane on my face defined like a mountain range, but I did shower and blow out my hair. I told Dad, Keelie, and Saylor not to wait up for me since I was working on a story that couldn’t wait since people are still out with the flu.

Little white lies for the win.

I pull out my cell and bring up the text string that sits at the top of the list.

Me – I’m on my way. Looks like we’re doing this.

Jack – You bet your sweet ass we are, baby. Let’s make you more famous and get my guy off the hook so I can figure out how to tell my best friend I’m into his sister without him murdering me.

Jack

“This isn’t like you. Don’t hesitate when answering,” I bite.

Emma shifts from where she’s sitting and glares at me. “If you don’t shut up, I’m going to kick you out of your own house. Brett is doing fine—honestly, great under the circumstances, but every time you interrupt, we have to start over. Are you going to let me do my job or not?”

Brett drags a hand down his tense features. I’ve never seen him like this. I doubt he’s slept since he woke up from his drug-induced stupor. “You’re stressing me the fuck out, Jack. And that’s saying something since my life is in shambles at the moment.”

I stop mid-pace and hold my hand out low. “We have one chance for you to make your post-apocalyptic appearance and statement to the world. We need to get this right.”

“If it’s too rehearsed, no one will believe him,” Emma counters. “Look, in this day and age, no one wants to believe that anyone is innocent. If the story dies, there’s nothing to talk about. He needs to be genuine and authentic in his answers, but that won’t happen if you’re interrupting us every twenty seconds. Not to mention, this isn’t 60 Minutes . I need to get to the meat of the story in a short amount of time.”

Brett shakes his head. “This is a bad idea. You negotiate contracts and shit. I never thought I needed a PR manager, but maybe it’s time to hire one.”

I motion to Emma who is behind the camera for the fourth time to restart the recording. “No one wants to see you get off the hook more than me. I’m all you need at the moment, other than her. The fact that the two of you are reunited since going viral after the game is nothing short of brilliant.”

Emma turns to glare at me. “Not one more interruption, got it? In fact, go sit back there in the sunroom where Brett can’t see you. He doesn’t need the distraction.”

“She’s right,” Brett agrees. “I can’t focus with you pacing behind the camera.”

I open my mouth to argue, but Emma interrupts. “The sunroom or the sidewalk, Jack. It’s your choice.”

I stare down at the woman who let me do delicious and kinky things to her just yesterday. “You’re really going to put Baby in the corner?”

She sighs. “Don’t micromanage me. If he didn’t do what the world thinks he did, it will show. He’ll be just fine.”

“This isn’t me being a selfish asshole, Em. I might’ve been in bed with you while shit was going south with my client, but I know him. Hell, do you know how many people never go down for doing shit and get away with it? I don’t want to see him go down for something he did not do.”

Her dark eyes saucer. “Did you really just reference our one-night stand in front of your client?”

I glare down at her. “Do you know the definition of a one-night stand? We’re not strangers. I’ve known you your whole life. And there’s nothing one about it, Emma. There will be more.”

“There won’t be if you try to tell me how to do my job.”

“You do know I’m right here,” Brett mutters from where he’s sitting by the fireplace. He’s elbows to knees with his head resting in his hands.

I look back at Emma and motion to Brett. “Look at him. He’s such a wholesome kid, it makes him uncomfortable talking about one-night stands.”

“Whoa.” Brett sits up and glares at me. “I might not have a collection of illegal firearms or narcotics, but I’m not wholesome. What the fuck?”

“That’s enough,” Emma bites. “Jack, stop puppeteering this interview. I know what needs to be done. Go sit over there out of Brett’s line of sight and keep your mouth shut.” She looks back to the camera and flips a menagerie of buttons before reclaiming her seat across from Brett.

“I don’t care if you’re wholesome or not. You need to convince your fans that whatever happened in those pictures was against your will. Say what you need to say.”

“The truth,” Brett says. “I’m going to tell the truth.”

“Even better.” Emma pulls in a breath like she’s willing it to give her the patience she needs to deal with my shit. “Let’s do this.”

I move to the sunroom where Brett can’t see me, but I can still see Emma. She looks nothing like she did when I kissed the hell out of her on the plane and said my goodbye at baggage claim.

That was it for me. The damn airline lost one of my suitcases, not to mention Asa was waiting outside for her.

Asa Hollingsworth…

Okay, I’m just going to put this out into the world: I am a successful, grown-ass man. I’ve built a business in the matter of a few years that has pushed me into seven digits. If I can dig Brett out of the hellhole he buried himself in, that number will be even higher this year. I have professional athletes in my inbox daily begging me to take them on as a client.

Also, let’s not forget, high school was a lifetime ago.

Even so.

There’s always been something about Asa Hollingsworth that puts me on edge. It doesn’t matter how old I am, that I was in a fucking suite at the biggest game of the year yesterday, or that I have a financial advisor because I have no fucking idea what to do with my money.

Asa Hollingsworth was intimidating back in high school. Becoming a grandfather to Levi and Carissa’s kids hasn’t softened any edges either.

I mean, I guess it has when it comes to Levi’s rugrats, but not to the rest of the world.

I know he worked with the CIA back in the day. And there’s the fact Levi has never told me what he actually does for a living. All I know is it seems like he has a bottomless pit of money and always gave me the side eye like he knew every move I made.

Even the next three I was thinking about making.

The only thing that was transparent about Asa Hollingsworth back in the day was that he loved his family. That was easy for someone like me to see. I never had a dad. Not even an absentee one who showed up to every third birthday. My sperm donor isn’t even listed on my birth certificate. My mom and grandma never minced words about the man who helped give me life—and every single one of those words were bad.

We were all better off without him.

Not that I’d know the difference, but I think someone like me who’s never had a father notices when one stands out in the masses.

That would be Mr. Hollingsworth.

And since I bedded Daddy Asa’s daughter last night and plan to do it again soon, I wonder if he’s as much of a scary motherfucker as he was back in the day.

I can’t think about that right now.

I have a client to resuscitate and a career to save.

Which brings me back to Emerson Hollingsworth. Who knew she’d be the key to every fucking thing in my life.

Her dark hair falls down her back in smooth waves. I remember how soft it was last night brushing against my skin and fisted in my hand. She’s wearing a cashmere sweater that fits her like a second skin even though it shows very little of it. It does highlight every swell and curve I burned on my brain.

It doesn’t matter how much I focus on the interview in front of me, my fingers itch to touch her.

Questions and attempted explanations bounce back and forth between her and my client. I’m not so sure I’d go as far as calling them answers from Brett. Emma might be giving him a platform to tell his story, but that doesn’t mean he’s offering any facts. Not any that the public will want anyway.

He was casino hopping with players. Since he was the MVP and had a private jet headed to the happiest place on earth, he had some time to celebrate. The last thing he remembers telling his teammates was he had to get back to Nebula and leaving.

Alone.

The next thing he knew, he woke up in a strange hotel room surrounded by drugs, guns, and naked women. He doesn’t know how he got there and didn’t recognize anyone.

There are no useful details and even less proof he was taken advantage of.

Emma tips her head to the side and lowers her voice a notch. “Is there anything else you want to say?”

“What you saw in those pictures isn’t who I am,” Brett bites with more conviction than I’ve ever heard from him. “I don’t do drugs or pay for female entertainment. The only guns I’ve ever used are to hunt on my family’s land back in Nebraska, and that’s with an old bolt-action rifle. I fund and personally run a scholarship foundation. We’ve put more than one hundred students through four-year universities and trade schools who might not have had the opportunity otherwise. The foundation, football, and my family are my only passions in life. Don’t trust anything else you see online.”

Emma pauses for a dramatic second before standing to move to the camera.

I move to the woman I’m currently obsessed with in more ways than one at the moment.

“That’s it?” I ask

She flips the recording off and turns to me. “That’s it. I think he did great.”

“Thanks.” Brett sighs and stands to move to us as he drags a hand through his hair. “What’s next?”

I tip my head to Emma who’s taking the camera down. “She puts it on the news.”

“Hardly,” Emma says. “I’ll bring it to my producer. I can’t imagine he won’t be interested in it, but he’s the one who will make the final decision. You forget that I just report the news. I’m not the one who decides content.”

I shake my head and refute her. “You’re the only person in the country to land an interview with Brett Sullivan. Your producer would be an idiot not to run with this. And the fact you’re the one whose interview with Brett went viral to begin with makes it even more lucrative for whichever news organization hits the airwaves with this first.”

“I’m fucking exhausted,” Brett says. “I’ve barely slept since before the game.”

“You can’t go home,” I say. “I’m sure the press is parked outside waiting for you. You don’t even have a security system in that condo.”

Brett sighs. “Well, it’s not like I can check into a hotel. Where else am I going to go?”

I look around and realize this will probably fuck up my plans with Emma, but there’s no other option. “You can crash on my sofa.”

Emma glances from my sofa to me and frowns. “He’s six-five and as wide as a Mack truck. There’s no way he’ll fit on that thing. You should give him your room and you sleep out here.”

I cross my arms. “Then where are you going to sleep?”

If she could shoot daggers at me through her narrowed eyes, I bet she would. “I’m going home.”

“So you two really are together?” Brett asks.

“Yes,” I say.

At the same time Emma shakes her head. “No. And I’m not joining your slumber party. I’m going home.”

I shake my head. “We’re pretty damn good together, and we have shit to talk about. You’re not going anywhere.”

“I talk to you every day,” Brett says. “I thought we were friends. What else don’t you tell me?”

I turn to him and defend myself. “It’s a new development. Not to mention, I’ve been a little distracted with your drama.”

“They’re going to find out that he’s here eventually. Old Town Alexandria isn’t exactly hidden away or private. If he wants to avoid the press,” Emma pauses and places her hand over her chest, “the evil press—not the press like me—he needs privacy.”

Brett contemplates that. “I could go back to Nebraska.”

“No way,” I say. “You’re in the middle of a PR nightmare. I need you here.”

Emma pulls her phone out and starts tapping the screen. “I have an idea.”

“Are you calling Daddy Asa?” I ask.

“Who’s Daddy Asa?”

Emma rolls her eyes. “Ignore Jack. Asa is my dad, and no I’m not calling him. Be quiet.”

She puts it on speaker. It only rings twice when a woman answers but doesn’t do it with a normal greeting. “Well, if it isn’t my famous friend, Emma Hollingsworth! We saw you on TV! Are you home?”

Emma spears me with a warning glare to keep my mouth shut as she talks. “Hey, Addy. I got home earlier today, but I’m working again.”

Ah. Addy, Crew Vega’s wife. Asa and Crew work together. Levi and Emma have known Crew Vega most of their lives.

If I’m honest, Crew used to freak me out more than Asa back in high school. I haven’t seen him since we graduated.

Addy keeps talking. “Vivi and Aimeé have watched the video no less than a million times. They told all their friends at school that the woman who interviewed Brett Sullivan used to babysit them. I think Aimeé told everyone you’re her BFF, so be prepared for that. You know her—she’s the attention seeker of the two.”

“It’s been crazy since I’ve been back. I promise to drop in to see them soon,” Emma drags on the reunion that’s playing out in front of us.

“We’ll see you at Hudson’s birthday party, right?”

Emma’s dark eyes fall shut, and she pinches the bridge of her nose. “I forgot. I’m the worst aunt ever. It’s his first birthday, of course I’ll be there.”

I vaguely remember a text I got from Levi before I left for Vegas saying something like if I could make time for anyone other than my clients, I should actually stop by for a beer and a piece of cake for Levi and Carissa’s youngest.

All of a sudden, I’m hungry for cake.

“I can’t wait to see you,” Addy goes on. “You have to stop by the tasting room so we can really catch up. I want to know everything there is to know about Brett Sullivan. He’s in a mess of trouble.”

Emma’s eyes angle to me. “Since the game, I’ve talked to Brett again.”

“Really? The news says he’s MIA,” Addy says.

Emma bites her lip and glances at Brett and me before she keeps talking. “Honestly, Addy, my gut says he’s innocent—for more reasons than I can go into at the moment.”

I doubt Addy Vega would talk like she is if she knew the subject was standing right here listening. “You think the pictures were generated? Like artificial intelligence?”

“No,” Emma says. “I think he was set up.”

Addy laughs. “I’d believe AI before buying that story.”

Shit. If Addy is a sampling of what the public thinks of Brett Sullivan, this isn’t good.

Brett starts to pace.

I widen my eyes and motion to Emma to get on with it.

Emma pulls in a breath. “This is actually what I’m calling you about. Is the bungalow available right now?”

Addy doesn’t even pause. “Goodness, the bungalow has sat empty for years. I’d have to freshen it up for you and stock the fridge. But it’s yours if you want it. Is it that bad moving back in with your dad and Keelie?”

“No, no,” Emma says. “It’s not for me. I have a friend who needs a place to crash for a bit. A private place.”

For the first time since she answered the phone, Addy sounds suspicious. “Who needs privacy?”

“Um…” For as articulate as I’ve seen Emma be in front of the camera about shit she doesn’t know what she’s talking about, she stumbles over her words. “See, I have a gut feeling, Addy. I don’t think he did the things they’re accusing him of. He just needs a minute for the press to forget?—”

“The quarterback?” Addy interrupts. “Emma Hollingsworth, are you and Brett Sullivan a thing?”

Fuck. Here we go again.

I don’t know Addy Vega well, but I’m about to rip the phone away from Emma to set her straight, even if it will get back to Emma’s dad and Levi.

Emma must sense it because she holds a hand out to me to cool it. “No. It’s not that. Not at all. I just know him through a friend. Please, Addy. Trust me on this one. He needs a place to get away from the press for a minute. There’s no better place than Whitetail.”

Addy sighs. “Of course, I trust you. Okay. But when everyone hears I’m hosting Brett Sullivan in the bungalow, I can’t promise that there won’t be fanfare. If my tweens and your younger sister find out, he might have the privacy he needs, but not the peace.”

“Can we just keep this on the downlow for a while? There’s no need to tell the whole group.”

“That’s a nice sentiment, Emma, but I doubt that’s going to happen.”

Emma shrugs, like it’s no big deal that Addy refuses to keep my client’s whereabouts a secret. “True.”

Daddy Asa and his friends are intimidating because no one knows what the hell they really do. For that reason alone, even I know I’m not in a position to argue with Addy Vega.

“Explaining to Crew why a quarterback who just found himself in a heap of trouble will be staying in the bungalow will be fun, but he won’t say no to me. When will he be here?” Addy asks.

Brett finally has something to say and whispers to me in a hiss. “Are you sure about this?”

I don’t whisper. “It’s the first thing I’ve been sure about since you called me this morning.”

“He’ll be on his way soon. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate you,” Emma says.

“I know you’re a mover and shaker these days, but if you’re not sitting at Whitetail with a glass of wine and filling me in on your exciting life soon, then we will have a problem.” Addy delivers her warning with the claws of a kitten. “I’ll get the bungalow ready and explain to Crew that we’ll have a guest on the property. Give him directions and tell him not to freak out when my husband looks like he doesn’t trust him.”

Brett’s eyes widen.

Emma isn’t fazed. “Sounds good. I’ll touch base tomorrow.”

“You’d better,” Addy says before they both disconnect the call.

Brett doesn’t speak in a whisper this time. “Why wouldn’t her husband trust me?”

Emma answers before I can. “Because there are pictures of you plastered all over the internet with illegal drugs, guns, and probably prostitutes. And there’s the fact he doesn’t trust anyone outside of his circle.”

“Maybe I should just go home. Dealing with the press might be better than that guy,” Brett says.

“You’re fine.” I dig my fob out of my pocket and toss it to him. “Take my ride. If anyone is onto your whereabouts, they won’t recognize it. Do you need anything?”

“No. I’ve still got my shit with me from last week.” Brett flings his keys at me to trade cars. He turns to Emma. “Thanks. Even though I have no idea what I’m walking into. If Jack trusts you, then I’m good.”

“My car is in the garage. I’ll move your suitcase. You’ll be in the middle of nowhere sitting in the woods by yourself in no time.”

It’s late, dark, and cold as I lead them through my garage. I get his shit dumped in the back of my Porsche, and Emma sends him a pin to Whitetail. “When you get to the vineyard, don’t follow the signs for the tasting room. There’s a dirt lane that veers off to the right after you enter the property. You’ll have to pay attention, or you’ll miss it. The bungalow is small, but it has everything you need. Addy is the queen hostess. I’m sure the place will be stocked by the time you get there, and you’ll have privacy. I’ll call my producer first thing in the morning and see what he says about the interview. I’m sure Jack will keep you up to date.”

For someone who should be on top of the world at the moment, Brett looks like his dog died. “Thanks. I appreciate everything you’ve done.”

Emma crosses her arms and hugs herself to keep warm in the cold night. “I’m happy to help. You’d better not turn into a drug dealer who collects illegal guns.”

“Don’t worry,” Brett mutters and slides into the driver’s seat. He’s so big, he makes my Panamera look like a clown car. “Thanks again, Jack. Call me when you know something.”

“Will do,” I say.

Emma and I watch him back out of the garage and disappear into the night.

I turn to Emma. “Let’s go inside. There’s no way his SUV will fit in the garage. It’ll have to be okay on the street.”

I was lucky my place came onto the market when I was looking. It’s the shit and not many places here have garages. I bought it from a politician who lost her reelection bid.

After growing up in the boonies, I like being near the city. My brownstone is narrow as hell and three stories tall, and the woman who previously owned it was delusional about how her constituents felt about her. She gutted the place. Everything is new and shiny and looks like a magazine.

Her loss, my gain.

I follow Emma to the family room where she goes straight for her coat.

I cross my arms. “Where do you think you’re going?”

She shrugs her jacket on. “Home. I have to get up early and be back in the city if I’m going to pitch this interview to my boss.”

I move in front of her and block the stairway. “We have shit to talk about. You’re not going anywhere.”