Page 1 of Rebooting Conor Flynn

Part I – LA

Chapter 1

NOELLE

There are some names that can ruin your day in a minute. Conor Flynn's managed to ruin mine in a second.

I watched my boss's perfectly lip-sticked mouth move, but the roaring in my ears after she said Conor’s name drowned out everything that came next.

I hugged the clipboard to my chest as if it were the only thing standing between me and a professional meltdown. It just might be.

“W-who?”

“Ashley Bennett.” Dina put her hand over her heart and closed her eyes as if pledging allegiance to a popstar goddess. She probably was. A moment later she recovered herself, and her eyelids flew open, despite the false eyelashes stuck on there like a pair of butterfly wings. “She’s rebranding herself. This is a kinder, gentler Ashley. No more growling on stage about her exes, especially that hottie she dumped. Everyone was team Nico on that one.”

I peeled one hand from my clipboard and held it up, nibbled fingernails and all, to stop Dina before she launched into the up-and-down history of Ashley and her actor husband Nico Ferrari. I had to make sure I wasn’t experiencing auditory hallucinations. “I know Ashley Bennett. You mentioned her co-headliner on the tour.”

Dina snorted, the nostrils of her recently reconstructed nose flaring delicately. “Nobody is co-headliner with Ashley. Second billing goes to Conor Flynn from Five2Go or maybe that honor goes to Ji-yoon from that K-pop group.”

So, my fevered brain hadn’t imagined the name Conor Flynn flying out of Dina’s mouth. I swallowed or at least tried to—ended up gaping like a fish out of water.

“Are you alright?” Dina tilted her head, flapping her lashes at me. Then she narrowed her eyes. “You’re okay with this assignment, aren’t you Noelle? This is make or break for you, babe. You handle this job like the pro you are, and you’re going straight to the top—or at least straight from assistant publicist to full-on publicist. No more running for lattes, holding back someone’s hair as they vomit into a toilet, no more gofer-ing.”

“On it, boss.” I did a fake salute and almost took myself out with my clipboard. I straightened my glasses. “I’m all in. I will publicize the shit out of this tour...and everyone on it.”

“Perfect. And, babe—” she waved her hand over me from head to toe “—clean this up a bit before the first rehearsal next week.”

I glanced down at my Rolling Stones concert T with the little coffee stain at the edge of the giant, lolling tongue, the baggy no-name jeans with the hole in one knee, and my scuffed Vans, laces untied on one shoe—no wonder I tripped coming into Dina’s office.

She had a point.

“Ashley likes pretty people around her, and you’re quite pretty...when you put in some effort.”

I ground my back teeth. “I thought she was going for softer.”

“Well, she’s Ashley Bennett. We’ll see how that goes.” Dina patted my shoulder. “She and Conor hooked up at one point, so this should be interesting. We might be able to use that.”

“That was just PR, a showmance. You should’ve been able to see right through that disaster, Dina.” My face got so heated, I had to wipe the steam off my glasses.

Squinting at me, Dina asked, “You have contacts, right?”

“I do, yeah.” I slid my glasses up the bridge of my nose with one unmanicured finger and ran my tongue across my dry lips. “You mentioned a rehearsal.”

“Next week at The Greek. That’s the opening show, and the backstage team, including publicity, are meeting up to discuss strategy.”

“I-is Con...the talent going to be there?”

“Yes. Ashley, Conor, Ji-yoon, the back-up band, the dancers.” Dina stretched her arms to the ceiling, the traffic crawling on Sunset Boulevard out the window over her left shoulder. “Oh, wait. You must know Conor. You got your start with the London PR firm that managed Five2Go. I almost forgot about that. Perfect. You should be able to handle him.”

“Right. Perfect.”

If I’d been able to handle Conor Flynn eleven years ago, I wouldn’t have the sudden urge to hurl right now—and I’d have nobody to hold back my hair.

***

I resisted the urge to rub my expertly made-up eye. In my role of PR assistant, I’d learned how to apply makeup—it came with the territory. I just didn’t typically practice those skills on myself, but if Ashley Bennett wanted pretty...I flicked back my straightened hair...I’d give her pretty—or pretty good.

My tires crunched the gravel as I pulled in front of The Greek Theatre. We had instructions to go through the side gate. I stepped out of my car and slammed the door causing the whole car to shudder. I hoped Ashley Bennett didn’t like pretty cars too because mine was a piece of shit.