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I scurry back, as if the dress is going to attack me, and throw myself against my bed frame, frantically scanning my bedroom. The boat. Logan shot that girl, then… I run my hands over my body in search of bullet holes. Am I dead? Is this my afterlife? Wait…how did I get back to my apartment? I look down, and sure enough, I’m in one piece, no holes oozing blood through my cat patterned pajama shirt. Who dressed me?
I shake my head until I dizzy myself, but no memories resurface. How the heck did I get home? Did someone bring me? Is that someone still in my place? My panic surges and I crawl across the floor to the cracked door of my room. I place my ear to the opening and listen. Nothing. He could be quiet. Waiting for you. Villains never make sounds. True. True. Who says romance is just about sex? The knowledge in those bad boys is endless. Taking a page out of one of my action-packed suspense books, I smarten up and grab a weapon. I’m not really the violent type, and I’m super un-athletic, so I take my eyes off the heavy lamp and crawl over to my desk and grab my stapler.
I slide up the wall, keeping my back to it, and hold the stapler to my chest. I’m just going to go out there, stapler blazing. If anyone’s there, maybe I’ll frighten them, and they’ll take off. Mornings are not my best, so I’m sure my looks alone will do the trick.
“Okay, on the count of three. One…two…three—”
Forgetting my door opens inward, I throw my shoulder into it with all my might, only to fall backwards onto my floor.
The good news is no one’s in my apartment. The bad news: I may have dislocated my shoulder. I jump into gear and get ready for work. My nerves haven’t settled, and the answers I’m desperately searching for are hidden deep inside my stubborn brain. Thankfully, I haven’t forgotten the important details of my night. I need to hurry and get to the office to write them down and present my story to Craig. This isn’t some celebrity scandal. This is big. Promotion big. My own office big! The thought of becoming a senior journalist and getting to boss Rebecca around puts some extra pep in my step.
I push through the doors of Celebrity Dirt, two hours late. When I throw my butt onto my yoga ball, I toss my purse in the direction of my desk. It misses and my things fall to the ground, but I ignore it. Bill stares at me strangely as Rebecca gives me the evil eye. I don’t even bother taking my jacket off before throwing open my laptop and getting to work. I need to get everything I remember down.
“You’re late. Must have been an interesting night.” I peel my eyes away from my screen. Justin is standing in front of me, his eyes gleaming with interest. I completely forgot I saw him last night. Shoooot.
“Yeah, nothing to tell. You?” I’m hoping the instant bead of sweat forming along my brow doesn’t give me away. I suck at lying, because lying is bad, and I was raised to be honest. Probably to a fault.
“You sure about that? You seemed like you had your hands full. Or should I say the guy dragging you across the dancefloor had his hands full?”
That triggers Rebecca’s ears to perk. “Wait, she got into the gala?” Her voice is pinched with jealousy.
Justin nods and takes a sip of his coffee. “Sure did. And from what I saw, got access into the presidential lounge.”
Rebecca gasps while Bill thrusts his chair out and wheels himself closer to my desk.
“Damn, little Miss Addy Finch found an invitation? Do tell!” He clicks his pen over and over, waiting for me to spill the beans. My foot taps relentlessly against the floor. I try to figure out what answer will please them, while also keeping my memories of last night strong in my mind to finish getting them down.
“It was easy.” I start, the truth about to fall from my lips when I remember the doomed fate of Francesca Vaughn. You impersonated someone who was invited here to be silenced. “I…I was just let in.” The memory rattles my nerves, and I reach for my coffee mug, accidentally knocking it over.
Justin laughs. “Yeah, doubt that. There’s no way you were just let in. It was a top-notch event. I saw them scanning wrists. You had to have a special stamp to get in to the presidential lounge. Who was the guy you were with?”
Bill leans in, trying to get a peek at my wrist. Thank god the stamp was barely visible to begin with, and I could scrub the remainder away in the shower. “No one. I need to get to work, so if you’ll excuse—”
