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Whatever it takes, because Meghan deserves to be treated with respect.
Chapter 7
Maggie
Stretching on my sofa, I lean back, sighing. Thank goodness I’m off today from both of my jobs. After last night’s craziness, I need a day to recover, unwind, and settle my mind. My hand is sore from where I punched Miles, and typing this afternoon might be a bit of a challenge, but I’m not the least bit sorry.
The light throb is a reminder that I’m a strong beast of girl who can put those killer cardio-kickboxing class and elementary school Tae Kwon Do moves to good use when needed. Getting up, I doctor a cup of coffee and plop back down on the couch, turning on old gameshow reruns as background noise as I curl up with my laptop. For some reason, listening to Richard Dawson asking what the survey said gets my creative juices flowing.
I click around, checking my emails, Instagram, and Twitter to see if there’s anything I can cull into a story for the tabloid. There isn’t much. An Instagram girl famous for her booty seems to be stiffing her video editor, both literally and financially. I also cobble together a quick hundred-word blurb about a celebutante dining at the fanciest restaurant in town with her brother, noting that they’re rarely seen together in public. It isn’t much, but it’ll keep Jeanine happy enough to not bug me on my day off.
Nothing’s really smashing ground-breaking journalism, but it’s what I’ve got. Fortunately, I’m still riding high on the Jimmy Keys expose story I was able to write based on his appearance in the club. Jeanine ate that up like candy, just like I knew she would.
I’d even written a couple of follow-up pieces about the fallout when his wife found out, and then when he admitted to having a sex addiction and was seeking treatment.
I think his reaction’s a bit overblown and probably more to save his reputation, considering he was just getting a lap dance. There’s no need for the melodrama, but the cynical side of me wasn’t surprised to see the pedestal-living pseudo-hero fall to Earth with a crash.
After a few more minutes of clicking around, I find myself staring at the TV screen mindlessly rather than digging for more juicy stories. Sure, it’s a waste of time, but it feels good to laugh as a bunch of pseudo-celebrities swap one-liners and give double-entendres for answers to ridiculous questions. It’s light and bright. Nothing they’re saying really matters, but that’s what makes it fun.
Setting my laptop aside, I give in to the draw of the show, but after a few minutes, my phone rings. I mute Charles Nelson Reilly, circa 1978, to grab it, seeing it’s Allie.
“Hey, Allie. What’s kickin’?”
“Are you serious right now?” Allie asks, sounding outraged and amused at the same time. “You punch an asshole customer out last night, and today, you’re all casual, ‘Hey, Allie, what’s kickin’?’ Bitch, you’d better start spilling the story.”
I grin, loving how she’s blunt and straight to the point. She also shows that she cares that way. The more direct she gets, the more she likes you. “It wasn’t that big of a deal.”
Allie guffaws. “Actually, pause right there because I need to see your face when you tell this story. I gotta see how much of your bullshit you actually believe. What are you doing right now?”
I look around my apartment, at the muted show I’m watching, the nest of blankets wrapped around me on my couch, and me still in my pajamas. “Literally, nothing. Why?”
“Perfect. I’m picking you up in fifteen minutes and we’re going for mani-pedis so I can hear it all. Okay?”
“That sounds great, actually,” I admit, grinning. When Allie makes me offers like this, she always insists on picking up the tab. “I’ll be ready.”
We hang up, and I hurry to get ready, pulling on shorts, a T-shirt, and flip flops before retying my ponytail and swiping some mascara and lipgloss on. It’s not fancy, but it’s what I’ve got on short notice. I’m just making sure my mouthwash is doing its job when I hear a knock, and I know I’m out of time.
Of course, when I open the door, Allie looks like a million bucks. Her chocolate hair is hanging straight down her back, her makeup is impeccable but perfect for daytime, and while she’s also wearing shorts and a T-shirt, she manages to look like a Pinterest pin while I look like a fashion don’t list victim.
“Are you planning on handing out heart attacks today?” I ask, and Allie grins.
“Nope, that’s your job. You look gorgeous,” she says.
I smooth the wrinkles out of my T-shirt and laugh. “You must be high! Come on, let’s go. Who’s driving?”
“Like you have to ask,” Allie says, dangling her keys. “Come on, I’ll drive.”
