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But I guess it’s a little too obvious I’m thinking it.
Easterly shutters, tensing, lifting her chin with a touch of disdain.
“Aw, c’mon. People will say anything about Vance. That’s the problem with having power and doing your job really, really well. People want to use you for it, and when they don’t work hard enough, they go looking for excuses. Scapegoats. Everything but their own failures. That’s all it’s about, and those asshat gossip sites try to, like, make some huge scandal out of everything. It’s so disgusting...”
Oh, sweetie.
I’ve seen this before.
Easterly thinks she’s the special one.
I’d bet my whole bank account that everyone before her thought they were the special one, too.
Right up until Haydn dumped them on the curb and did everything he could to make them too afraid to ever breathe a word.
Are you any better? a voice whispers in the back of my mind. Getting butterflies over Roland Osprey?
Admit it. When Wanda said he was basically a solitary monk in a suit, you liked it. You love the way he looks at you even more...
You’re starting to think you’re special, too.
You’re starting to agree with a monster’s morals.
I swallow hard. I can’t dwell on it now. I can’t think about how close I am to making the exact same mistakes.
I need to keep my focus on Easterly—and on my job.
“Every scandal has a grain of truth,” I point out softly. “I’ve spoken to confidential sources about him. About the top notch legal team he keeps on staff. Not to mention the number of NDAs he’s forced girls to sign in settlement cases. Don’t you ever wonder what he’s settling with them, Easterly? What’s he so desperate to keep secret?”
Her face goes red—not with embarrassment, but with something else.
Something betraying, telling, as she stares at me with her mouth open and silent.
I smile faintly, sadly.
Being the messenger sucks eggs.
“I guess you didn’t know. But you do know Vance Haydn loves his secrets, right? How many things has he told you not to talk about in front of other people? What kind of things did he make you sign?”
Easterly sputters—then scowls, glaring at me.
So much for keeping control.
I just spilled anger noodles all over the floor.
I swear, I see the moment she digs her heels in, the denial on her face, in her eyes.
I see the heartbreak, the fear she can’t face, and the second she settles on defensive fury instead.
“I’ll have you know I did know. He told me up front that there were people who wanted to take advantage of him, and he stopped them from using his name to get ahead. He wasn’t always nice. He did what he had to, and yeah, sometimes it got ugly. People are allowed to have privacy, Callie,” she bites off. “Our relationship is perfect. And if that’s all you want to talk about, maybe this interview was a mistake.”
Ouch.
“This isn’t about the interview,” I rush out. “None of this is getting published. This is me asking if you need a friend—and if you ever need to talk to someone off the record...you have my number.”
She glowers at me, but her lips are trembling, her fingers shaky.
I feel hollowed out.
I don’t have the heart to keep pushing.
I can’t be one more person who hurts her.
So, I only smile again and offer her my notepad.
“Take a look. I haven’t written anything down except what you’ve told me about your work. The rest is totally confidential,” I tell her.
Except that’s a lie, however noble.
Roland’s probably listening in right this second, the microphone in my hairpin broadcasting everything back to him live.
God, I really am the worst.
Easterly eyes me suspiciously and leans forward to peek at the page before sitting back.
“Okay. So why were you asking me that stuff?”
“Because I’m worried about you, Easterly. Because I like you and your music.” I’m not lying there. She’s a sweet girl and hella talented. I shrug ruefully. “I want to help you. If that means keeping things strictly business, we can do that. I just want people to hear about your music and I want you to keep making it. So if you’re still willing to talk to me, I’m here.”
She’s still hesitant, only now she looks confused, one blue eye squinting.
“Wait. You’re not gonna leave? Even though I snapped?”
It’s such a fragile question. I smile softly.
“No. You have every right to tell me to mind my own business. I’m not going to punish you for that, Easterly.”
“...oh.” She bites her lip, ducking her head. “I just...I’m always so worried about screwing up. Piss off one reporter and next thing I know, I’m a national headline and my whole career falls apart.” She swallows roughly. “I’ve worked so hard and I’ve been lucky. So, so lucky. I can’t lose that. And...I can’t lose him.”
It hurts to hear what she’s not saying, between the lines.
