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“Why are you wincing like that?’
A puff of air escaped her lips. “Well, personally, I’m not a fan of either topic. And I think Dawn has a slight advantage with her material. But, I think it all depends on what story angle you choose. In my estimation, that will determine who wins.”
“Okay.” I nodded in agreement.
“I won’t be giving out any advice, so don’t ask. And, just so you’re aware, Jack and I will be 100% neutral in choosing the winner. It will be based on the better story, the better presentation, the better reception by the audience, and the bigger buzz. Personal relationships will not come into play.”
“Understood. So, what are the assignments?”
She rapped twice on her desk with her knuckles. “Jack assigned Dawn to ‘black sheep royals’. You know how well royals always resonate with our audience.”
My mind started creating hundreds of different creative story angles about royals. Shit, that was a good topic. “Hmm.”
“You’re doing a story about a haunted rock band.” Her face was blank even after she dropped that dud on me.
I inhaled slowly. “What? Could you repeat that?”
She reached into her desk drawer, pulled out a file folder, and handed it to me. “It’s all in there. The pitch that Jack’s been holding onto. It’s not much to work with, so you’ll have to spin some magic. Have you heard of Ghost Parker?”
I thought for a moment. “Yeah. They sing that huge hit song ‘Okay Babe’.”
“Oh right,” she replied. Then she started singing in a high-pitched voice, “Baby, baby, baby, oh, like, baby, baby, baby, oh...”
“No.” I stopped her. “That’s Justin Bieber. From a hundred years ago. When he was like 12 years old.”
She shrugged. “Oh. I don’t keep up with rock bands.”
Clearly.
So, what did I know about Ghost Parker? I wracked my brain. They were pretty popular right now. They had that crazy hit song that had finally died down a bit. Thankfully. And they were the epitome of every rock band cliche: trashing hotel rooms, substance abuse, womanizing, and of course, egotistical, insensitive, and immature young male behavior. There was nothing special about them.
What a turd of an assignment.
“You’re going to have to dig deep on this one. Dig up some skeletons in their closets and use them ruthlessly. The band isn’t forthcoming about this haunting rumor, so you’re going to have to be sly about it. Anything goes as long as you walk close to the line but stay on the legal side of it. We both know that Dawn is a complete pit bull, so you can’t hold back, Remi. If you don’t unearth something scandalous, you’re toast in this competition.”
We spent the next 20 minutes going over the particulars of my assignment. Even after I read through the preliminary research that had come with the original story pitch, I felt no better about it. Would this once-in-a-lifetime chance for major exposure in the entertainment journalism world turn into a giant flop in front of millions on national TV?
Ugh. I couldn’t give up before I’d even begun. There had to be a way to turn this thing around. It was time to kick some ass.
Chapter 3
Greyson
I stood as still as a statue, my hip leaning up against the gigantic kitchen island that was topped with an impressive marble slab. I stared at the small, red Cartier box resting in the palm of my hand. Taking a deep breath, I flipped open the top of the dainty box to reveal the diamond ring nestled in a black velvet cushion, sparkling brilliantly under the bright kitchen lights.
My heart beat rapidly against my chest, and my stomach fluttered. Was it nerves? I smiled faintly to myself. I couldn’t remember the last time I was nervous.
Yes, I could. But I was letting all of that go. I grit my teeth with determination.
Okay, instead, let’s go with — I couldn’t remember the last time a woman had made me nervous.
I was an international TV star. Nerves weren’t something I was overly familiar with. I didn’t have to deal with that, since confidence was as necessary to my survival as food and water.
So what was this emotion swirling in my gut, making a cold sweat break out on my forehead? Could it be true love? Was this the grand culmination of two soulmates uniting? Was this charge pumping riotously through my veins, the giddy blush of love blooming inside me?
Or was this merely the natural trepidation a man felt when he contemplated baring the soft underbelly of his soul to the possibility of utter rejection, otherwise known as a marriage proposal?
I tried to examine my feelings, to pinpoint the exact nature of them. But I was so much more adept at burying them. Christ, I was such an expert at faking shit, even to myself, that I could no longer recognize a true feeling, even if it smacked me in the face. My entire life felt like one big act of make-believe. Professionally acting since the age of eight and lying to the public about my personal life had screwed me up good until my head was spinning. I hardly knew what was real anymore.
