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‘BECKETT CHRISTENSEN CORRUPTS PASTOR’S DAUGHTER!’
‘SEX SCANDAL MIGHT CAUSE BECKETT CHRISTENSEN TO LOSE IT ALL.’
‘EIGHTH RICHEST PASTOR IN AMERICA GOES AFTER CEO ROCK STAR.’
I blink.
I blink again.
“What the fuck?”
“I’m on my way.” Valerie’s voice breaks through my hazy thoughts. “In the meantime, I’ll call security to make sure they beef up their presence. I’m sure paparazzi and reporters will surround the building in no time. Fucking piranhas.”
“Good idea,” I say. “Thanks for having my back.”
“Always, Beckett.”
“I’ll see you when you get here.”
“See you soon.”
I drop my phone on the desk and stare at the screen in disbelief.
Las Vegas is always a blast… even when it’s for business.
I was in Sin City for the Monday night finale of a show I’m a co-judge on. The after party was over the top. It was all very PG because the room was swarming with reporters and celebrity bloggers. Last night, I was the MC at Bella Lusso’s extravaganza televised fashion show. I ended the night on a bus packed with gorgeous supermodels clad in skimpy, expensive Bella Lusso lingerie, driving up and down the Las Vegas Strip.
It was all in the name of publicity.
A smoking-hot Brazilian bombshell model with dark eyes and long, dark hair caught my attention. After the ride, I went up to her room. If this modeling career doesn’t work out for her, she has a future as a Cirque du Soleil artist. Man, that woman was flexible. It’ll be a few days before my body recovers.
Where does the pastor’s daughter fit in?
I exhale and pinch the bridge of my nose.
Coffee. I need strong coffee.
I’d already had two cups on the jet, after that conversation, I need to shoot more caffeine into my veins. Drinking hard liquor at this early time of the day is ill advised.
I push away from my desk, ready to stand up when a violent tornado bursts into my office.
“What the fuck, man?” My good friend and business partner Rhys shouts at me, waving an iPad over his head. “Seriously?”
“Did I make the front page of the entertainment section, Hartford?”
“In every newspaper, on every entertainment website, and on every fucking celebrity blog, Beckett!”
“There’s no such thing as bad publicity, Rhys.”
He shuts the door with the heel of his foot and stalks towards me, his eyes burning with a mix of anger and annoyance. He drops the iPad on my desk and does a slow clap.
“Once again, your penis is the star.”
“Sorry yours doesn’t gather as much interest.” I’m pissed off he’d accuse me without knowing the facts.
“When I fuck a woman, it doesn’t make the front pages of the entertainment section,” Rhys says between gritted teeth. “For some reason, when it comes to you, your dick always ends up an international sensation.”
“Well, it’s a pretty formidable dick. Perhaps yours doesn’t measure up,” I say.
