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“You're right, Sean, he is her stepfather. Which is why I can’t tell them that. They’ll know it’s bullshit.” Candice bursts out laughing. She thinks I’m joking. When her gaze returns to mine, the laughter dies. “Oh my God. You’re serious?” Her smile fades. “All right, let’s say somehow you do manage to get KV to agree to that exclusive. Just when are you going to get it? The reason you couldn't start on the JM Show immediately is because you're going to Las Vegas tomorrow for your sister's wedding.”
Ashleigh Jordan is my little sister’s best friend. I’m spending the next four days in her torturous company. “Let me worry about that.”
“How do you plan on jumping through Jordan Inc's hoops?” Candice huffs, putting on her best I’m in charge expression and failing to convince me of anything. “I'm not putting my legal cover on this. I've enough to worry about with Channel Six.”
“You don't have to worry about legal cover Candice, Trust me.”
“Trust you?” Candice glowers. Her chest puffs out. Not as in the look at me, I’m hot kind of way either. As in, who do you think you are? I’m still your boss, and you’re an asshole kind of way. “I would’ve never employed you, but dad took a chance on you when you were a washed up nobody, and you've practically ruined his legacy with some revenge disguised as romance bullshit by making the same mistake twice.”
Oh really?
It’s nice to know what she actually thinks of me when she isn’t screaming my name between the sheets. “There's more to this than meets the eye, Candi.” I watch the flash of temper in her eyes at the use of the name I’m only allowed to utter in the bedroom. “The crazy haired iris customizing ice queen dished up a subzero platter of a whole lot of stuff neither you nor I, nor anyone else knew about. And if you were watching close enough you could see the heartless bitch had tears in her eyes. There’s a story here, Candice, and I’m going to get it. Exclusively!”
“No, she didn’t—”
“Yeah, she did.”
“Anderson! If you contact Krystal Valentina you're fired!”
“You can’t fire me for contacting my—” I bite off the rest of that sentence. Besides, she couldn’t fire me for something I did while on vacation and had nothing to do with MacNews.
“Go ahead!” I shrug, “If you don’t want the story, then I'll sell it to the highest bidder.” She still glares at me. I kind of feel bad for undermining her, but she did just call me a washed up nobody. So. Karma’s bitch. “I will get the truth with or without you—”
Hey, hang on a second!
I’ve been exploiting Ashleigh’s weakness for the past fifteen months. I didn’t think I’d even scuffed her glacial armor. It’s why I persisted.
But revenge is sweet, as they say, and Krystal Valentina has a history of settling the score when it's least expected. What if the unsuspecting victim wasn’t Justin Ramirez, but me?
My future with The Jackson Matthews Show is precariously balanced. Hell, my entire future is now as delicately balanced as an amateur trapeze artist above the Grand Canyon!
If the last time we argued we went nuclear, this time we go fucking apocalyptic. I will not let my career go down in flames at the hand of that vindictive bitch!
CHAPTER 3
ASHLEIGH
Are you ready for this?
No, not at all.
This is the only second time I’ve been around people in eighteen months. The first, a crammed studio audience, and look how well that worked out.
This time, it’s a crowded hotel lobby, and a hotel bar, and then a couple more bars, and maybe a nightclub or two.
I can do this!
I text my childhood best friend, Tristan, to tell him I’m in the elevator, and then I step into the glass box, ready to make an entrance. Tonight, I’m not Ashleigh. Or Krystal. Tonight, I’m Lucky. Lucky by name, Lucky by nature.
I see Tristan and all his friends gathered in the bar waiting for me. I lean forward and skim my palms along the handrails, drawing attention to my breasts in my very tight dress. Although, I’m pretending I have no idea that all of their attention is focused on me, of course I know.
The elevator’s slow. So, to bide more time, I slide my fingers through my short dark chocolate tresses, tilt my head back like I’m in a shampoo commercial, and then shake out the curls. Fully aware that I’m not just drawing the attention of my friend’s buddies. A lot of men, and some women, have stopped what they were doing.
My last trick is to pretend I’ve dropped something and bend over. Not gracefully. No there’s no bending at the knee or timid crouching. This is a full bend and snap as made famous by Elle Woods in Legally Blonde. Although, my snap isn’t all that great because of my recently healed fractured vertebra. I may never be able to snap again.
I step off the elevator and walk toward the bar, knowing I have thirty or so pairs of male eyes scaling the length of my body, drinking in the jaw-length rock chick tousled curls, the long Snow White lashes, Bambi blue eyes, and Jessica Rabbit’s red mouth. I’ve teamed it with a sheer plumping lip gloss. There’s only one thing men want from a mouth like this, and it’s not a kiss on the lips.
When the facial package comes on top of a low-cut, high riding red PVC mini dress that belongs in a BDSM dungeon, there’s little left for the imagination, except missing whips and chains.
