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We chuckle, and Pete starts telling me stories about Raphael thinking he’s the coolest guy in the world. It’s good to know someone’s on my side.
But I still can't stop my mind from wandering back to Olivia. It feels weird to not be in her car. It feels weird to have not spoken to her all day. She has a day off and the management team have decided that, for now, I can be trusted without a full-time babysitter. I’ve decided not to push my luck these past few days because, for as much as it’s weird without her, it’s nice to not have her breathing down my neck the whole time. Inevitably, anyone else they would hire would be equally as annoying and uptight, and I just don't want to deal with that.
Being at home drinking just isn’t the same as going out, though. I need to blow off a little bit of steam. I'm a guy, after all. I have needs. But meeting people in bars isn’t going to work with Olivia keeping such close watch over me.
I need a new plan.
Pete drops me off at the door to the complex, and I thank him, waving him off before heading inside. When I step into the lift, I pull out my phone and open the app store. A plan is brewing inside me.
This is Miami. Pretty people are everywhere, and plenty of them will be on the apps. I’m not looking for anything deep, but this? I can text a girl. Invite her home. Have a bit of fun. No one’s watching me here and she can leave the next day without anyone ever having to know.
The lift dings and I click the heart next to a blonde girl’s profile. This is going to work perfectly.
CHAPTER 7
OLIVIA
“What is this?” I ask as Tim, my manager, slides a newspaper towards me.
I stare down at it. It’s a badly photocopied article on Miles from some British newspaper. It’s not new, but the message is clear enough. King of Camden Caught with his Trousers Down Again! reads one headline. There’s a picture of Miles and it’s distasteful, to say the least. Fortunately, it’s also pixelated in all the right places.
The other articles are much the same; pictures of him wrapped around girls, stories of him half-naked. None of them make for easy reading. “Tim, I’ve seen all this a dozen times. What’s your point?”
Tim gives me a stern look, then drops another paper in front of me. It’s our local sports magazine, open on a single page spread with a relatively flattering picture of Miles on the pitch. Bad Boy on Break, it announces.
I skim through the words. Most of them are nice enough, and though there's some mention of his less-than-savory behavior, overall they seem to think that having Miles here will be nothing but a good thing for the Macaws.
“This is the kind of press we’re getting now,” says Tim.
I’m still struggling to see what exactly he’s called me in for. I’ve been shown all these photocopies again and again, I don’t need to see them now. “It could be worse…” I say.
Tim’s face hardens from marble to granite. “Yes. It could be. But you will not let it get worse.”
“I know. I'm trying,” I sigh. “Do you know how hard it is to?—”
“I don't want to hear any excuses,” he interrupts. “I don't want to hear reasons or apologies. I just want Miles’s name kept out of all of the press.”
“All press,” I repeat slowly.
He nods. “I don’t want so much as to read an allusion to him.”
“He’s allowed a life,” I say, unable to stop myself jumping to Miles’s defense. “I can’t keep watch over him twenty-four seven.”
“You can damn well try!” Tim snaps. “Look at this.”
He flips around what looks like a printout of some text messages between him and Chase Colcord, a journalist whom anyone in our line of business knows as one of the most notorious and persistent reporters in the area. The messages don’t bring me joy either.
Saw your new start out and about the other day. He looks like a hothead. I’ll be keeping a close eye on him. I smell a juicy story in that one.
My heart sinks at how much more difficult my job just got.
Tim stares me down, making my stomach flip so hard I think I might be sick. “I do not want Colcord to get even so much as a sniff of trouble out of Miles. I hold your contract in my hands, remember? I can let you go anytime I like. Do you understand me?”
I walk out of the meeting disheartened and more than a little nauseous. If only I could explain this to Miles in a way he would understand or listen to. I know he thinks trying to wind me up is funny. But he doesn’t seem to understand what's at stake for either of us. I doubt more bad press would do him any good either. If he was sensible, he’d just keep it in his pants, keep his head down and play.
But he's idiotic and boneheaded, so that's never gonna happen.
I walk slowly out to the parking lot, feeling like I’m dragging weights behind me on my ankles. Not even the spring sun can cheer me up today, even though it's warm and bright on my skin. I need a vacation.
