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I dropped the phone when it turned black and stared up at the flaky ceiling, a tear leaking out of the corner of my eye.
Just a few more days. Or weeks.
I can do it.
I am Summer fucking Hayes.
13
H-O-T
SUMMER
I chugged a large gulp of cheap wine and stared at the articles and their atrocious headlines. ‘Twenty-two-year-old Hate-Love Star Flirting With the Dashing CEO of Moore Beauty: Do You Think Sugar Daddy Damon Is H-O-T? Read More!’
Gross.
Even if he paid me a grand to be in his presence, I wouldn’t accept it. I’d need at least fifty to sixty grand in this economy.
I wonder what his face would look like when he finds out about the rumors. I snickered, drinking more wine. His nose would flare, and he’d snap or bark at anyone closest to him before calling me.
I hope he doesn’t.
Slumping on the couch, I scrolled through more articles until I opened my emails and stopped at the one that said, ‘Confidential.’ I sat up straighter.
Are the producers going to keep me in the second season of Hate-Love? Will I be the main character?
My hopes and dreams died as soon as I opened it. It was from Moore. Of course, Damon had to ruin it. The email stated something about being an ambassador, and they even CC’d my manager.
“Who wants to be an ambassador at this age?” I grumbled, my words slurring from all the alcohol I had been ingesting for the past hour.
I was feeling lonely after calling my girlfriends and felt lonelier after a cold shower (hot water only comes in the morning), so I opened the cheap wine that I had purchased to celebrate something and decided that me getting canceled came close.
I was about to turn-off my phone and throw it away, but I noticed the zeroes in the amount I’d get paid. “What the fuck?” I gasped. “How rich is this guy?”
That’s what Heather meant when she texted me in all caps to fill out the form. I opened it and even though I was drunk, I could at least type out the draft why I was the perfect fit. I can ask Heather to edit it in the morning and send it.
The extra money from doing makeup and skincare shoots would definitely help me get out of the shit hole I was living in quicker.
Sipping some wine, I cracked my neck and started typing, moving my thumbs quickly.
I’d rather die than see anyone take my position.
I could ask Emma, since it was her company before she asked Damon to help her, but it didn’t feel right to ask her. I wanted to prove to myself that I am talented and that I can be the face of Moore Beauty.
* * *
I woke up with a start, slamming on the alarm clock to make it stop ringing. My head hurt, and the constant beep of the evilest electronic device to exist made the headache worse. I forced my heavy lids open and checked the time, groaning as I twisted out of the comforter.
The clock showed it was nine-fifteen.
“No,” I moaned, stripping out of my clothes and rushing to the small shower. I had less than twenty minutes before Heather arrived and either scolded me or gave me a stink eye for being late for one interview in ages that wasn’t related to any shady rumors or incidents.
I hated the thought of Damon being there, but beggars can’t be choosers.
Brushing my teeth, washing my curls, and doing my makeup took most of the time. I threw on the first blouse that caught my eye and paired it with a pencil skirt and heels. I didn’t have time for breakfast even though I was starving, but I didn’t forget my meds. I’d need them if I was going to survive the interview.
“See? I’m on time,” I said, panting after stomping downstairs from my apartment in high heels. I buckled the seat belt and ignored Heather’s confused look. “Drive. I don’t want to give him a chance to tease me.”
