“Except today.”
“No, today too. Happy to donate to any and all of your favorite causes. Make it two million. I can say sorry bigger.”
“How often does he have to buy himself out of trouble?” Mackenzie asks Charlie.
“Couple times a year,” she replies cheerfully. “This job is not boring.”
“You’re welcome,” I tell her.
“Here’s the situation,” she says to Sarah. “We have a charity deal that’s hanging in the balance. With all the negative press—yes, yes, rightfully deserved—we’re worried that it’s going to fall through, because his partner isn’t too happy with being associated with us right now. You’re not obligated to accept his apology. You’re not obligated to forgive him. But it would be doing a great service to kids all over the nation who would stand to benefit from our new foundation. All we’re asking is if you’d work with us to smooth over his lapse in judgment and poor social media skills.”
“Hello, guilt trip,” Sarah says.
“It’s a million fucking dollars,” Mackenzie squeaks at her.
“Two,” I correct.
Swear on the underwear that made me richer than god, Sarah goes so pale she could star in a vampire show.
Mackenzie’s not watching the game. She’s just sitting there doing a mouse impersonation. Nose twitching, little squeaky noises slipping out of her lips when she’s not forming real words.
Sarah’s eyes bore into mine. “Contract?”
Smart lady. I like it. “Twenty-four hours. Or overnight. I can get a rush job.”
“Probably sooner,” Charlie offers.
She licks her lips. Swallows so hard I can see her throat working. Her eyes are getting shiny, her chin is wobbling, and whoa.
She’s afraid of cameras.
Maybe she’s not an orphan. Maybe she’s part of a government experiment gone wrong. Or in witness protection.
I open my mouth to call it off, to tell her I’ll send five million wherever the hell she wants, she doesn’t have to get on camera with me, when she cuts me off before I can utter a syllable.
“You’ll talk about the giraffes.”
Didn’t see that coming, but at least it wasn’t a taser this time. “If you’re sure you want to do this.”
“Not just tonight, but in every interview for the next two weeks and anytime a reporter mentions my name.”
Whoa. She’s not fucking around. “You know I’m just a stupid underwear model, right? Lot for a guy like me to remember.”
“I want it in writing.”
“We need the apology video ASAP,” Charlie says quietly. She’s got that hint of sorry laced in with the you’re running out of negotiating room tone down solid. “The sooner, the better for all of us.”
“So the video before the contract.”
“I’ll make a phone call and get our legal team on it right now. But if you want your lawyer to look over it—”
“Not necessary. I speak Hollywood.”
Unease crawls over my skin, and I see it reflected in the flinch in Charlie’s mouth.
Not witness protection or a government program gone wrong, then.
Not that I really thought those things were a possibility. Mostly.
Sarah blinks away the shine in her eyes and crosses her arms. “You can use my first name only, and we do the video tonight. Right now. Mackenzie will record it. When I have the contract, you can have the video.”
Not exactly unreasonable. I shoot another look at Charlie, who gives a small nod.
“It might take a few hours for hair and makeup—” she starts.
“No hair. No makeup.” Sarah slides a look at me. “For either of us.”
“Sarah,” Mackenzie hisses. “At least let them do your makeup.”
She shakes her head and leans over to pull out a drawer in the carved bureau along the wall between the kitchen and living room. “Phones, tablets, and computers all in here, and we can get started. Except mine. We’ll use my phone.”
“Beck,” Charlie says, a warning coloring her tone, and yeah, she’s right.
This might be a really bad idea, and we might get taken for a ride.
There’s no telling how she’ll come off on camera. Especially a cell phone camera, with no lights, no makeup, and no crew.
An apology video is supposed to make both of us look good.
And it’s not that Sarah looks bad. She’s cute under all the messy hair and suspicion.
But when you’ve been a celebrity as long as I have, you know the difference a single hair out of place can make in the court of public opinion.
“We’ve got a guy who can do makeup so it looks like you’re not wearing any,” I offer her. “The camera’s sometimes—”
“No.” She points to the open drawer again. “You have two minutes before I change my mind.”
“I’m sending an email to our legal team,” Charlie tells her. “Let’s make sure I’ve got your conditions right first.”
Sarah squints at her, then at me, and I’m suddenly one hundred percent certain we’re not just talking to a woman whose Twitter profile proclaims her Environmental Avenger, Science Geek, and Animal Lover with a fear of needles.
This is a woman with secrets.
And I want to know every last one.
Six
Sarah
I don’t need Beck Ryder’s money. I don’t want anything to do with fame. If I could undo the last twenty-four hours, I would in a heartbeat.
But I can’t.
All of my secrets will probably be exposed one way or another. The question is how soon, and how much good can I do before then.
This isn’t about me.
It’s about getting the word out about the giraffes. And the honeybees. And the endless list of other endangered animals.
My parents could give me money for donations for the giraffes and playground equipment.
I changed my name to get away from their fame.
But they can’t provide a platform.
Next to my parents, I’m that chick who owl bombed her high school prom. Next to Beck, I’m a frumpy cranky science geek that no one will look too closely at.
And even if they do, they might not connect the dots.
He can give me a bigger platform that won’t be overshadowed by my past.
He can help me save the world.
I just have to call my parents and ask them to please ignore any videos of me going around the internet, and deny to their friends that it’s me.
So, less than twenty-four hours after my respectable social media presence blew up thanks to his idiocy, I’m pointing him to a spindle chair at my second-hand kitchen table while my best friend misses a baseball game to use my phone to record us.
I really need to come clean with Mackenzie.
Soon.
I swear.
Soon.
“You have to sit on my right,” I tell him.
“Ah. So we get your good side?” he asks with a flirty grin.
My right side is my good side. My eyes crinkle unevenly when I smile, and I’ve always thought the right side looks less weird with it, but I point to a heart-shaped mole high on my right cheek, which is probably my most distinctive feature. “Sure.”