Pulling into my parking spot, I grab my Louis bag from the passenger seat and walk up the cement steps, enjoying the warm breeze caressing my skin. I inhale a much-needed breath as the palm trees make a swishing sound in the wind. Today has been overwhelming, and I think it’s finally sinking in that I have to go on a thirty-day tour with the very man whose presence I just escaped. The only things that will wash away the chaos of this day are a long shower and my amazing king-size bed. After my nightly routine, the emotional roller coaster I’ve been on finally hits me, and I’m pretty sure I fall asleep before my head even hits the pillow.
The morning beep of my alarm comes way too early at six a.m. It feels like I just fell asleep five minutes ago. I groan, hitting my clock to stop the incessant noise. A minute later, the smell of coffee slowly wafts from the kitchen, drawing me to all its deliciousness. As usual, I notice that my phone is lit up from the previous night’s activities. Thursday, Friday, and Saturday nights are the hot nights in Hollywood and when all the rumor mills are churning out the salacious details of the rich and famous. So no matter what day it is, I’m up at six a.m.
Scrolling through the events, however, I see it was a rather quiet night. There are, of course, pictures of Tyler when he arrived at the restaurant and when he left an hour later, but nothing else. An ex-socialite was arrested for an alleged DUI, but all in all, everything was calm. Realizing there’s no celebrity fires to report, I change into my black workout shorts and matching sports bra to hit the treadmill. My morning run has always been my sanity—five miles, seven days a week, rain, shine, or heaven forbid, celebrity chaos. This morning, I especially need this distraction to get out of the funk from yesterday’s turn of events. After I powered through that distance, though, I take another quick shower before I walk into the closet and grab a white pencil skirt and a white long-sleeved shirt with sheer sleeves. Reaching for my black heels, I’m ready to kick today’s ass—but first, my latte.
Grabbing my phone, I head out to pick up two lattes, barely making it to my desk by nine. I stop at Karen’s desk, our receptionist who is super pretty but is honestly a horrible bitch. You know what they say, “keep your friends close, but keep the person who knows where the bodies are buried even closer.”
“Good morning.” I smile at her, handing her the other latte I bought. There’s a Keurig in the break room, but she turns her nose up at it. Too commonplace for someone of her stature, I guess. She’s got the whole “champagne taste on a beer budget” mentality down to a science.
“Finally, someone who really knows me.” She smiles at me. “I swear to God, if they don’t get me a Nespresso machine”—she leans in a touch—“I’m going to run over that Keurig and throw all those K-cups in the trash.” She brings the coffee to her lips. “This,” she says loudly, raising the cup in her hand and looking around to see if anyone is paying attention to her, “is life.” She slings her golden locks over her shoulder, and her blue eyes look almost human as the coffee finds its way into her bloodstream, tamping down the beast that lives within.
“Enjoy, my friend.” I smile to myself as I think mission freaking accomplished. I walk into the back where six cubicles with two desks each are located on either side. I turn into my cubicle and see that I’m here before Brooke. I’m not surprised because she is the “Night Writer” as we call her. All those overnight celebrity reports and sightings from this morning? Yeah, it’s all her. She also works more out of her home office than in the actual office, but who can blame her. We both started here around the same time, so she’s also one of my closest friends, and we agreed to always share breaking news with each other first. In this business, it’s hard to find people you trust, but Brooke is one of those people. We also bounce stories off each other, and every Sunday morning, we meet for brunch to go over the week before.
While I’m waiting for my computer to boot up, my phone rings. Looking down, I see it’s Cedric.
“Cedric, my man, what do you have for me?” I laugh at the cheesiness of what I just said to him, but he’s my biggest informant.
“Jess,” he says, “I was just thinking of you, so I had to pick up the phone to hear your beautiful voice.”
I can’t help but shake my head at him, knowing full well the only thing he was thinking about was how much he would charge me for whatever news he’s about to share. “So the fact that I have floor seats to tonight Lakers game has nothing to do with this phone call, am I right?”
He laughs. “Darlin’, what I have is worth season tickets, so get ready to show me the money.”
“Ummhmm, let me be the judge of that,” I tell him.
“A certain football star was seen leaving his hotel room . . .” He starts talking, and I take a sip of my latte that I’d almost forgotten about.
“Cedric, that isn’t really news,” I muse.
“This football player just so happens to be a couple of weeks away from becoming a father . . . and his baby momma is a certain runway model.”
I sit up in my chair. “No freaking way.”
“I have pictures, and someone fished out a video that was taken at a strip club six months ago. You don’t need sound to see him cozying up to some Instagram model, or to see where his hand ventures,” he tells me. “And it can be all yours for the bargain basement price of 80k.”
“Cedric, you are out of your mind,” I tell him, and he waits for a second. “But you send me what you got, and I’ll see what I can do.”
“Check your inbox.” He disconnects, and sure enough, the next big story is sitting in my inbox, and it has my byline written all over it.
Chapter Three
Tyler
Today’s top story: A certain runway model is in labor hours after a video of her fiancé’s indiscretions surfaces.
“Hello.” I hear someone say and finally look across the boardroom table toward Ryan, the owner of HillCrest productions. Men in stuffy suits who have no idea what they are asking of me sit around the wood conference table. They want me to pack my stuff and travel with the press, the same people I run away from, for thirty freaking days. The same ones I hide everything from, all for a press tour. Thirty days, ten stops, with ten handpicked journalists. It’s easy for them to ask me to do this because they aren’t the ones going out there.
“I’m sorry, what were you saying?” I ask, leaning back in my chair. “If I heard you correctly, you set up a tour I do not want to be on where I’ll be surrounded by press every minute of every fucking day. A fucking tour where I have to be ‘on’ the whole time.” I look up at the ceiling in complete exasperation. When Ryan came to me with the script, I knew I would take the role . . . not only was the script kickass, but the director was also someone I was dying to work with. Along with the fact they would pay me to skydive, ride motorcycles, bungee jump, and do all my own stunts, it was a no-brainer.
“We’ve almost got the plane ready,” Stephen, Ryan’s vice president, says, then looks around at the table. Maybe he’s hoping for someone else to speak, but no one does. “We have chosen ten journalists to come with you and get a firsthand look at the worldwide release of this movie. You will be giving exclusive interviews each day to promote the hell out of this film. We are sparing no expense on this. The contract you signed stated you would participate in the press junket, no matter the details.”