Total pages in book: 62
Estimated words: 59939 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 300(@200wpm)___ 240(@250wpm)___ 200(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 59939 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 300(@200wpm)___ 240(@250wpm)___ 200(@300wpm)
I zigzag through the mob, my steps getting faster the closer I get to the door. Once inside, I hurry down the corridor and wait until I’m out of sight from the front windows before I sag against the wall and gasp for air.
Why the hell is this happening? Why do these strangers even care about me?
“Maggie?”
I lift my head to find one of the counselors eyeing me with concern. “Hey, Karen,” I say, my voice unsteady.
“Gloria is in her office.” Karen looks hesitant. “You should probably go in and see her.”
“All right.”
Collecting my nerves, I walk to the main office. The teenage receptionist greets me with a sympathetic smile. An omen of things to come, obviously.
I head for my boss’s open doorway. The tiny Hispanic woman behind the desk gestures for me to close the door. “Hey, Maggie. Have a seat.”
I sit.
“Apparently you’re something of a celebrity.” Gloria’s tone isn’t angry, but bemused. Her gaze not accusatory, but concerned.
“Gloria…I’m so sorry about all this.” I wring my hands together, lace my fingers, then unlace them and tuck my palms on my knees, but no amount of fidgeting can stop the river of guilt flowing inside me.
And I’m furious with those fucking reporters. It’s Sunday morning. The kids visiting the center today don’t deserve to have a bunch of slimy creeps snapping their pictures. Nobody here deserves all this unwanted attention.
“So you’re dating a movie star?” Gloria offers a small smile. “To be honest, I’m not sure if I envy you or pity you. Having the media on your back must be awful.”
I gulp. “Yes, it is.”
“Maggie, I’m going to be honest here.”
And here it comes.
“All this attention isn’t good for the center.”
A sigh lodges in the back of my throat. “I know.” The Broger Center doesn’t just give children a place to play sports, or get help with their homework. We also offer counseling services, and most of the kids—and parents—who come here are or have been victims of abuse. Sometimes we even provide shelter to women who show up having escaped from abusive husbands or boyfriends. We let them stay in one of the rooms on the third floor while we help them plan their next move.
Needless to say, this place won’t be a safe haven for anyone as long as its picture is splashed all over the papers.
“None of our kids, nor their parents, deserve to be pulled into a celebrity scandal.” Gloria’s voice draws me from my troubled thoughts.
“I agree,” I say quietly. “And I promise you I’ll straighten all this out.”
“I know you will.” She leans forward and rests her elbows on the desk. “But, until you do, it might be a good idea for you not to come in.”
My heart clenches. “If you think that’s best.”
“I know you wanted a permanent position here, honey, but right now isn’t the time to discuss it. Why don’t we let the media storm die down before we talk about anything permanent?”
Her words are like individual little stab wounds, and they leave me with a feeling of raw emptiness in my stomach. Piece by piece, my life is crumbling around me. Everything I’ve worked so hard for. Losing my job at the Olive was bad. Losing my place at the youth center absolutely crushes me.
“I guess I’ll be in touch, then,” I murmur, fighting hard to stop my tears from spilling over. I rise to my feet and extend my hand. “Thanks for being so nice about this.”
Gloria shakes my hand. “This isn’t personal, honey. I’m just trying to protect our community. Give me a call when things settle down, okay?”
“Sure.”
I leave Gloria’s office with my chin high and my shoulders stiff, but it takes all my willpower not to collapse on the linoleum floor beneath my feet. Somehow my legs manage to carry me outside, where I push through the nosy paparazzi and utter the words “no comment” so many times I want to scream.
They follow me. They actually follow me to the curb, hurling questions at me. Ben Barrett. Gretchen Goodrich. Lester Hotel. Sex. Affair. The words all mingle into one pounding bass line, making my head hurt.
Only when I flag down a cab and slide into the backseat do I finally allow the tears to fall.
30
Ben
I already know about the paparazzi at the Broger Center when Maggie walks into the apartment. I saw it on TMZ, and I’d never felt so powerless, not to mention enraged, at the sight of Maggie’s wide, confused eyes and her expression of sheer shock when that one jackass asked if I’d paid her for sex.
The accusation leaves me sick to my stomach. Maggie does not deserve to be humiliated like that.
“Red,” I start as she drops her keys on the hall table.
She silently heads for the kitchen.
I follow her, uneasy, maybe even a bit scared as I watch her pour a glass of water.