Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 96802 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 484(@200wpm)___ 387(@250wpm)___ 323(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 96802 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 484(@200wpm)___ 387(@250wpm)___ 323(@300wpm)
Before I could give her a call, Court responded.
Fine. All right. We’re just discussing work?
Work is all there is.
We should meet to discuss this.
Meeting him would be a disaster. It was too soon. I couldn’t even be near him. I knew myself too well.
I’m busy, dealing with the tabloids.
English…
I tucked my phone away. I didn’t want to answer that plea. I knew what he wanted. But I couldn’t give it to him. We had work to do. That was all.
* * *
I’m going out. Probably going to do something stupid.
I glared at the text message from Court. A week had passed. I’d managed to avoid him that long. I’d spent the week curled in my bed, thinking about the fact that my husband had cheated on me and I was divorcing him. I’d even initiated the process. A process I knew was going to be a huge pain in the ass.
I’d started my divorce proceedings so that I wouldn’t have to think about Court. My own client. Who I should be seeing regularly to keep him out of trouble. And now, he was sending me texts like this.
You’re an idiot.
I need a babysitter. I’ve been told that I’m impulsive.
Damn if that wasn’t true.
You need a sedative.
The primary is Tuesday. Wouldn’t want to ruin that.
I knew he was goading me. And still, I wanted to head out and make sure he didn’t do anything else reckless. Also, I wanted to see him. Even though he drove me batshit crazy. But I also couldn’t see him. In no way, shape, or form.
Still, I was half-tempted to do it. Just to forget about Josh again for a few hours.
Then, another text came in but this time from Winnie.
SOS! Call me!
I dialed Winnie’s number. “Hey, what’s up?”
“Ugh, English! Thank god! Anisa Union is on The Tonight Show tonight. We prepped her. She was totally fine, on point, no issues.”
“And now, she’s having a meltdown?”
“Yes!” Winnie gasped. “We don’t have anyone else in New York. I know that you’re not on staff like you were, but I’d owe you a huge favor if you could go over there and calm her down. Give her a fucking Xanax, tell her she’s going to do great, and get her through this interview. This is make-or-break-it for her upcoming movie.”
The universe was handing me an out.
If I did this, then I wouldn’t have to go see Court. I could deal with someone else’s problems other than my own. And that was what I was good at anyway. I could get some hopped-up movie star to chill long enough to conduct an interview. No sweat. That was nothing.
“I’ve got you covered, Win. I’ll head over there now.”
“Thank you, English. You’re a lifesaver.”
“I’ll call in that favor one day.”
Winnie laughed. “No doubt. I’m sending you the information and letting Anisa know you’re on your way.”
“Thanks.”
I dashed into my closet, changing into my favorite black dress and heels. I added some eyeliner and a dark red lipstick. I had to look the part.
This was why I did the job. It was the rush. The reminder that I was good at this. Court Kensington was an experiment for me and the agency. He was not the be-all, end-all of my career.
So, I texted him as I was on my way to Rockefeller Center.
Can’t make it. Dealing with another client.
Another client?
Yep. Just try not to get arrested.
English…come on.
Good night, Court.
8
Court
English was avoiding me.
Which had been fucking fine for the first few days. She’d bailed right after we fucked. I’d thought her excuse was just that… an excuse. How could she not want to do that again? Fuck, it’d been amazing.
But it hadn’t been an excuse, apparently. She’d redirected all my attempts to contact her. She’d given me some bullshit work to do for the week leading up to the primary. She’d made up some extra clients in the city to keep her busy. I hadn’t even seen her since that night.
I knew I’d see her tonight. She had to be at my mother’s victory party for the primary she was surely going to win. I’d kept my head down and done all the things I was supposed to do. I wasn’t a liability. Blah, blah, blah.
I’d seen it time and time again. I’d been to enough victory parties to know how they went down.
I’d made sure that someone saw me voting. I’d even answered someone’s question with a goddamn smile at the polling place. English hadn’t even had to tell me what to do. I could be the Kensington poster boy if I tried. Just trying was overrated.
Now, I stood with my mother at her campaign office. She’d just come back from a rally where she encouraged people to vote. She’d had an entire fucking parade for her entrance into the polling booth. To vote for herself no less.