Total pages in book: 67
Estimated words: 67510 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 338(@200wpm)___ 270(@250wpm)___ 225(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 67510 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 338(@200wpm)___ 270(@250wpm)___ 225(@300wpm)
All hell broke loose these last couple of months since I was arrested for possession of an illegal substance. In order to avoid jail time, his lawyers were able to work out a plea deal where I was court ordered to a ninety-day rehab stint, a shit ton of hours in community service, and mainly paying out hundreds of thousands in fees that my old man would hold over my head for eternity.
News spread like wildfire in a forest, and there was no hiding from it. It was all over social media, and the press ate me alive, basically burning me at the stake. The last three months were a giant blur of NA meetings and therapy. Although my treatment center was the best money could buy. It was essentially a high-end resort where I played tennis and hit the gym like a madman.
It was still painful to be somewhere I didn’t need to be.
My agent, Thomas, held his hands up in a surrendering gesture. “I’m handling it.”
“You’re handling it?” I scoffed out in a snide breath. “If you were handling it, then I wouldn’t be on the front cover of every magazine with the headline ‘SPIRALING’ in big, bold lettering!”
“Don’t yell at him, Aires.”
My old man brought my attention over to him.
“It’s not his fault you’re a fuckup.”
I leaned back into my chair. “Sticks and stones, Dad.”
We were in his office, sitting at the long rectangular table in the center of the massive and lavish space.
“If you’re bed-hopping ways weren’t enough of an eyesore, now we’re dealing with you being labeled a drug addict.”
“I told you, it’s bullshit.”
“It’s bullshit they found you with five illegal pills? Is that bullshit? Because the invoices from me having to save your ass yet again haven’t stopped since I paid your bail to get you out of jail.”
“I told you I’d pay for it.”
“So it looks like your family doesn’t care about you?”
“That’s right.” I viciously nodded. “I forgot what matters to you is what strangers think.”
“Aires… do not give me your woe-is-me bullshit. Do you have any idea how lucky you’ve had it? How many people would kill to be born with your life of privilege?”
It was the same speech every time.
Glaring at my agent, I chimed in, “Why are you standing there with your dick tucked between your legs? You should be out there doing damage control.”
Thomas sighed deeply, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I’m trying.” He inhaled another deep breath before dropping his hand to look at me. “Whether it was today or two weeks from now, the headlines will change. We’ve discussed this several times. These reports shouldn’t have come as a shock to you.”
He was right. It’d take time to soften the blow of how the press was treating me.
“You need to relax, alright? I’m handling it. This isn’t the first time you’ve been caught in a scandal, Aires, and we both damn well know this isn’t going to be the last.”
I shook my head, narrowing my eyes at him. “I can’t help the fact that women love to make up stories about me to the media.”
“Well…” Thomas adamantly nodded. “Maybe if you stopped fucking them over, they wouldn’t have a reason to make up stories about you. I know, crazy concept and all.”
“Or maybe”—I nodded at him, fully aware of where he was going with this— “if they stopped thinking they could change me, it wouldn’t feel that way to them. I make no secrets of who I am, Thomas.”
“I’m just saying it’d be great if you kept your dick in your pants for once.”
I shrugged. “I don’t pay you to have an opinion on where I thrust my cock.”
Dad cleared his throat, interrupting. “Let’s make something perfectly clear, Aires. We don’t give a rat’s ass where you stick your dick as long as you don’t get caught with your hands in the cookie jar.”
“How many times do I have to apologize to you?”
“As many times as it takes for it to stick in your thick skull. The women are petty scandals. If the press wants to talk about your bed-hopping ways to sell magazines, then so be it. This”—he lifted the article—“is attacking your character and credibility, and that’s the narrative on every single cover story.”
“They’re going to write what gives them sales, Dad. At the end of the day, drama makes money. I know that, and so do you. I’ll fix it, okay? Don’t I always?” Shifting my glare to Thomas, I asked, “What do you have for me?”
In whatever way, shape, or form, he always came through with the best contracts, the best contacts, the best of the best. He fought for me and with me, being my biggest ally since he’d become my agent at the start of my career.
No matter the situation, I knew he always had my best interest at heart. The press didn’t mind their own damn business on a normal day, let alone on an occasion like now, when all eyes were on me more than ever.