CHAPTER 1
THE WINDSHIELD WIPERS FOUGHT TO clear the blinding waves from the glass before the pouring rain immediately blurred Wilshire Boulevard back into a watery mosaic. Nicola slowed the Beemer down to twenty-five and moved to the right lane, sending a wave of dirty spray over a homeless woman sheltering from the storm at a bus stop.
“I’m sorry,” Nicola mouthed, trying to make eye contact with the woman’s blinking, scowling face as she flicked water off her soaked, dirty puffer with angry resignation. Nicola parked the car and opened her center console, digging under the stack of CDs in search of the emergency money she kept there. She closed her fingers around a bill that turned out to be a twenty and opened her passenger window, rain instantly spattering her passenger seat. She waved the woman over, extending the bill. The woman scampered quickly to the car and snatched the twenty from her fingers.
“I’m so sorry. Happy new year.”
The woman flipped her off and tucked the bill into a pocket.
I asked for that.
Waze beeped at her from her phone, informing her that five minutes had been added to her trip. Nicola grimaced. She could not be late. Her movie-star client (and ex-boyfriend) Seamus O’Riordan was getting out of rehab in two days, and she was due to present her press plan to his agent and manager at two thirty. Waze now said she was going to arrive at 2:27. How could it possibly take her twenty-seven minutes to go three miles?
Even though her assistant, Alicia, and the rotating crew of interns at her publicity agency, Huerta Hernandez, had been given time off between Christmas and New Year’s, her boss, Gaynor Huerta, had insisted that Nicola work every day, deflecting press inquiries about Seamus’s dramatic and near-fatal overdose on a movie set in Ojai three months earlier and devising a meticulous step-by-step media cover-up for his return.
Miraculously, the media had accepted their fabricated story that Seamus’s injury on the movie set had been more serious than doctors had realized. The trades had covered his departure from the movie in a businesslike way, and the tabloids hadn’t suspected the cover-up. The current story line was that Seamus was recovering with family in Scotland—a risky lie, since Seamus didn’t have much family left.
“The death of journalism makes our job a little easier,” Gaynor had crowed after they were sure the media had swallowed the story. Even after an early slip up, where they’d switched from a torn ACL to a rotator cuff injury. Nobody had noticed.
With the news cycle at its usual fever pitch, the story had been digested and forgotten in just one stressful week. Nic occasionally wondered if Seamus had any idea how hard they’d worked on his behalf, and each time, she mentally chin-checked herself for thinking about him at all.
Seamus is a liar. Seamus is a junkie. Seamus is my client.
This litany had been her glue since the last time she had seen him, at his first rehab facility, in Malibu. She tried never to think, Seamus broke my heart.
She nervously twisted her fingers around the nylon bracelet he’d sent her for Christmas, from the second rehab place, this time in Seattle. She had decided that she would cut it off tonight, but she wanted to wear it to the meeting. For luck.
Two nights ago, after Gaynor had made her decline all New Year’s Eve party invitations, she and Gaynor spent the night role-playing the upcoming meeting.
Gaynor had relished her chance to impersonate Seamus’s English manager, Tobin Freundschaft, and his notoriously thorny agent, Jon Weatherman. Gaynor had dressed in a man’s black suit, her thick black hair clipped to her head and hidden beneath a fedora. At times, Nicola had wondered if she was preparing for a meeting or a community theater production of Chicago.
For more than eight hours, they had sat in the Huerta Hernandez offices, snacking on a fruit plate and drinking champagne as Gaynor hurled increasingly bizarre questions and insults at Nicola, trying to ruffle her.
“Ay, malparida” was how most of the questions began. Nicola argued that Tobin and Weatherman wouldn’t use language like that in a meeting. “You’ll be lucky if they’re that polite,” Gaynor had cackled before launching into another round of preposterously rude test questions, like “Are you sure there’s no sex tape of you and Seamus?” or “How the hell is a junior publicist from Buttfuck, Ohio, going to bail out one of the world’s biggest movie stars?”
By the time they’d wrapped, the new year was five hours old, and Gaynor had finally permitted Nicola to check her phone. The long list of notifications had made her teary: texts from her mom and brother; multiple drunk texts from her BFF, Billy, and his new boyfriend, Seamus’s former minder, Bluey; and finally, a long, heartfelt text from her roommate, Kara.
Hey Boo, I stayed in tonight hoping the dragon would send you home early. I even stole some Johnnie Walker Blue from Amber’s so we could toast. I’ll take a rain check on it, we can toast tonight. But I did a lot of thinking, Nico. I’m real sorry I let you down last year, I got out of my head and I really hurt you. Never again girl. I got your back. Thanks for standing by me and I promise to fuck up less this year. Promise! Love you.
Gaynor, who could sense drama a mile off, saw the tears spring into Nicola’s eyes. She snatched her phone out of her hands.
“Careverga Seamus!” she cried, her glee visibly deflating when she saw that the text was from Kara. She still read the whole text.
“Seems like Miss Jones is still feeling muy, muy guilty for trying to sell you out,” Gaynor teased.
Nicola’s shoulders slumped. Forgiving Kara for trying to sell photos of Seamus and Nic to the tabloids had been one of the hardest things she’d ever had to do. As her mom had pointed out, if it weren’t for Kara’s meddling, Seamus would have continued lying and denying his drug habit to Nicola. Sometimes her mom was way too obsessed with the silver linings in situations, but this time, Nicola had clung to her words. Good had come out of Kara’s selfishness. And she had been nothing but apologetic ever since. They’d arrived at a fragile peace that was getting easier day by day.
As the Global Talent Management offices appeared between swats of the wipers, Gaynor’s voice swam into her head. “These people are the big time; they’ll eat you alive.” That was how she’d sent Nic off to this meeting, after losing the battle to accompany her. Nic was Seamus’s publicist. It was time to put on her big-girl shoes and face his legendarily difficult team on her own.
Nicolita. Gaynor’s voice echoed inside her skull. These people are not human. They are wolves, and they will rip out your throat for sport. You need me there. They are scared of me. I will be your human shield.
“Cállate, Gaynor!” she said aloud, and the voice in her head fell silent. She smiled. Even the fake Gaynor in her head responded better to Spanish, which she was learning slowly, through osmosis. She was currently fluent when it came to obscenities and fat shaming. Thanks, boss.
Reaching the Global Talent building, Nicola slowed, squinting to locate the entrance to the parking garage. Before she could find it, a gunmetal Tesla materialized out of the rain, nearly slammed into her, then skidded into a driveway beneath the building. Nicola followed suit, realizing too late that she had pulled into the employees’ driveway and did not have a keycard. She began to reverse into the street when headlights filled her rearview mirror and she became trapped. The car behind her began to honk loudly. The security bar in front of Nicola went up. Frazzled, she threw the Beemer into drive and entered the parking garage, her wipers scraping loudly. She angrily turned them off. All of the available parking spots were marked RESERVED with a name plaque on the wall in front. She couldn’t see any visitor parking. Ahead of her the driver of the Tesla, a generically handsome blond, got out of his car and pointed to a parking spot to her left. He then urgently mouthed, “Hurry up.”
The driver of the other car started blasting his horn again, long, braying shots of sound that echoed around the small garage. Through her rain-speckled rear window, Nicola could make out maniacally flailing arms and anger. She followed Tesla guy’s instructions and pulled into a solitary space that she finally saw was marked VISITOR.
Killing the engine, Nicola gathered the off-white Birkin satchel purse that Gaynor had forced her to bring. “Purses are power” was one of her favorite sayings. Standing slowly, she straightened the front of her black Calvin Klein jacket and pants and scoured the parking garage warily for angry car guy. She locked her car and looked for the elevator. Tesla guy appeared from behind a post and raised a hand, telling her to wait, his eyes widening for emphasis.
A car door slammed and Nicola saw the guy who’d been honking at her get out of his car and stalk toward an elevator bank. She slumped. It was Weatherman. He was talking loudly into a Bluetooth earpiece.
“I don’t fucking care about the script,” he barked. “I don’t fucking care about story arcs. I want you to tell me about the back end, and I want you to guarantee two sequels, and I want you to tell me five fucking minutes ago. Now, quit wasting my time and get some fucking answers.”
He vanished into the elevator lobby. When the door closed Tesla guy dropped his hand.
“Hey, I’m sorry,” he called out across the garage. “But you did not want to get into that elevator.”
Nicola walked toward him.
“Thanks, I think,” she said, her brows knitting.
“That was me who buzzed you in.”
“Huh?”
The guy stepped out from behind the pole. “I raised the security bar for you.”
“Oh, then definitely thanks,” Nicola said with a bigger smile. The guy stood there, as if he was waiting for something. “Anyway, I have to get inside fast. I’m here for a meeting.”
“I’m Timothy,” he said, extending his hand and still not moving. Nicola switched the heavy Birkin, filled with folders and her laptop, to her other hand and gave his a firm shake.
“I’m Nicola,” she said casually. “Hey, do you know which floor the conference room is on?”
“You’re Nicola Wallace, from Huerta Hernandez?”
She nodded.
“You’re the ex-girlfriend, new publicist,” he said slowly. “I’m in your meeting. I’m Weatherman’s assistant agent for Seamus.”
“I’m fine with just ‘publicist,’” Nicola said quickly. “Let’s get to the conference room.”
In her almost two years in Los Angeles, Nicola had developed a mild, persistent irritation for elevators in three-story buildings. She reached for the door to the fire stairs.
“Fire stairs are always locked,” Timothy said as her hand jiggled the handle. “Security precaution.”
Nicola raised an eyebrow. “You’re not supposed to lock fire doors,” she said.
“You wouldn’t believe how hard people try to get inside this building,” Timothy said breezily, pushing the elevator call button.
“I’d probably find that easier to believe than locking a fire escape,” Nicola said, stepping into the elevator, vowing to remain silent for the short ascent to the building’s first floor.
The doors opened onto a hushed reception area. Nicola approached the brushed-metal-and-glass counter, where a model-looking young woman stared at her phone. As Nicola leaned in to announce herself, Timothy stepped between her and the desk.
“I have Nicola Wallace from Huerta Hernandez with me for the two thirty.”
The receptionist didn’t acknowledge him, either.
“Follow me,” he instructed, taking long strides down a corridor flanked by glass walls revealing sparsely decorated offices, each containing a desk, a MacBook, and two visitors’ chairs that she recognized from design catalogs. People sat at their desks, talking into headsets and staring at their screens. It reminded Nicola of a job she’d had at a call center for five hellacious months, in Dayton, Ohio, a lifetime ago.
As they neared the end of the hallway, Nicola saw a big glass wall with a small sign that read CONFERENCE ROOM 1. Weatherman sat at the head of the table. She could also see several other men, all in black suits with white shirts. Some wore ties. It looked like a Tarantino movie. Seamus’s amiable manager, Tobin, waved as she walked in. They’d met once before, briefly, during happier times.
Nobody else moved. There was also one suited figure with their back to the door. Nicola did a double take at Crystal Connors’s giveaway severe, colorless ponytail. Crystal was the cutthroat veteran publicist whom Seamus had fired in favor of Nicola. Next to her was a stunning woman in an elegant strappy red Elie Saab mid-length dress, jet-black curls falling down her back. She was vaguely familiar, but Nicola couldn’t place her.
Timothy opened the door and waved her inside before she had a chance to recalibrate. Why is Crystal here?
“Morning, everyone,” Timothy said perkily. “I have Nicola Wallace from Huerta Hernandez with me. Are we all here?”
“What took you so long?” spat Weatherman.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Weatherman,” Timothy said. “I was just making sure Miss Wallace found the meeting okay.”
“I hope that Miss Wallace doesn’t need your help to do her job,” Weatherman said, his voice dripping with contempt as he eyed her up and down. “Miss Wallace, would you care to introduce yourself, or are you happy for Thompson here to be your assistant all day?”
Nicola groaned inside. The most powerful agent in Hollywood already hated her. Great. She blinked as slowly as she could and met Weatherman’s gaze dead-on.
“Hello, Mr. Weatherman,” she said coolly. “Hello, everyone. I’m Nicola Wallace from Huerta Hernandez PR. Tobin, it’s good to see you again. Timothy I already met.” Nicola stopped her gaze on the woman next to Crystal.
The woman opened her mouth to speak, and Crystal put a hand up, stopping her. Weatherman nodded at a seat at the opposite end of the table. Nicola slid into the mid-century leather chair as gracefully as she could. The silence around the table was deafening. She locked eyes with the young man next to Timothy. After an awkward beat, he mumbled that he was Timothy’s assistant. He didn’t give a name.
“Thank you for coming, Nicola,” said Tobin, a craggily handsome Viking with natural gray-blond hair and eyes like gravel. He gestured offhandedly at the bespectacled young man next to him. “This is my assistant.”
Nicola moved her gaze around the table, past Jon Weatherman, until it rested upon Crystal, who was typing furiously into her phone and clearly making her wait for any kind of acknowledgment.
“Hi, Crystal,” Nicola deadpanned. “I wasn’t aware of any business that might require your presence here today.”
Crystal stood, slowly, like a vampire after a long sleep, and extended her hand.
“Shake my damn hand, Wallace. Didn’t that third-world madam teach you basic manners?”
Nicola stood and reached for Crystal’s hand, but as their hands got close, Crystal suddenly sat down and left her hanging. Without skipping a beat, Nicola moved her hand to the woman seated next to Crystal. “And you are?”
The beautiful woman stood, surprising Nicola with her height. “I’m Bette Wu,” she said. “I was on Doombringers on the CW.”
Nicola didn’t watch that show. She shrugged.
“I’m also an Olympic gold medalist? Martial artist?”
“Uh, nice to meet you.” Nicola raised an eyebrow and looked from Jon to Tobin to Timothy. Nobody said anything.
Nicola counted to ten in the silence.
“Unlike everyone else at this table,” Crystal finally said in a low snarl, “I have more than one client. Can we get this dog and pony show on the road? Are you waiting for Seamus to tell you what to do? Is the tail still wagging the dog around here?”
“Can it, Crystal,” Weatherman snapped. “Nobody likes a sore loser.”
“Listen, Weatherman,” she said, her voice dripping with venom. “I wasn’t the one who fired my agency. I wasn’t the one who couldn’t even control my client, my junked-out boozehound action star, long enough to get through a simple overdose.”
“No, that would be me,” said Tobin, pressing his palms flat against the glass tabletop. “I failed to see that problem on the horizon. And I’ll ask you, kindly, to try to be professional when discussing our client.”
“That was a professional assessment, and you know it,” Crystal seethed.
“Okay, everybody.” Timothy stood and opened his arms to include the table. “Enough of this. Let’s acknowledge that this is a difficult time and a unique situation. Let’s get started.” He tapped his assistant on the shoulder. “My assistant is going to keep us on track. What’s the first topic?”
The assistant nervously looked at a sheet of paper on the table in front of him and then began to speak, his voice cracking. “Meeting January second. Purpose of meeting. Seamus O’Riordan—”
“Get to the first fucking topic,” Weatherman snapped.
“F-f-first topic is general roundup from Mr. Freundschaft.”
Opening a leather folder on the desk, Tobin read from a neat printout. “Seamus has almost completed his stint in rehab,” he began. “We have had very limited contact with him during this process. From talking to his doctors, it seems that he has been successful with his—”
“Get to the point, Tobin,” Weatherman said. “I don’t give a fuck about what his doctors are saying. Is he ready to work?”
Tobin shook his head slowly. “Yes and no, Jon. But we have to respect his recovery and not put too much pressure on him. He needs time.”
“Don’t give me that shit, Tobin. Don’t even try it. That little overdose cost each of us over ten million dollars. We both wrote some pretty painful refund checks. What I need from you is Seamus’s signature on a contract for a blockbuster before the end of the week.”
“That’s not how it is going to work this time, Jon,” Tobin said, his British cadence very measured. “We both know that if Seamus feels like he’s being forced to do something, he’ll bolt.”
Nicola hated how intrigued she’d become in this conversation. Weatherman pushed his chair back from the desk and turned himself fully toward Freundschaft. “Tobin, we’ve talked. And you promised me that this time around, we’d be working with a new, improved Seamus. A Seamus who is happy to be a brand, who takes advice and lets his team do the decision-making. Is that no longer the case?”
“Hey, Jon,” Tobin began, his tone threatening. “If you don’t want to be in the Seamus business anymore, let me know right now.”
Weatherman drilled his eyes into Tobin’s, and Nicola watched his chest rise and fall slowly. He remained silent.
“I did talk to Seamus,” Tobin said, breaking the tension. “I talked to him last night. And he will book a job, and it will be the right job. But he says he wants to read all the scripts before we attach him to anything.”
Crystal laughed out loud. “That is the first sign that your client’s career is about to implode,” she said.
“That’s the opposite of what we want, Tobin,” Weatherman said, ignoring Crystal. “We have two blockbusters that we could put him on right now, one at Warner’s, one at Disney, and the only thing he should be asking is which one has better back end. The answer to that is Disney. Say yes on his behalf, right now, and this meeting will be nice and short.”
“That I cannot do, I’m afraid.”
“Well, then you can tell Seamus this: Because he burned the studio so badly when he pulled that stunt on location…”
Nicola winced.
“… he no longer has anywhere to live. He no longer has a car. He no longer has a wardrobe. And Crystal, has anyone at Huerta Hernandez asked you for the services of Donald Matson?”
Nicola’s head whipped around at the mention of Bluey’s real name.
“Donald Matson?” Crystal looked up from her phone. “Oh, you mean Bluey? Well, nobody has asked, but he’s also not for sale. He works for me, and trust me, after I rescued Max Zetta from the incompetence of Gaynor Huerta, Bluey has been very busy.”
Nicola grimaced as her mind flashed on Zetta’s flameout scandal of last year. Gaynor had done her best to contain his fetish for religious icons until photos of Gaynor and Zetta together had nearly hit the Internet. Gaynor’d been lucky that Nicola’s friend, Billy, had intercepted the story and killed it.
“I don’t even want to think about that,” Weatherman laughed humorlessly. “So, Tobin, have you told your client that without a movie, he will be returning to LA with nowhere to live, nothing to drive or wear, and without his winged monkey to wipe his ass?”
“He knows that, yes.”
“And he still wants to read a fucking script?”
Tobin nodded and closed his leather binder.
Weatherman took his phone from a jacket pocket and typed for a minute.
“I’ve just e-mailed you the script for Parallax. It’s easy money. A Disney trilogy, shooting back-to-back. Three paychecks for one job. Plus merchandising and theme park. It’s a half-billion-dollar deal. I need him to read it within seven days.”
“He doesn’t get out of rehab for two days.”
“Good. Then he’ll have five days to read a script, which is four days and twenty-three hours longer than I get to read them. I want an answer on my desk by next Tuesday. And now let’s clear up this publicist issue.”
Nicola jerked upright. “I’m sorry, Mr. Weatherman, which issue are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about the ridiculous situation that we are in right now. I mean, congratulations, you got to bang a superstar and whatever the hell you did to convince him you could do this job, but, to be blunt, you can’t. You can’t do this, and we just need to make this go away as nicely as possible.”
Nicola gazed rapidly around the table, suddenly grateful for Gaynor’s brutal boot camp. Before she could speak, Crystal leaned forward slowly, like a spider over a fly.
“Thanks, Jon,” she purred. “I’ll be happy to resume service, and I have the press release ready to go out this afternoon. As we discussed, I will only charge crisis premiums through April. After that my rate will return to the usual ten thousand.”
“Thank you for coming today, Miss Wallace,” Weatherman said, almost politely. “I’m sorry we wasted your time and dragged you away from your office on such an awful day.”
Nicola took a deep breath and counted to five. “I was hired by Seamus,” she said, pleased by the strength of her voice. “And the fact that not a single outlet got close to the truth of the scandal is proof that I can do this job. I have done this job. There was no fallout from that incident.”
“An incident that you caused,” Crystal whispered.
“Yep.” Nicola’s anger flared. “I gave him the drugs. I shot him up.”
“No, that was another Huerta Hernandez client,” Crystal sneered, referring to former child star and current reality TV party girl Amber Bank, who’d visited Seamus in Ojai and given him the near-fatal overdose. “I’m not sure what Gaynor is up to, but your current client roster reads like the worst episode of Celebrity Intervention ever.”
“Okay, that’s enough,” boomed Tobin. “This conversation is both embarrassing and pointless. Jon, why didn’t you tell me you planned this? The one thing Seamus reiterated to me on the phone was that Miss Wallace is to continue as his publicist.”
“But she’s not,” countered Crystal. “She’s not. She’s not a publicist. She was making coffee six months ago. She was opening mail. She got her claws into a drug addict and turned it into a career. She cannot do this job. She is nothing but a—”
Nicola slammed her palm loudly onto the glass tabletop, stopping Crystal in her tracks.
“Listen, you cracked-out Dementor,” Nicola said in a forceful whisper, “the only skill you need to be a publicist is to lie and make eye contact at the same time, and trust me, Grandma, I’ve mastered that. There has not been one single story linking Seamus’s incident to drug use, and having Amber Bank at our agency gave us leverage and ownership of the one loose cannon in the whole saga. I came to this meeting to present my press plan for Seamus. You are free to leave.”
Crystal glanced at Jon. “Are you going to make the announcement, or shall I tell her?”
Timothy stood up and smiled. “Today we are welcoming Bette to Seamus’s team.” He gestured at Wu, who was smiling widely. “She has agreed to be Seamus’s new girlfriend.”
Nicola felt panic and confusion rising in her chest. She fought to remain silent.
“We’ll be the cutest couple,” Bette crowed. “I mean, no offense, Nicola, but this is going to go totally viral.”
“We’re doing a showmance?” Nicola asked, her voice steady.
“Yes, Miss Wallace,” Weatherman said. “Nothing like a new romance to distract the press.”
“I see,” Nicola continued, all business. “I wish you had told me earlier; we’ll have to alter the media tour substantially. People, Entertainment Tonight, and The Tonight Show are all on board for first interview.”
“Then they’ll be thrilled to know they’re getting the exclusive on his new girlfriend.”
“Still, I’ll have to make some calls.”
Crystal rolled her eyes, which, due to Botox, was her only option for a facial response.
“Has Seamus been told?” Nicola said, staring at Tobin.
“He is aware,” he replied cagily.
“Timothy,” Weatherman interrupted, “what is the next topic for discussion?”
Thompson nudged his assistant.
“What is the current relationship between Miss Wallace and Mr. O’Riordan?” the assistant said, almost choking on his words.
“I’m sorry, what?” Nicola spluttered.
“Let me clarify,” Weatherman said loudly. “Are you planning on continuing to fuck your client, or not?”
Nicola’s fingers nervously reached for the small nylon bracelet, and she swallowed hard before answering. “My relationship with Seamus at this point and moving forward is purely professional, and he knows that.” Nicola was again relieved that her voice remained steady.
“Good,” said Weatherman with a smile at the edges of his mouth. “Then we can discuss the framework of Miss Wu’s contract. After a successful six-month romance and its tasteful demise, Miss Wu will be cast as a lead in a Marvel franchise.”
“See ya later, CW,” Wu cackled. Crystal slapped her arm.
“So, let’s get out of here,” Weatherman said, pushing away from the table. “Tobin, I want that signature by Tuesday, and until then Seamus has no studio support. He can sleep on your couch, or, God forbid, pay for something himself. Bette, welcome aboard, thank you for agreeing to this mission, and Wallace, don’t fuck this up. Let’s reconvene with Seamus in three days. Happy faces all around.”
He strode out without another word. Nicola grabbed her purse, stuffed her folder back inside, and tried to emulate Weatherman’s exit. She wanted to ghost so badly. As she approached the elevator, she sensed someone standing behind her. She turned to see Timothy.
“I can find my own way, thanks, Timothy.” Nicola forced a thin smile, then pressed the elevator call button once, as hard as she could.
“I wanted to apologize,” he said.
“For?”
“For what happened in there. I’m sorry, I didn’t know about the ambush.”
The elevator dinged and the doors opened. Nicola stepped in, and Timothy followed.
“I can find my own car, Timothy.”
“You’re mad at me.”
“I think you’re lying.”
“Why?”
“Because when I told you who I was, you reacted weirdly. You knew what I was walking into.”
“No, that’s not it,” Timothy said slowly as the elevator reached the garage and the doors opened. “It’s because I recognized you just as you said it, and you’re even prettier in person than you are on TV.”
Nicola felt a blush on her cheeks as she stepped out. “Well, that’s nice of you to say, but I’m going to leave now.”
“Wait—the reason I … would you let me take you out to dinner?”
Nicola turned to face him, dumbstruck. “You’re asking me on a date after I just got burned at the stake in front of your entire squad?” she whispered. “Unbelievable.”
“You think that went badly?” Timothy said, spreading his arms wide. “Do you have any idea how hard you just won that meeting? It was amazing.”
“I did?”
“You kept your client and you kept your cool. You aced Crystal and you kept Weatherman on a short leash. You’re a ballbuster. So yeah, of course I’d like to buy you dinner.”
Nicola looked over to where her car was. She wanted to be out of this building so bad she could taste it. “Thanks, Timothy, but I don’t think…”
“It’s just dinner,” he pleaded.
She touched the nylon bracelet again. She hadn’t been asked out by anybody since Seamus went away.
Liar. Addict. Client.
She nodded. “Okay, fine. I’ll have dinner with you.”
Copyright © 2018 by Kevin Dickson and Jack Ketsoyan
