Scandal Sheet aka Hollywood Scandals

interrogation. Mrs. Carmichael was not only the head of the neighborhood watch, she was also the biggest gossip in the entire Palm Grove development. I know, hypocritical in the extreme, but I wasn’t a fan of gossip when it revolved around me.

Or my need for a bodyguard.

“Well, maybe I should just go talk to him,” Hattie said, clacking her dentures as she eyed the Hummer.

“No!”

“Hello, Peking Palace?” the phone said in my ear.

“Uh, hold on,” I told the receiver. Then turned to my neighbor. “Look, he’s really shy, and he won’t be there very long. Just please leave him alone, okay? Really, he’s harmless, nothing to worry about.”

“I don’t know. He looks dangerous. Like he’s in a gang or something.”

“He’s not in a gang.”

“Hello? You want to order?” the phone asked.

“Yes, just a minute,” I told the guy.

“You sure he’s not in a gang? I’ve seen those trucks on MTV. They look like gang trucks.”

“I promise he’s not in a gang. Cross my heart.”

“If you say so.” Though the little frown between Mrs. Carmichael’s squinty eyes didn’t look entirely convinced. “But I’m taking down his license plate number. You can never be too careful!”

“Great. Wonderful. Fab.”

“And, make sure you air this place out. You know, maybe you should set a timer next time.”

“Yep, thanks for the tip,” I mumbled, not even attempting sincerity as I ushered her out the door and locked it after her.

I put the phone back up to my ear. “Hi, sorry about that.”

My only answer was a dial tone.

I thunked my head back against the front door, then hit redial. Ten rings in, I gave up and ordered pizza.

Two hours and a large pepperoni later, the place was beginning to lose its eau de marinara, Aunt Sue was safely tucked in for the night with an Agatha Christie novel, I was putting the finishing touches on my version of the Pines hearing…and Cal was still parked at the curb.

I peeked through my bedroom curtains at his car. Jesus, what was he going to do, sleep in that thing? As weird as receiving a death threat felt, the idea of someone watching over me twenty-four seven felt even weirder. I squinted through the dark, trying to get a good look in his driver’s side window. A pair of big black ovals stared back at me.

Was he using binoculars?

I jumped back from the bedroom window, pulling the curtains tight, suddenly having enormous sympathy for goldfish.

Trying to ignore my babysitter, I propped my computer on my lap and read over my latest shot at Pines.

PEDOPHILE PINES WILL HAVE TO SHOW HIS PORN:

IN AN EXPECTED MOVE, THE JUDGE IN THE PINES CHILD PORNOGRAPHY CASE SAID THE HIGHWAY PATROL’S SEARCH OF THE DIRECTOR’S CAR WAS, IN FACT, LEGAL. ALL EVIDENCE SEIZED IN THAT SEARCH WILL BE SEEN BY A JURY, INCLUDING THE INFAMOUS KIDDIE MAGS. MY ADVICE TO PINES: IF THE BOY IS UNDERAGE, YOU MUST NOT TURN THE PAGE!

Feeling pretty pleased with myself, I signed the article, with my name first on the byline, thank you very much. Then I hit send, instantly transporting my copy to the Informer’s offices.

I stood up, stretching my back. After the day I’d had, my muscles were full of more knots than a knitting circle. I tilted my head from side to side, working the kinks out of my neck. What I needed was a long, hard swim, followed by a long hot shower. I glanced toward the window. Unfortunately, unless I wanted an audience, the swim, at least, was going to have to wait.

Instead I opened my email, scanning for tomorrow’s headlines. I was just delighting in one about a certain rising female country singer who’d been spotted cozying up to a certain lesbian DJ at a nightclub, when an IM window popped up in the corner of my screen. ManInBlack72.

I immediately hit accept and waited for his message to appear.

Hey, Bender.

Hey, Black.

How was your day, gorgeous?

I groaned out loud. Don’t ask.

That great, huh?

Sucked big fat donkey balls.

You have such a way with words.

I’m glad somebody appreciated it.

What happened? Black prompted.

I paused a moment. Did I really want to spill my guts over the internet to some guy who most likely was typing with Cheeto-stained fingers and watching Star Trek in the background?

On the other hand…I looked up, listening to the silence of the empty room. Who else did I have?

My fingers jumped across the keyboard.

Because of some stupid prank call, my boss gave my story to a new girl and hired some rent-a- thug to follow me around.

Rent-a-thug?

Bodyguard. An annoying one.

There was a pause. Then, Want me to take him out?

I grinned. That was the nicest thing anyone had said to me all day. Would you?

Consider it done, babe.

Thanks.

Another pause. Then the words, You okay? appeared on my screen.

I took a deep breath. Yeah.

Good. Hey…Knock knock.

I grinned. Who’s there?

Willis.

Willis who?

Willis corny joke make you smile?

I snorted out loud.

Funny.

I try. Same time tomorrow?

Wouldn’t miss it.

’Night, babe.

’Night, Black.

He signed off, and the screen went dark, bringing with it the vaguely lonely feeling that always hit me when his “online now” icon disappeared. Which was ridiculous, because, as I reminded myself, he was just a name on a screen. A fantasy. Black wasn’t any more real than Pamela Anderson’s boobs.

I shook off the feeling and returned to my inbox.

While I’d been chatting with Black, a new message had popped in. It had come in through the Informer website, the subject line, “Breaking News.”

Immediately, I opened it, leaning closer to the screen.

The note read:

“Breaking News-one stubborn reporter doesn’t listen to warnings. Now, she’s got a target on her back. Sleep well, Tina Bender. Because tonight may be your last.”

Chapter Five