So Pretty It Hurts

wraps.

“I think you know what’s going on.”

“What’s going on from my end is that I’m spending every waking moment reporting my story,” I said, failing, of course, to deduct the hour and a half I’d been spread-eagled nude in front of a roaring fire last night. “But clearly something else is up, or you wouldn’t have called me in here. I honestly have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“I’m talking about your conversations with Sherrie Barr.”

“You mean Devon Barr, don’t you?”

“No, Sherrie. Devon’s mother.”

“But I’ve never spoken to Devon’s mother.”

“She says differently,” he snapped.

“What?” I said. “Like I just said, I’ve had no contact at all with her mother—I was told that the reporter doing the sidebar on Devon had tried to reach her but hadn’t had any luck. And even if I had talked to her, what’s the big deal?”

Nash massaged his right hand hard with the other, as if there was a kink in it, and stared questioningly at me.

“Here’s the deal,” he said bluntly. “Her mother called my office, saying you got in touch with her right after Devon’s death and claimed that you had embarrassing information about Devon—but that you’d be willing to keep it under wraps if she paid you ten thousand dollars.”

I snorted, a weird honking sound that reflected not only my assessment of his revelation but also how freaking awkward I was feeling. What Nash was saying was absurd, but the tight, white look of his lips suggested he believed it. I was aware suddenly that people outside his glass-walled office all seemed to be staring at us, as if we’d both stripped down to our undies.

“I have no idea why she would tell anyone that,” I said, trying not to let my voice catch. “From what I hear, she’s an alcoholic. Maybe she’s also a total whack job. Or maybe she’s just trying to get back at me for filing the reports about Devon’s death. She may even have me confused with someone else. Some other reporter might have actually tried to shake her down for money, but in her drunken stupor she couldn’t recall the name so she finds my story online and decides it must have been me.”

“If you’ve never called her, how is it that she has your cell phone number? That’s certainly not listed on the Buzz Web site.”

“I—are you sure it was even Sherrie Barr that called? What if it was simply someone posing as her?”

“We’ve checked that all out, of course. It’s definitely her.”

“I don’t know what’s going on, then.” My mind was racing, but not getting anywhere. “It sounds like someone with access to my number gave it to her. Maybe that person wanted to make trouble for me.”

“But why would Sherrie Barr choose to cooperate?” he asked.

“I have no idea,” I said, shaking my head. I desperately wished I could come up with something— anything—because being without a theory seemed to suggest I was guilty. But I honestly didn’t have a clue why someone would be pulling a stunt like this. “I—I have to think about it. The bottom line, though, is that I didn’t do it. Nash, we haven’t worked together all that long, but I hope it’s been long enough for you to have a sense of who I am. I would never try to extort money from someone. I honestly can’t believe that you’d think that of me.”

His face softened, and he leaned back on his desk, scootching his butt up onto the surface.

“Look, Bailey, to be perfectly honest, I don’t believe it. You know how I feel about you. But the woman called me up with this story—and she called our legal department too—and it’s hard to figure out why she’d just make it up. What’s in it for her? I had no choice but to put it to you this way. I needed to see how you’d respond.”

“And so you believe me now?” I said. From the first time since he’d begun talking, I relaxed just a little. It no longer felt as if someone was running over my stomach with a power lawn mower.

“Yes. But it’s not just me who’s in the mix. The lawyers are involved now, of course—and so is Tom Dicker.” He was referring to that nasty little man who ran the company.

“You’ll vouch for me, right?”

“Yes, but that’s not going to be enough. They’re going to have to investigate.”

“What does that mean?” The brief relief I’d felt with Nash’s words of support had shriveled, and my heart was beating like the wings of a bird trapped in my chest.

“They’ll look into it. Check this woman out. Probably check your phone logs. Unfortunately, until they finish, you’re off the story.”

“What? I’m right in the middle of the story,” I exclaimed. “And I’m supposed to do all this press tomorrow.”

“Someone else is going to have to take care of that. And we’ll keep other reporters on the story.”

“You can’t be serious. Nash, I’ve done nothing wrong. You can’t punish me this way.”

“It’s not up to me, Bailey. The company could end up in real trouble if it turns out you’re guilty of extortion.”

“But you said you believed me.”

“I do—but the company has to check it all out. I’m sure it won’t take more than a day or two.”

I’ve never come close to crying at work, but at that very moment I felt a prick of tears in each eye, and I did everything in my power to fight it off. Not only was my gig at Buzz on the line, but also my reputation as a reporter. The situation couldn’t be worse. Wrong. One second later I learned that it could be.

“I think it’s best if you keep a low profile too,” Nash said. “You need to steer clear of this place until everything’s resolved.”

“Am I being paid during this time?”

“I need to check with the lawyer.”

“I—” I started to take one more stab at defending myself but it seemed utterly pointless. Even if Nash believed me—and I wasn’t a hundred percent sure he did—it was clearly beyond his control. I muttered a good-bye and slunk out of the office. Almost everyone in the bullpen was checking me out as I walked back to my cubby. They’d seen the tension between Nash and me through the glass.

“What the hell is going on?” Jessie whispered as soon as I returned to my desk.

“It’s bad,” I said. “But I’ll have to call you. I’m supposed to clear out of here.”

“Omigod.”

“Say something funny to me, will you? So people will think everything’s normal.”

She scrunched up her mouth as she thought.

“You know that girl in production with the Rapunzel hair?” she said. “She told someone she’s dating a guy who can only get off if he pinches her butt so hard she screams.”

I forced out a “Ha-ha,” but my heart was sinking rapidly. Though I was anxious now to leave, I didn’t rush. If I refused to flee as if the place was in flames, maybe people would assume I’d simply been given a tongue-lashing for being scooped by TMZ. I downloaded something from my computer, left a quiet message for Beau saying I desperately needed to talk to him, and discreetly stuffed my most important files into my tote bag.

But as I finally made it through the bullpen toward reception, I realized how pointless my little exercise had been. Surrounding me were dozens of reporters who were onto every boob job and blow job performed in L.A. If they didn’t know the details of my situation already, they would know soon enough. Plus my cheeks were a dead giveaway. I could tell they were flaming red, as if they’d been scorched from standing too close to a rocket launch.

As I stepped into the elevator, a terrible thought flashed through my brain. What if today had been my very last day ever as a reporter for Buzz?