Both of our attention turns back to the television, where the host has moved on to the Ninja grill. “Guess we missed our shot,” I joke, getting a small smile from her.
“It isn’t like I have the money for one anyway,” she replies easily, eyes darting to me for a moment before turning back to the TV.
We don’t say much more than that, watching television mindlessly until she decides to try going back to bed. I wish her a goodnight, she offers me the same, and I watch as she walks up the stairs, focused on the way her short legs take small strides with each step.
She can’t be much over five feet—barely coming up to my chest when she stands in front of me. Yet she walks with a sense of authority, a power that I can see even in those baggy clothes.
Rylee may think that her current situation has stolen something from her, an integral part that I can tell she holds on tightly to, but she doesn’t show it in the way she carries herself. She’s sure of who she is and what she wants, and fights for how she lives.
Not many people can say the same, especially to people like me.
Everything about her intrigues me, and it isn’t just because of the innocence she exhumes. The girl disappearing into my guest bedroom doesn’t look at me like most women do—where my fame is front and center along with the things they can get from me by acting like they genuinely care. At least she admitted what she did to Zayne rather than trying to hide it. She may have a questionable job, but at least she’s honest about it.
Rylee knows that there’s no real difference between fame and infamy, because the second we’re given the money and attention, we’re bound to make mistakes. Most people wouldn’t think twice about extorting that in the press, but there’s something unique about the woman upstairs that makes me think I don’t know the half of what makes her tick, but I want to.
And the urge to figure out everything I can about the petite blonde becomes tenfold as I turn off the TV, grab a glass of water, and head to bed myself.
8 Rylee
I’m walking into my boss’s office in the heart of the city feeling anxiety creep into my throat as I raise my hand to knock on her door. I twisted my hair into a neat braid, slipped on my best pair of black skinny jeans, tucked the olive-green button-up into them, and slid into a pair of flats that don’t look like they’ve been through a war. Forgoing makeup because I woke up late and knew I’d get stuck in traffic I paint a smile on my face and hope my nerves don’t show.
“Come in,” Sarina calls through the door.
I’ve always had a hard time liking Sarina Cunningham. She has a no-bullshit attitude that I can respect, but there’s nothing else about her that I resonate with. The 35-year-old woman constantly wears a scowl on her perfectly done-up face like she hates the world, and I can’t fathom why.
“Hi, Sarina.”
“You’re late.”
I glance at the clock hanging on the wall, cringing when I see she’s right. “I’m sorry. There was an accident on—”
“I don’t care.” She looks up from the paper in front of her. “You know why you’re here. I need updates.”
Clicking my tongue, I nod once and take a seat across from her, trying not to show how uncomfortable I am with her strong brow arching with impatience. “I’ve been looking into what angle I can take with the story. There’s no indication that there’s going to be a Violet Wonders split like everyone is claiming. The band is working on their album regularly—”
“Have you spoken to Zayne Gray?”
I pause, taken aback by her abrupt question. “Um…no.” Why would she think he’d have anything to do with me after what happened? “I don’t even have his contact information anymore. Even if I did, I’m sure he would have changed it by now or blocked me.”
Sarina leans back in her chair, posture straight and shoulders squared as she regards me. Her lips are bright red, her eyes are lined perfectly with brown liner, and her cheeks are tinted with a perfect shade of pink that makes her cheekbones pop. Sometimes I wonder why she’s behind the scenes when she looks like she can be the type of celebrity we write about.
Before she says anything, I try offering her what little I do have. “Garrick Matthews may be my in. I can’t really discuss why or how, but I crossed paths with him, and I think I can get something straight from the source.”
One of her thinly plucked brows raises. “I suppose you have a pitch for me?”
My lips part, hesitation over what I’m about to propose heavy on my tongue. “Well…I know you wanted the gossip on whatever is going on between him and Zayne, but I don’t think there’s a story there.” She waits for me to continue, displeasure on her face. “The reason nobody has gotten the scoop is because there isn’t one. But what if we did a human-interest piece instead? Like, instead of trying to get what everybody else is, we can do something that shows a lighter side of the singer. A lot of people love that kind of stuff.”
When I’m met by silence, I shift in the seat. I cross one leg over the other, wait a few seconds, and then put it back down while she stares at me. I can’t tell if she’s considering my idea or debating on how to fire me.
“What sort of story?” she finally asks.
I lick my lips. “The media has reported on Garrick’s public displays for a long time. You know, the partying, drinking, drugs, women, but what if that isn’t who he is? We can uncover a side of him the world would fall
