A noise raises from her throat turning into a dry laugh parting her painted lips. “Rylee, the world already loves Garrick Matthews. Women go crazy over the bad boy. Why would they want to know he secretly loves kittens and volunteers at soup kitchens behind the scenes?”
It’s hard not to be amused over that given my conversation with him outside the women’s shelter. “People like feel-good stories,” I reason to no avail.
“But that’s not what we do here.” She sits forward, elbows resting on the edge of the desk with a pen in her hand. “We write about who the stars are dating, who they’re fucking on the side, and how many times they’ve been arrested. We get the dirt, not the broom that sweeps it up.”
I swallow, knowing this isn’t going in the direction I’d hoped for.
She clicks the pen and brings it down to the paper, marking it with edits. “You’re going to get me something good by the end of next week. I don’t care what it is, but it needs to be in my hands and ready for print. With men like Zayne Gray and Garrick Matthews, there is plenty to write about. Find something like you did last time.”
Her dismissal as she focuses back on her edits tells me it’s time to leave. The unspoken threat of ‘or else’ is clear, so I don’t even bother saying a word as I sulk out, gripping my bag in defeat.
If I don’t get the story, I’m done.
What did I expect? The L.A. Free Press has had posts go viral hundreds of times. Our best-selling issues are ones that talk about the celebrities in rehab and those who’ve gotten into public brawls over something stupid like women, cars, or awards. None of them focus on who the celebrities are, but rather what they do to cause a scene.
Standing outside, I take a deep breath and let the sun soak into me. “What am I going to do?” I ask myself, squeezing my eyes shut.
I wish Grandpa Al and Grandma Birdie were here. They always gave me the kind of advice that made everything seem better—like I could do anything even if it seemed impossible. Even Moffie would give me a pep talk that would encourage me to figure something out before I threw in the towel.
But I have nobody.
Emotion creeps up my throat, but I shove it back down. “Deal with it, Rylee,” I tell myself firmly. “You’ve come too far to give up now.”
But that doesn’t help battle the eerie feeling burrowing itself into the pit of my stomach.
Garrick has helped me more than he knows, so how am I supposed to get Sarina the story she wants without breaking what little trust he’s given me by allowing me to stay?
There aren’t any cars at the house when I pull into the normal spot mine occupies. Normally Chase’s spotless BMW is parked here, but Garrick mentioned that his brother has been spending more time out of the house lately.
I try to keep my distance from the boys so I’m not in their way, but I’ve been told in the past that makes me look standoffish. Who knows what Chase Matthews thinks of me. He hasn’t exactly been warm, but I haven’t put in the effort either. He probably doesn’t like his brother taking in strays—a joke Garrick made to Chase after the whole dog comparison went awry the first night the Aussie rocker brought me home.
Sitting in my car, I stare at the pavement surrounding the front of the white house and frown. Everything out here is a blank canvas. In comparison, the backyard is on a solid piece of land with flower bushes, shrubs, and a decent-sized private patio that nobody seems to use very often considering it’s a quiet space. We’re far enough away from the 405 where traffic is barely noticeable, and none of the neighbors are close enough to just show up. Yet, I’ve been the only one who likes going out there after the sun goes down and enjoying the subtle breeze and peaceful silence as I watch the wind caress the greenery.
Blowing out a breath, I walk toward the door and realize I don’t have the key code to get inside.
Or Garrick’s number.
Shit.
Readjusting my bag on my shoulder, I look around in contemplation. The back is gated off and I’m not coordinated enough to jump it to get to the backyard, not that it would matter. I know for a fact the sliding glass doors off the back hall between the kitchen and den are locked anyway when nobody is home, and I don’t even see Yasmin’s—the woman Garrick hired to clean his gigantic house—car anywhere which means she probably already left for the day.
Just my luck.
I pull out my cell phone and bite my lip trying to figure out what to do. Considering I don’t know anybody who knows I’m staying here my options are limited. I drop my head forward and let out a long groan, doing nothing as my bag rolls off my shoulder and onto the pavement. Nudging it over with my foot, I sit down on the step leading to the front door, rest my elbows on my knees, and prop my chin up on the heel of my palm.
Scrolling through my phone, I notice a few news alerts from Hot in Hollywood claiming they’re doing a live interview with all of the members of Violet Wonders next week. Spine straightening, I stare at the article in disbelief, wondering why Garrick hasn’t said anything.
He doesn’t owe you an explanation.
I close out of the alert and sigh, wondering what they’ll ask him. The media has been speculating something new every single day, so it shouldn’t surprise me that their PR team wants a reputable source to ask them questions and clear up any rumors. There’s nobody better to do that than Penny Gomez.
So why do I
