First Comes Love - Ashlee Price Page 0,63
enough, if it isn’t genuine. Harley hates fakeness, won’t like it, will see right through it.
Maybe the Storm office isn’t the place for her.
But I can’t let her go.
My phone goes off, and I answer it without looking.
“You coming?” Nolan asks. “I got the kale chips.”
“Oh, right.” I’d forgotten all about the comedy act I agreed to participate in. Almost missed it. Damn, I really am slipping. “Now’s not really the best time.”
I’ve got the beginnings of a pounding headache, and I’d like to try giving Harley another call.
“Dude, save the jokes for the stage!” Nolan’s voice is incredulous. “I had the graphic designer put your face on the poster—you can’t bail now!”
“You know you’re fine without me.”
“Yeah, I’m fucking hilarious without you, but not hilarious enough to cover the big gaping absence of your face. Come on.”
I rise from the table. “Fine. I’ll be there in 15.”
“That’s the reliable big brother I know and love.”
I get there in 10, trying to call Harley on the way. But it’s no dice. The only part of her I have now are her words, echoing with a truth I don’t like. A truth I can’t accept.
Maybe we don’t know what this is, but that doesn’t mean we can’t make it work.
The comedy club is packed, and my brother waves me over. “Just the man I was looking for! Look at the two lovely ladies I have with me.”
He’s gesturing to a redhead and a raven-haired woman, both wearing badges that say PRESS. Behind them, Nolan winks at me. I’ve got his message loud and clear: This is our chance for some more good publicity for Storm Media. Though I’m not at all in the mood.
We exchange pleasantries, then it’s time for my brother’s show to start. As usual, he’s whip-crack smart, hilarious, jumping amidst different current issues, joshing certain people in the crowd. Then it’s my turn.
As soon as I get up on stage, I know it’s all wrong. I miss Harley, and I don’t want to be here. Still, I stick it out, trying to match my brother’s gregarious high energy when he’s in his absolute element, trying to joke back.
By mid-time, my brother gives me a pat and a concerned look. “You good?”
“No.”
“Yeah, I can tell. It’s OK, though.” A winning smile. “They paid to come here for me, remember.”
We chuckle and he shoos me away. “Thanks for coming out, anyway. You can go off to your girl if you really want to now.”
“OK.”
But as I’m leaving, one of the press women pulls me aside. “Can we talk?”
“Sure.”
We go into a hallway, and her tiny magenta lips compress together. “I probably shouldn’t tell you this, but I really liked what you said about your dad’s tax evasion and how you stepped up with the charity and all that.” She leans in. “The Star is going to be publishing an article about you and your employee’s relationship.”
“What?”
“Right now, it’s all hearsay, but as soon as the other media outlets pick up on anything substantial, you could be in for a full-on scandal.”
I eye her blankly. It’s all happening so fast: worry about the worst-case scenario, then the worst-case scenario itself.
“I’ve seen how these things play out. They’re going to eat Storm Media alive if you don’t beat them to the punch.”
I’ve been watching her big horse teeth move numbly, hardly aware of the words coming out and what they mean. “What are you saying?”
“You have to fire her. Maybe not for good, but—”
“Why are you telling me all this?” I ask.
“I told you, I liked your talk, plus I’m a huge fan. I don’t want to see Storm Inc. go down over this.”
“You won’t.”
“OK.”
We stand there for a few seconds, awkwardly.
“Thank you,” I tell her. “But I have to go now.” And then I leave. I call a cab numbly, pacing, hardly thinking.
Once I’m in the cab, the gears in my head grind around it: Harley. Tomorrow’s article. Madeline. Harley.
Finally, I call up Madeline. “I’ve heard the Star is about to publish an article with some gossip about me and an employee. Can you see if you can get in touch with them and have them pull it?”
“Sure,” she says in a clipped voice, before hanging up.
I’m at home a few minutes later when she calls me back. “Sorry. No dice. They’re running it.”
I lean back into my recliner and groan.
“It’s fine,” I say, with more confidence than I feel. “I’ll figure it out.”
“Boss, if you want my take—”
“I don’t,” I