Chapter 5 – Leo #2
“I’ve got it,” I say, cutting her off. She doesn’t speak for a moment, and I can picture her pinched, irritated face. Her annoyance brings me a spark of joy, though it also sets off an alarm in my mind, a whisper of a question that this was all a ploy to get my info. A setup, maybe?
I brush that aside as the nonsense, conspiracy-theory-type shit it is.
“Fine. Please let me know once you’ve finished,” she says, irritation clearly in the words, as if I’m her assistant. I open my mouth to argue and remind her once again that I do not work for her, but the line is dead before I can get a word out.
With a sigh, I sit back and stare at the sky.
A minute later, my phone beeps with a new email from Jackie with details and two video clips.
One is edited, with clips spliced together to make Willa seem like a stuck-up snob, but the other, an original from an angle other than the tabloid one, makes my stomach churn.
Her smile when she steps out of the coffeehouse is glowing, a coffee in her hand, her blonde ponytail swinging from side to side as she moves.
Like she always does when paparazzi gather, trained to do so, she steps carefully, moves slowly, making sure everyone gets the shot they need.
She waves and smiles, a black tank top and leggings set hugging her curves as she moves toward the camera.
A paparazzi I don’t recognize, wearing a Fan Magazine lanyard, calls her name and says something I can’t quite catch.
Willa gives him a soft smile and shakes her head graciously, but unease is clear in her eyes.
The man continues to harass her, and Gabe steps in, but the man doesn’t stop, going so far as to try to grab her arm before Gabe successfully gets her into the car.
When she slides in, the camera gets a glimpse of her face, and the smile is gone, fear and panic written plain as day across it, and anger blooms in my chest.
Before the videos hit my inbox, I thought I would feel frustrated she didn’t take my advice, didn’t stay out of the cameras, but instead, it’s anger that some asshole put that look on her face.
I let that fuel me as I tap on the screen of my phone, calling up my contact, the editor-in-chief at Fan Magazine.
“Leo Sinclaire, how are you, man?” Jackson Smith says, but I’m not in the mood for small talk and niceties. Unfortunately for him, I made this call already pissed the fuck off, and I have no other outlet for it.
“Kill the fucking story, Jackson,” I say, letting my voice crack like a whip along the line. I’m known for my temper, my sharpness, and my lack of mercy when it comes to protecting my clients.
He sighs, then answers, clearly already knowing what story I’m speaking of. “I can’t do that, Leo.”
“You can, and you will,” I tell him. “You and I both know that story is bullshit, and your man is in the wrong. I want confirmation that the story has been killed within the hour. Then I want that man fired, and I want a formal apology printed on your website in the next twenty-four hours.”
“Leo—”
“An hour, Jackson.”
“Come on, Leo. Don’t be rash,” Jackson says, the good old boy out of his voice and tinged with a hint of panic, but clearly not willing to throw in the towel just yet.
We both know a story like that could sell hundreds of thousands of copies and rack up millions of views on socials.
“You know I can’t do that. It’s a good story. ”
“There are a million stories out there. A million celebrities, more than happy to be followed around. It’s clear that Willa did not want to be.
She politely declined talking to him, and he decided to verbally harass her and tried to put his hands on her.
Now, if I don’t hear that you’re letting him go in the next twenty-four hours, you will no longer be on my short list of magazines to send intel to.
You had the exclusive of Wes and Harper’s wedding.
I gave you the info on Willa’s breakup before anyone else.
You knew Courtney was pregnant first and got the baby announcement before she even told her fucking parents. That will all end.”
“Come on—”
“Is this one story worth a dozen more?”
There’s silence before he speaks. “I could go to Jefferson.” Irritation flares within me, but it’s the jaded kind, the kind that makes me want to ruin his career just to prove I can.
“We both know he doesn’t have the same qualms about morals that you do.
” I push down that feeling and force myself to think rationally.
“And we both know that Jefferson’s clients are not Willa Stone or Atlas Oaks.
We both know that Jaime at Wilde Security fucking hates his guts.
We both know that he hasn’t given you a tip in at least a year, because he has nothing to give you.
Now give me what I need, Jackson, or you’re done. I want confirmation in an hour.”
And then I hang up.
When I do, my chest tightens, and I work to lower my heart rate by taking deep breaths. I stare out at the trees, trying desperately to find that peace I’d had not long before, but realize it’s a lost cause. Instead, I stand and head inside to keep working and distract my mind.
Thirty minutes later, I get a text confirming the story is killed, and he’s running the firing through HR right now.
With a sigh and a healthy amount of satisfaction at putting the fear of god into yet another scumbag tabloid owner, I pick up my roller and continue my effort of priming my guest room.
I only get one wall finished when my phone rings again.
Since my phone is on do not disturb, it means one of the few people who’s allowed to get through is calling.
“Oh, come the fuck on,” I grumble, setting the roller in the paint tray and sliding my phone out of my pocket. My earlier irritation flares brighter when I see the name on the screen.
Just like when Jackie called, I contemplate ignoring it, but there’s always a small chance that there’s a real issue I’ll need to sort out, so I pick up the phone.
“Jeff,” I say, balancing the cell between my shoulder and ear as I make my way to the kitchen for water. He hates when I call him Jeff, usually correcting me quickly, so I can tell he’s extra pissy when he doesn’t.
“Why am I hearing that you just threatened to blacklist Fan Magazine?” he asks as I reach up for a glass in one of the cabinets in order to keep myself calm and steady.
“Because I just threatened to blacklist Fan Magazine,” I explain before putting my glass beneath the faucet and filling it. Once that’s done, I lean back onto the counter and focus on the call.
“You can’t do that, Leo.” I shrug, even though he can’t see it, and take a long sip before responding.
“Strange, I believe I just did. His employee touched one of my clients. I told Jackson he needs to let him go, or I’m blacklisting the entire paper.” A heavy sigh, one I’ve heard more and more over the years, leaves Jefferson’s lips.
There was a time when I was Jefferson’s star employee, the one he would point to in meetings to show what people should strive for, the one he promised partnership and cooperation with. There was a time when I didn’t absolutely despise Jefferson Sterns, but those days are long gone
Now we tolerate each other, stuck in a stalemate neither of us can leave without imploding.
“What happens if they keep him around?”
“Then I blacklist him, Jefferson,” I say as if he’s a child who doesn’t understand the basics.
“You can’t blacklist one of the most popular tabloids in the country, Leo.”
“I can, and if they continue to work with paparazzi who feel it’s acceptable to lay hands on my clients, I will, in fact, be doing that.”
“We need them, Leo.”
That right there is why his firm, Perfect Image, will fail the moment I leave this company.
He gives the media, the tabloids, the press far too much power, too much sway.
His need to keep them on his good side, rather than the other way around, is part of what’s turned his morals inside out and made him someone I despise being attached to.
“There are a dozen other tabloids desperate for exclusive information on our top clients. I’m not worried about this one.”
“You’ve fucking lost it. I knew it when you said you were going to disappear, but now it’s affecting my bottom line. I was speaking with Jackie, and she thinks you’re getting a bit soft. Your contract with Willa is up soon, and—”
“Now, Jefferson, I would be really careful of any threats you might want to throw my way,” I say, standing up straighter now. This has been coming for some time; we both know it, but I’ve been holding it close to my chest.
The truth is, Jefferson knows I want out.
I joined Perfect Image as a publicist ten years ago, fresh out of school and eager to prove myself.
I started with clients no one else wanted, proved myself, built my client list, and brought in the firm’s highest earners, including Willa Stone and Altas Oaks.
While Jefferson does have some big names, we both know that the ones I have and the contacts I have are much more lucrative for the firm than anyone he has ever brought in.
When I leave, the business will probably crumble in the years that follow.
We are fully aware know the only reason I stay is I have an iron-clad non-compete clause in my contract barring me from quitting and starting a business with any clients who are on current contracts with Perfect Image, and the only reason he doesn’t fire me is because if he does, that same contract states that if I’m fired outside of the well-laid out terms of stealing, breaking my contract, or sabotaging the company, that non-compete is null and void.
And more importantly, Jefferson knows that I won’t do anything that could risk my clients’ reputations by leaving their publicity solely to Jefferson.
“Now, I’ve got things to do,” I lie. “And I would like to do them. If you have any other questions about my business or my clients, I might suggest simply not worrying about them and instead focusing on getting some high-earning clients of your own. I know that’s a foreign concept for you, but maybe if you had some, you wouldn’t have to use my clients to fix yours. ”
“Oh, fuck off—” he starts, but before he can say anything else, I hang up, then turn my phone to do not disturb, fighting the urge to throw it at the wall.
Then I step back outside, the sky dark now, and try to take a few deep, calming breaths to slow my heart rate and center myself.
Days like this only cement the fact that I need to follow the exit plan I’ve laid out, take the time out here in Holly Ridge to find myself, and figure out what’s next.
Figure out who I am—what I want to be—without work.
I’ve spent so much of my life hustling, building the publicity firm I love with everything I have, but every day I realize it brings me more stress than joy.
It started last November while trying to find a solution for a client of Jefferson’s who was accused of domestic abuse.
I was on the phone with him, arguing that we should drop the client because the evidence was substantial, and he refused.
After some choice words, I hung up on him.
As I stewed over the bleak outlook of my career and the fact that I was essentially tied to this sinking ship with no other option in sight, my chest tightened, and I couldn’t breathe.
Panic shot through me, and I was sure that was it.
My assistant later told me that all the color had left my face, and she called an ambulance before saying a single word to me.
In that moment, I was sure I was having a heart attack just like my father. My father, who worked his entire life to give my mother and me everything we needed and wanted, only to die of a heart attack when I was twenty. Worked himself to death, my mother loves to say.
As the ambulance sped through traffic, as the EMTs murmured to one another about blood pressure and radioed in words and numbers that meant nothing to me, all I could think was what was I leaving behind?
My father left behind a legacy. A construction company co-owned by his brother that, to this day, still keeps my mother’s bills paid. A wife who loved him so much, she never moved on, never dated again. A son. A family.
In contrast, while I have a handful of friends and acquaintances, who in this world would truly miss me?
Sure, a headshot of me smiling would be on some montage of people lost over the last year during an awards show, and people would clap, and there would be some social media posts, but other than that. Nothing.
I’d be leaving nothing. I’ve worked myself to the bone, but that was all I had.
Thankfully, a few hours later, I learned that I wasn’t having a heart attack: I was having a panic attack, spurred by the stress of my job.
Although I was somewhat embarrassed, a doctor sat me down to tell me it was a sign, and that if I continued down the path I was going on, I would wind up here with a real heart attack, considering my family history.
Soon after, I did what I could to try to relax. I tried taking a vacation, practicing yoga, meditating, and going to therapy, but I knew it wouldn’t fix everything and surely wouldn’t give me what I realized I needed: a life.
I started cutting back, offloading some of my clients to other publicists I trusted within the firm and keeping my main accounts, whom I’d worked with so closely for so long, so that most of them weren’t even a headache anymore.
I started taking on agenting work, carefully selecting clients I saw had potential.
I already had the connections, so it made sense to use them, since I couldn’t take any of them on as new PR clients, given my current intention to leave Perfect Image once my contract was up and start my own smaller boutique firm.
I made an exit plan that led me here, and despite the fact that my work does, in fact, follow me wherever I go, as I stare at my new backyard, I know in my gut I’m on the right path.