Chapter 23
FOUR MORE HOURS AND SHE’S out of here.
Cole can’t remember a word of what she said to the journalist in the Baccarat Bar, but she’s done so many of these interviews that she has all her stock answers memorized.
In any case, Tegan was there. If her publicist doesn’t like a question, she’ll tell Cole not to answer it.
And if her client misspeaks or overshares or says anything that might be a problem down the road, Tegan will interrupt mid-sentence and say, “That’s not what she meant to say.
” Even if it’s exactly what Cole meant to say.
She pays her team to protect her from herself.
“Excuse me, please.” Tegan’s no-nonsense voice cuts into her thoughts.
Cole glances down at her publicist, but the petite woman isn’t speaking to her. She’s addressing a group of men blocking their path in the never-ending maze of the Bellagio casino.
“Excuse me, we need to get through.” Tegan’s voice grows louder. She’s barely five feet tall in her ballet flats, but she has the energy of an NFL left tackle when she’s trying to get her client somewhere she needs to be.
The group parts, each one staring at Cole as they pass.
They’re all men in their mid-fifties, their faces ruddy as they sip from tumblers full of ambercolored liquid.
They seem to understand she’s someone famous, but not famous enough that they recognize her; they’re not part of her show’s viewer demographic.
“How does anyone get anywhere fast?” Alba says, reminding Cole that this is her personal assistant’s first trip to Las Vegas.
“They don’t,” Cole says. “They want you lost and wandering through the casino in the hopes that you’ll feel compelled to stick a fifty into one of the slot machines.”
“So the only thing we have left before the gala is a quick interview with John from TV Tea.” Impressively, Tegan is texting on her phone while talking to them, while somehow managing to lead them in the right direction without bumping into anyone.
“I told him ten minutes, tops. And Asher Kaye wants to make sure he gets you during the step and repeat.”
Cole rolls her eyes. She should have known the paparazzo would be here.
Another group of tourists is blocking the pathway up ahead, so Tegan redirects the three of them through a bank of Wheel of Fortune slot machines.
Vanna White’s recorded voice cries out “Big money!” as they pass.
Between the flashing lights, clanging sounds, and perfumed air being pumped into the casino to mask the smell of cigarette smoke, Cole is beginning to get a headache.
It could also be that she’s drunk a shit ton of alcohol today.
“You okay?” Tegan looks up at her with concern.
Maybe Cole could just skip the gala. The awards don’t really mean anything anyway. She could tell Tegan to tell the organizers she has a migraine, and get Alba to find her a flight out of Vegas tonight. Oh, it’s so tempting to escape this gaudy, manufactured gamblers’ paradise a whole day early.
But then what? She goes home to Jordan? Another night in Vegas will be exhausting, but at least it’s one more night she doesn’t have to see her husband’s face and act like she believes his lies.
“I’m fine,” Cole finally says. She spots the bank of elevators up ahead. Finally. It feels like they’ve walked a mile, which they may well have. “Just tired.”
“I can grab you an espresso—” Alba begins, but then a shriek cuts through all the casino noise.
“Cole Lennox!” a voice hollers. “Holy crap! Cole! Cole!”
Reflexively, even though she knows she’s breaking her own rule about eye contact, Cole turns in the direction of the voice to find a woman heading straight for her.
Dressed in a shapeless black T-shirt and running shoes, the woman’s unnatural burgundy curls match the shade of her lipstick, which is also the same color as her ill-fitting polyester pants.
The attendee badge hanging from the lanyard around her neck bounces over her round torso as she thunders toward Cole with the enthusiasm of a golden retriever greeting a family member who’s been gone all day.
Oh, shit, Cole thinks, about two seconds before the woman’s soft, generous body tackles her in a hug.
If Cole weren’t a reality star—if she were, say, an actual celebrity like an actor or a singer—she would have had a bodyguard trained to block that hug with a well-timed arm bar to the face.
But she only has tiny Tegan, who has failed to protect her quarterback.
Alba seems caught off guard. Reluctantly, Cole accepts the unwanted gesture of physical affection from a woman she’s long known exists, but has never actually met before.
And for good reason.
The woman reeks of baby powder deodorant and a perfumy hair spray that smells like public-bathroom air freshener. Her arms wrap all the way around Cole tighter and longer than what would be socially acceptable for anyone other than a close friend.
They are not friends. The woman who’s trapped her in a bear hug is Glynnis Glenn, otherwise known as the Reality Bitch herself, whose site has talked more shit about Cole the past six years than all the other gossip sites combined.
Combined.
“Okay, lovely to meet you,” Alba says, finally finding her voice. The young assistant attempts to break up the hug by touching the woman’s arm. But the woman refuses to let go, her over-sprayed curls itching Cole’s neck. “We’re running a bit late, but would you like a picture with Cole—”
“It’s so good to see you in person finally!
I’ve been trying for years to meet you. Years,” Glynnis Glenn repeats loudly.
She ignores Alba completely and turns to Tegan.
Wagging a burgundy-polished fingernail, she says, “And you, Miss Tegan, you little jackrabbit. Every time I try to pin you down, you squirm away. Don’t think I haven’t noticed. ”
The blogger finally steps back, beaming up at Cole.
“I’ve been catching glimpses of you all week, but you’re always surrounded by so many people.
You must be heading to the awards banquet.
I mean, of course you are, you’re Cole Lennox.
God, you look gorgeous. Did you see me in the front row of your panel yesterday?
That thing you said about Cecily was hilarious.
I posted a clip on our Insta this morning and tagged you in it—” She stops herself, waving a hand.
“You probably get a hundred tags a day; I’m sure you didn’t see it. ”
It’s more like a thousand, but Cole forces a smile. “Nice to meet you,” she says, refusing to say Glynnis Glenn’s name, because that would mean acknowledging that she knows who Glynnis Glenn is. “Thanks for coming to RealityCon.”
“Well, you know, gotta promote.” The woman lifts her attendee badge, exposing the logo embossed on the front of her T-shirt.
It’s a gold-colored hand giving the middle finger, which provides the letter I in the second word of reality bitch.
“As much as I love this week—I mean, it’s like the Super Bowl for us reality fans, right?
—it’s all work work work.” She waves a hand again.
“Anyway, when are we sitting down for the podcast? I’m booked, but I will squeeze you in. Tonight, after the banquet?”
Hate is a strong word, and Cole rarely uses it, but it’s fair to say she hates this woman.
One would never guess how much venomous bile spews from this overly friendly woman’s brain into her daily posts.
Reality Bitch has over six million followers thanks to their “inside scoops” and “you read it here first” blind items, and rumor has it she pays well for tips.
She also employs an army of writers who keep the site updated 24/7, many of whom are anonymous.
Reality Bitch has exposed affairs, divorce settlements, arrest reports, plastic surgery procedures, rehab stays, and which stars are taking weight-loss drugs.
It unapologetically publishes spoilers for every show well before the episodes air, and has been cited as a source in major entertainment sites including People, Entertainment Tonight, and E!
News, which allows it an air of legitimacy that other gossip sites can only wish they had.
Glynnis Glenn has never had a problem taking credit for turning little-watched reality shows into must-watch TV.
But for every career she’s helped, the Reality Bitch has ruined a hundred more.
Her site exposed Cecily’s affair. Her site broke the story about Jordan’s alleged embezzlement.
And her site just published the photos Asher took of Jordan with the “mystery blonde.”
And yet here she is, looking up at Cole with an adoring smile, as if she’s not shit-talking Cole on the internet every damned chance she gets.
The woman leans in for a selfie, and Cole plasters a smile on her face. “One more,” Glynnis says, snapping a second photo before Tegan steps in.
“It’s so wonderful to see you, Glynnis,” the publicist says, somehow managing to come across as warm and sincere.
“I’m so sorry we couldn’t find a time to sync up this week, but circle back to me next month, okay?
I’d be happy to give you a quote once casting announcements are made for next season. ”
“I don’t want a quote from you, I want an interview from her,” Glynnis retorts, tucking her phone down the front of her T-shirt, where it then disappears, presumably, into her bra.
She turns her attention back to Cole. “Name a time and I’ll make it work.
I promise no questions about the embezzlement—”
“Alleged embezzlement,” Tegan cuts in. “And she can’t comment on that anyway.”
“—and we don’t even have to address the latest cheating rumors,” Glynnis says, though the gleam in her eyes implies otherwise.
“How generous of you,” Cole says through gritted teeth.
“What we could discuss—if you’re up to it, of course—is something nobody else seems to be talking about right now,” Glynnis says.
“Which is?” Tegan asks, her eyes narrowing.
“Seaside,” Glynnis says. “That’s your hometown, right? There’s a whole lot happening back there right now. Rumor has it you’re going to be in a serial killer documentary.”
“Are you referring to Criminal Confessions?” Tegan frowns. “That’s not a rumor. Cole will be appearing on the docuseries to talk about her friend—”
“Who was murdered when they were teenagers,” Glynnis is speaking to Tegan, but her eyes never leave Cole’s face. “Yes, yes, I know. Juicy stuff. How come you’ve never talked about that on Trophy Wives?”
“Because she’s entitled to her privacy,” Tegan cuts in again, her irritation finally showing. “Especially with something so painful.”
“Well, I always say it’s better to get ahead of it than to try and catch up to it,” Glynnis says. “And everyone I know is talking about the Criminal Confessions trailer that dropped last week.”
“What trailer?” Cole stares at her, then glances over at Tegan and Alba. Neither woman seems able to meet her gaze. “I’ve been busy. I haven’t had time to watch anything.”
“Oh,” Glynnis says. A slow smile stretches over the blogger’s face, transforming her from nosy neighbor into killer shark. She wags an acrylic-tipped fingernail at the publicist again. “You didn’t tell her what he said. Tsk-tsk, Miss Tegan.”
“What who said?” Cole says in frustration.
She feels Tegan’s hand on her back. “We’re very late,” the publicist says, subtly pushing Cole forward. “But it was lovely to meet you in person, Glynnis.”
Even more people are staring at her now, some with their phones held up to record Cole as she walks by.
The hotel security guard manning the elevator entrance sees them coming.
Recognizing Cole and her team immediately, he ushers them into a waiting elevator while blocking several people from trying to step in with them, including Glynnis Glenn.
“Aw, come on, man, there’s plenty of room,” someone whines, but the Bellagio guard doesn’t budge.
As the elevators close, the last thing Cole sees is the Reality Bitch’s face. There is something about the energy of this woman that is so . . . off. She doesn’t just make money off of other people’s pain. She delights in it.
Like a psychopath.