Chapter 26
Cameron
“This is a fucking stupid idea,” I growl as I run a hand through my close-cropped, coily hair.
“Duly noted,” John, my boss, sighs, his deep voice booming through my car’s speakers as I weave through traffic a little more aggressively than I should. “But this piece you’re working on about male omegas will be so much stronger if you capitalize on the male omega.”
“But I shouldn’t be ambushing him at a club,” I snap. “That’s not my style, and you know it.”
“Well, I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but your style hasn’t been pulling the numbers it needs to be,” John sighs.
My steering wheel creaks as I fight to keep my temper under control.
“You mean my piece on child omega brides didn’t garner the attention it should’ve?”
“That’s exactly what I’m saying, Cameron.”
I fight to keep my breathing even as I remember sitting across the table from countless thirteen-year-old omegas, children who’d barely even presented, who were already the legal property of their future bondmates.
It exposes the problems present in foreign countries where this sort of thing is commonplace. Where young girls go into hiding when they hit pre-awakening so local village alphas don’t snatch them up.
That documentary was my best fucking work.
John knows it. I know it. Every humanitarian organization that watched it knows it.
But unfortunately, that’s where my audience ended.
“You know how news cycles are these days,” John sighs. “Attention is the most valuable resource out there, and everyone’s attention spans are shot. This male omega piece is an important one. You care about it, don’t you?”
“I do,” I bite out. “Which is exactly why I shouldn’t be stalking Beckham Knight to a club when he’s going for a night out.”
“Look, Cameron. I like you. You do excellent work. But if you don’t pull the right numbers for this piece, I’ll be frank with you: You’re shit out of luck.
The network spent a lot of money on your recent piece, and they’re looking to recoup costs since it’s obvious it won’t perform at the level it needs to. ”
The sound of John typing away at his keyboard echoes through my car.
He’s likely still at the office.
As much as I hate him right now for being the bearer of bad news, I respect him. He works his ass off.
Which is why I’m so fucking irritated at this terrible plan.
Because it is a terrible plan.
“I pulled some strings, so your name should be on the list to get you wherever you need to go in that club,” John adds.
“And what exactly am I supposed to do in there?” I bite out, stopping at a red light. “Snap pictures of them fucking unaware, like I’m no better than the paps outside?”
“If you have to.”
I close my eyes, fighting the urge to slam my head into the steering wheel. John is dead serious, too.
“Beckham Knight’s team is notoriously hard to book things with. He hasn’t booked a single interview, video, magazine or otherwise since his meteoric rise to stardom. Do you know how rare that is?”
“Of course I do,” I bite out.
Most celebrities are champing at the bit for opportunities like that, especially new and upcoming ones. Any opportunity at all to funnel views to whatever bullshit thing they need to further their career.
Funneling views away from important causes.
But Beckham Knight is obviously different, and not just because he’s the first male omega who’s reached this level of fame. He’s, for all intents and purposes, avoided the spotlight. And it seems like the team around him has supported that decision.
It’s what makes this whole relationship with Andromeda Sterling, the influencer nepo-baby daughter to the infamous Gina Sterling, all the more confusing. The cynic in me is skeptical of their relationship as a whole.
Andromeda Sterling and her reality TV star mother are exactly the kinds of people contributing to the catastrophic collapse of the modern media cycle.
“So what exactly am I supposed to do tonight?” I sigh. “You still haven’t answered that question.”
“Get close to him. Or someone on his team. I know most of your work is outside of LA, but plenty of connections here are made in places like this. If you can somehow get Beckham Knight to agree to an interview to get your project off the ground, you’re golden.”
“Fine.”
“Good luck, Cameron.”
And with that, my boss hangs up.
I pull into the parking lot for the club, wincing at the fifty-dollar valet fee.
“Actually, I think I’m okay,” I say to the valet who approaches my car.
When I go to back up, there’s already a car behind me.
Fuck.
There’s no room for me to get around the car behind me, so I eat the charge.
Unfortunately, after the failure of my last project, money is tight.
Which only adds to the fire under my ass to make this new project work.
I don’t do what I do for money. I do it because there’s an even bigger fire than the one under my ass in my heart, pushing me to report on stories that need to be told. The voiceless deserve a voice too.
God, that was a fucking cheesy ass analogy.
I’m technically working, so does that mean I can’t grab a drink from the bar to take the edge off?
I walk past the line of club goers. The women are a blur of heels, minidresses, jewelry, and makeup, while the men seem drastically underdressed in comparison.
I wince when I glance down at my outfit of slacks and a fuck-ass polo shirt that’s good for the office and terrible for a place like this.
Well, maybe I’ll fit in with the underdressed men here.
“Name?” The bouncer grunts when I approach him at the “VIP” section of the line.
“Cameron Foster,” I nod. “I should be on the list?”
I try to fight the sense of unease being in this kind of environment as the bouncer checks his list.
“Welcome in,” he says, after finally finding my name.
I ignore the nasty glares from a group of guys—better dressed than I am, I’ll admit—aimed my way when I pass by them to enter the club.
The flashing lights and pounding music instantly give me a headache.
I make my way through the club, hovering around the edges of the room and watching the mass of people. It’s almost like the room is alive, moving in time with the music.
I’ve done crazy things for my work. This has to unironically rank in the top three.
I stop at the foot of a staircase, towards the back of the club. Presumably, a staircase that leads to the VIP balcony above.
And I freeze in place.
There she is.
Andromeda Sterling.
In the arms of a man.
A young man who is definitely not Beckham Knight.
Is that... his publicist?
I managed to find a couple of old photos of Beckham Knight and his manager and publicist from when they were in high school. Apparently, they grew up together.
And right now, his publicist’s arm is wrapped around Andromeda Sterling’s waist in a way that’s far too intimate.
Then he leans down and kisses her.
And she lets him.
Anger flares, hot and ugly, up my chest and lodging itself in my throat.
How in the world am I supposed to get close enough to Beckham Knight to land an interview no one else has managed to land when I’ve just witnessed his girlfriend cheating on him?
I make my way back into the crowd before they have a chance to see me.
My hands flex at my side. Why am I so angry?
Sure, I’ve been cheated on before. Who hasn’t? Especially in this city.
Miranda blamed it on the fact that I was gone all the fucking time. And she was right. I was gone all the time.
But then she should’ve ended the relationship if she was unhappy, not banged her coworker. In our bed.
But I’ve gotten over her and her cheating.
I think this is a deeper anger.
The kind of anger that flares up when I see injustice happening. And what I just saw feels like an injustice against Beckham Knight.
Andromeda Sterling appears on the ground floor, making her way to the back hallway with the restrooms.
I follow her—John’s words to get close to someone in Beckham Knight’s party ringing through my ears.
The hallway is empty.
Which means when she reappears, it’s just the two of us.
Her eyes, dark with smoky makeup, widen when she sees me.
“Andromeda Sterling,” I growl, unable to keep the disdain from my tone.
Great start, Cameron. Great fucking start.
“Hello?” she says, warily. Her chamomile tea scent, surprisingly soothing for an omega—most omega’s scents are incredibly sweet—turns bitter with fear.
Now that I’m closer, I can’t help but notice the way she sways a little on her heels.
Of course she’s shitfaced.
What else do party girls like her do? She’s been spotted at clubs like these plenty of times with her ex-boyfriend.
A flash of guilt hits me when I remember the sight of her face covered in blood from the articles that first came out about her and Beckham Knight together.
Fuck, I’m a dick.
I’ve cornered a drunk omega who’s alone at a club. A drunk omega who obviously has a spotty past with physically abusive alphas.
I struggle to find the words to say, and trust me, I never have issues talking normally.
“Anyways... I’m going to go,” she says, taking an awkward step to the side.
“No,” I say, an air of desperation making my chest tight.
I know the moment the words leave my lips that I’m going about this the completely wrong way.
John should’ve sent someone else for this job. Even if it meant I had to share the project—and I never share my projects. I’m obviously not the right fit for this type of fieldwork.
“Who the hell are you and why the hell aren’t you letting me go?” she slurs, her hands clenching into fists by her sides.
“Cameron Foster,” I say, doing my best to even my tone. “And I need to talk to you. I’m a journalist.”
Her eyes narrow on me. I can see the wheels in her alcohol-muddled brain turning as fast as they can.
She grew up with Gina Sterling as a mother. She’s been under the media’s microscope all her life.
“Great,” she says, flatly. “Which outlet?”
“Northline.”
Her head tilts, more than she probably intended to because she’s drunk.
It’s kind of cute.
Which is a ridiculous thought.