Chapter 26 #2
One, because she’s the kind of woman and omega that’s everything I hate about this fucked-up side of the entertainment industry, and because I’ll never pursue someone with loose morals ever again.
“Never heard of it,” she says.
“I bet,” I huff, rolling my eyes. “We’re not the kind of company that someone like you would be familiar with.”
Her jaw works, seeming to take my obvious observation as an insult.
“Look, I’m working on a piece about male omegas. Beckham Knight is relevant to that story. I’d like to talk to someone on his team.”
“Well, I’m not on his team,” she scoffs. “You should call his publicist or something. I’m sure he handles things like that.”
“You were kissing him in the stairwell a few minutes ago.”
She falls completely silent, staring at me for a long moment.
“You were watching us.”
It’s not a question. And there’s something about the way she says it that rubs me the wrong way. Flat, unsurprised, almost tired, as if that sort of invasion into her privacy is a common occurrence. Probably because it is.
“It’s a public venue,” I say. It’s the truth, but I know deep down it’s a deflection.
“Sure,” she bites out.
“Does he know? Beckham Knight? That you’re sneaking around with his publicist behind his back.”
She blinks at me.
A slow, drunk blink.
And then something twists in her expression.
“You’re the one who doesn’t know anything,” she hisses.
“I know what I saw,” I shrug. “And it can stay between us if you help me.”
Andromeda Sterling does something that surprises the hell out of me.
She throws her head back and laughs.
She laughs so hard she has to hold her belly, drawing attention to her slim waist and the flare of her hips.
Fuck, I need to get my head on straight. I shouldn’t be noticing things like that.
“So you’re blackmailing me? That’s how you want this to go?”
“I wouldn’t call it blackmailing,” I mutter, the words bitter on my tongue. Because it is most certainly blackmailing. But she doesn’t understand that it’s my career at stake here. And my career is the only fucking thing I have.
Like hell am I going to let a snobby, rich omega born with a silver spoon in her mouth ruin things for me.
“You know what’s funny?” she says, catching her breath. “You clearly think you know exactly who I am. What this is.” She gestures loosely between herself and the ceiling. “You’ve already written the story.”
“I haven’t written anything yet.”
“You wrote it before you walked in here,” she spits. “That’s how it always goes. You pick someone to defend and someone to shit on. I’m sure Beck’s the one you’ve oh so graciously decided to defend, right?”
I don’t answer, which is probably an answer in and of itself.
Something tells me she’s not as stupid as the media portrays her, and even though she’s clearly incredibly intoxicated, I’ve already revealed that I’m here to write a piece on male omegas.
“My mom does that too,” she mutters, almost to herself. “Decides what something is before she fucking looks at it.”
Her words make my brows draw down. That feels like far too intimate a piece of knowledge for her to reveal to me, considering how the rest of this shitshow of a conversation has gone. It only makes me feel guiltier. She obviously wouldn’t have shared that with me if she weren’t as drunk as she is.
“I feel sorry for the people you write about.” She meets my eyes, a fire in their dark depths that has my walls instantly flying up, stamping down the guilt immediately.
I’m sure it was a dig meant to hurt.
And it sure as fuck does.
“You don’t know anything about what I write,” I hiss, closing the distance between us.
“Oh, really? Look at how the tables have turned,” she scoffs, tilting her head back to meet my gaze. “Then we can agree, I don’t know you, and you certainly don’t know me.”
Footsteps sound at the end of the hallway.
I look up and freeze.
The publicist is standing there, his gaze darting between Andromeda and I, noticing the distance—or lack thereof—between us.
Her shoulders relax ever so slightly, and I’m hit with that gnawing guilt that got buried by my temper.
I take a step back, creating distance between us.
The publicist makes his way to her side, purposely positioning himself between her and I. Now that he’s closer, I can tell he’s a beta.
“You were gone a while,” he says quietly to her. His hand flexes at his side. Is he fighting the urge to pull her closer?
“I got held up,” she says, crossing her arms defensively over her chest.
“I can see that,” the publicist says, eyeing me up and down.
“Cameron Foster,” I say, extending my hand to shake his.
His jaw works as he stares down at it before he lifts a brow in surprise.
Okay, maybe that was the wrong move.
“What business do you have with her?” he asks, his scowl deepening.
“He’s press,” Andi sighs.
“Journalist,” I correct, the distinction mattering to me.
“What kind of piece?” he asks, turning to Andi.
It grates against my nerves that the question is directed at her, and not me, but I understand why. If anything, it’s creating a grudging sort of respect for this beta.
“Male omegas,” she says, her eyes cutting to me. “Apparently, Beck is relevant to the story.”
Something shifts in his expression, as if he’s digesting her words. Maybe this is the in I’ve been looking for. Maybe Beckham Knight’s publicist would understand this is an opportunity that could benefit them.
“Who do you write for?” he asks me the question directly this time.
“Northline.”
Unlike Andromeda, it’s obvious that he’s heard of it.
“What exactly were you hoping to get here tonight?” he asks, his tone professionally neutral in a way that I find admirable. “Cornering omegas in a club isn’t exactly Northline’s style.”
“Blackmailing us,” Andromeda snorts, leaning against the wall behind her. It’s almost like she’s gotten drunker the longer this conversation has gone on. How much did she have to drink?
“What?” he asks, his head whipping towards her.
“He saw us,” she slurs. “In the stairway.”
“Look,” I say, meeting the beta’s hostile glare with a sympathetic wince. “All I’m looking for is an interview. With Beckham. Or a chance to pitch why he should agree to one.”
“You’re an idiot,” Andromeda giggles.
She’s not wrong.
“I know,” I grunt.
There’s a beat of silence, as if the two of them didn’t expect me to agree with them.
“Leo Park,” the beta says, extending his hand out to me. “Give me your card.”
The wave of relief that washes over me is immediate. I try not to show it, but I’m sure it leaks out.
I pull out my wallet and retrieve a spare business card.
“I’m not making any promises,” Leo says. “But I’ll pass it along.”
“That’s all I’m asking.”
“And if you threaten us again, I will bury you.”
“I understand,” I say, nodding quickly.
He offers me a single nod in return before turning to Andromeda in a way that’s a clear dismissal of me from the conversation entirely.
“Let’s get you upstairs.”
The two of them leave me standing alone in the hallway.
I came here to make progress on a case that’s supposed to help male omegas across the country. Instead of getting anywhere near Beckham Knight, I only managed to get my card to his publicist after being laughed at by his girlfriend when I tried to blackmail her.
I drove home in silence after picking my car up from a fifty-dollar valet spot I couldn’t afford.
The worst part is I think I deserved a whole lot worse than just that.