Chapter 32
Cameron
“Iknow the stakes here, you don’t need to remind me,” I sigh, waiting to turn into the underground parking garage of the address Beckham’s team sent me.
“Good,” John says, his voice tinny over my car’s speakers. At this point, I hear his voice through them more than I do any other music artist. “This is important, Cameron.”
“I know,” I repeat, drumming my thumbs along my steering wheel. “I’m doing my job, aren’t I? I found his team at the club, of all places, and landed a conversation.”
“Yes, yes.” The click of John’s keyboard tells me he’s probably working on something else during our call. On a Saturday, too. The man never gives himself a break, I swear.
“Okay, I’m here,” I say, taking a gap between a couple of incoming cars. “Got to go.”
“Keep me updated.”
“Will do.”
The parking attendant in an expensive-looking uniform asks me for identification, and I show them the QR code I was sent earlier.
“Guest parking is to your left. Have a good day, Mr. Foster.” The attendant nods, pointing in the direction I should go.
Fancy. At least I don’t have to pay fifty bucks for parking this time around.
I pull into one of the spots labelled GUEST in big block letters, taking a steadying breath before I grab my saddle-style bag, slinging it over my shoulder.
I’ve brought everything I’d need for an interview. My laptop, recording device, and notepads have never felt heavier than they do now.
I tap my fingers along the strap of my bag as I ride the elevator up to the lobby.
It’s ridiculously fancy with sleek flooring and sculptural light fixtures twisting and turning above me. I can barely see where the thin cables holding them up are attached, because of how vaulted the ceilings are.
My gaze scans the space, immediately landing on two people. One I recognize from last night and one I recognize from my research.
Leo Park, Beckham’s publicist whom I met last night, and Everett Vaughn, Beckham’s record label owner, are standing casually across the lobby by another set of elevators.
I don’t know whether it’s a good sign or not that someone that high up on the totem pole is here to meet with me.
It has to be a good sign, right?
But under the intensity of Everett Vaughn’s gaze, it’s hard to soothe the sense of unease wrapping itself around my neck. The tension only grows the closer I get to the two of them.
I’m a pretty commanding alpha in most rooms, but Everett is off the charts by any metric.
I should’ve worn something nicer. I probably would’ve felt more confident, but I didn’t want to dress in a full suit for a house call.
Damn, this whole shitshow of a job has me worrying about my outfit like a schoolgirl. I need to get my shit together. My khakis and black polo are fine.
It’s not like I’m applying for an internship at a fashion magazine. They’re not judging me on my clothes.
But I definitely get the impression it’ll be a challenge winning their favor off of whatever metrics they’re using to judge me. Understandable, considering how I acted last night.
“Hello, Mr. Foster,” Everett says, extending his hand.
“Please, call me Cameron,” I say, giving his hand a firm shake. I offer Leo a nod, since his hands stay firmly in the pockets of his dark-wash jeans. “Leo, glad to see you in... better circumstances. Thank you for agreeing to meet with me.”
He just offers me a nod, his expression carefully blank in a way I know must serve him well in business meetings.
“Come this way,” Everett says, waving towards another set of elevators. “We should discuss what we’re looking for.”
“And what exactly are you looking for, Mr. Vaughn?”
“No need for formalities here,” he says, offering me a smile that I instantly notice carries far more calculating meaning than it seems at first glance. “Call me Everett.”
“Noted,” I nod. “I spoke with Leo here last night about trying to arrange an interview with Beckham. Is that something you think we can make happen?”
“Yes.” Everett nods.
The confirmation has my heartbeat picking up its pace.
Holy shit, is it going to be this easy?
“But we’re not just looking for a single interview. The scope of the... project we’d like to work on together is rather large.”
“Project?”
“Yes. Multiple written articles, interviews, and possibly a docuseries.”
I can’t hide my shock at his words. The elevator decides that’s the perfect time to arrive and the doors open with a ding.
The three of us entering the elevator gives me a few seconds to think.
John is going to shit his pants. Out of joy. This is huge.
I’m sure a project of this scope—one that’s guaranteed to have an audience, given the fact Beckham Knight has yet to do something like this before—will be green-lit the moment my proposal hits his desk.
But it begs the question.
Why me?
I don’t think I left the best impression last night. Hell, I don’t think you could even call the impression I left professional. So why are they asking me to be a part of such a big project?
Leo pulls out a keycard, scanning it before pressing the button for the penthouse apartment.
Damn. I knew Beckham Knight had to be doing well financially, but I guess being Hollywood’s newest heartthrob pays well. This house-call is certainly different from the ones I did for my last documentary.
“Well, wow,” I breathe out, sucking my lips between my teeth as the elevator doors shut behind me. “I’m... honored. But why me? Especially after the... events of last night.”
“Despite your... unsavory actions last night,” Leo says, speaking for the first time, “the team has agreed that your track record with other projects is a strong one.”
“We want better than the tabloids or media equivalents for the omegas involved,” Everett adds.
“Omegas?”
Omegas, plural?
“Yes, Beckham’s made the request himself that while he’s fine being the main focus, he wants to offer the opportunity to other omegas in the industry. You met one of them last night,” Everett says, looking at me meaningfully.
The elevator dings once more, opening directly into the penthouse.
Three sets of eyes land on me.
Elijah Castillo—Beckham’s manager and childhood friend, according to my research—stands with his massive arms crossed over his chest. There’s a fire in his gaze, like he’s prepared to start lobbing furniture at me if I make one wrong move.
He hovers behind Andromeda Sterling, who’s sitting, curled up on the couch next to Beckham.
My brows draw down.
Her eyes are red-rimmed and a little swollen, almost like she’s been crying.
A flash of concern and protectiveness sucker-punches me in the gut before I realize what’s happening. I shove them away, chalking them up to natural protective alpha instincts, and focus on cultivating the feeling of irritation at the sight of her.
Is she still upset about last night?
Did she cry, trying to convince Beckham’s team not to work with me?
My hand clenches around the strap of my bag.
“Beckham, Elijah, this is Cameron Foster, the journalist,” Everett says, ushering me further into the apartment.
“It’s nice to meet you both,” I say, nodding to each of them. “Thank you for the opportunity.”
“Ah, I forgot to mention,” Everett says, sliding a single hand into the pocket of his dark slacks. “There is one condition before we finalize this working relationship.”
“Yes?” I answer, biting the inside of my cheek. I sound way too eager. I should play it cool.
“Apologize to Andi.”
The demand has me stiffening.
Now that I’m closer to the living room section of the open concept space, I can see that I was certainly right about Andromeda looking like she’s been crying. Another wave of irritation flashes through me when her eyes go wide at Everett.
Why is she acting na?ve? She probably orchestrated this. Of course, an omega like her would pull something like this.
The gazes of all four of the men in the room threaten to crush me the longer I hesitate.
Do I want to lose my job? No.
“I’m... sorry,” I say, my voice tense. “For my behavior last night.”
Her dark gaze cuts to me and she scoffs.
“I don’t need your apologies if you don’t believe a word you’re saying. You obviously think you know me, that you’ve got me all figured out.”
I bite back a sharp retort. Bad idea, while she is surrounded by her guard dogs.
It’s strange, Andromeda seems to be the center of all four men in here, including Beck, despite him also being an omega.
I know she has an existing relationship with Leo, but is she possibly entertaining the affections of all four?
There’s a fierce intensity in her gaze that catches me off guard. She seems... different from last night, and not only because she’s sober.
“Then I guess I’ll have to see how you’re different. It sounds like all of us will be spending a lot of time together,” I shift my gaze from hers to meet Everett’s meaningfully.
I guess they intend on me working on something Andromeda-related as well?
I love my job. I love my job. I love my fucking job.
I can suck that up if I get this opportunity with Beckham.
Her brows draw up in surprise.
See, Sweet Tea? I can be professional.
Sweet tea?
I’m going insane.
The sleep deprivation from being out so late last night is getting to me.
Why am I thinking of this snobby, spoiled omega, who has all these men wrapped around her pinky finger and willing to do whatever she wants, by a cute nickname?
I don’t even like her.
“Fine,” Andromeda says, her shoulder slumping forward when she realizes the rest of the men are waiting for her response.
She picks at the hem of the massive t-shirt she’s wearing. It’s obviously not hers. Considering the size, I assume it belongs to the giant hovering behind her like a concerned mother goose.
Speaking of Mother Goose, Elijah grabs a fuzzy throw blanket from the back of the couch and drops it over her head.
“Hey!” she squeaks, her head popping out of the ridiculous thing like a ferret out of its burrow.
He leans down and whispers something in her ear that has her expression splitting into a blinding smile before she throws her head back with laughter.
Her laugh is startling.