Chapter 8 #2
I pick up the papers, scanning the official-looking letterhead, the dense blocks of legal text. “I was?”
“You were. That’s why you were alone with her in the penthouse that night. That’s why the cameras caught you embracing—you’re paid to protect her, to be close to her. Was it a tender moment? Perhaps. But it was strictly professional. A bodyguard comforting his client after a difficult evening.”
It’s clever. I have to admit that. It explains everything without requiring anyone to believe anything scandalous.
“This might actually work,” I say slowly.
“It will work. But only if you sell it.” Sage leans forward. “If we release this story and then you disappear, people will assume it’s a cover-up and we cooked this story up—”
“Which you did.”
“—which we did, yes. But we need it to look organic. Which means we need you to actually play the part.”
“Play the bodyguard?"
“For the rest of Charlie’s US tour at minimum. You don’t leave her side. Every public appearance, every show, every airport arrival and hotel departure. We need a hundred more photographs of you being exactly what we say you are: her bodyguard. Attentive. Professional. Protective.”
I stare at her. “You want me to go on tour with Charlie Riley.”
“I want you to be seen going on tour with Charlie Riley. There’s a difference.
” She pulls out her phone. “Grayson will release a corroborating statement. He’ll say he personally hired you to keep Charlie safe while he was busy with his own press tour.
Very thoughtful of him, right? Very devoted boyfriend.
” Sage rolls her eyes like she’s disgusted at the idea of Grayson and it makes me like her slightly more.
“It makes him look good, it explains your presence, and it gives Charlie the cover she needs to get back on stage without being crucified.”
“And then what? After the tour?”
“When the time is right, we stage a very public termination. Nothing that will make you look bad, just an explanation as to why you’re no longer around. You go back to your life, Charlie continues with the European leg of the tour, and this whole mess becomes a footnote.”
“How long are we talking?”
“Four months. Maybe a little more.”
Four months of pretending to be something I’m not, following Charlie Riley around the country, living in a world I don’t belong in? Eh…
But then again, four months of being near her…
“How am I supposed to work?” I ask. “My actual job. The one that pays my rent.”
Sage’s fingers hover over her phone screen. “What’s your email address?”
“Why?”
“Because I’m contacting our finance department to collect your banking information and arrange a deposit.” She looks up at me, utterly matter-of-fact. “Four months of dedicated service. By Charlie’s side, twenty-four seven. Name your price.”
Name my price?
I think about Joy Carrington, seventeen years old, holding a Stanford acceptance letter she can’t afford to use.
I think about the promise I made to Anne at the Marionette—reckless, desperate, convinced I’d figure it out somehow.
I think about the number that’s been burning a hole in my brain for weeks.
First-year tuition, room and board. The full amount.
“A hundred thousand,” I say.
I expect Sage to flinch. To brace herself for negotiation. To laugh in my face and tell me I’m out of my mind.
She doesn’t blink. She types something into her phone, taps send, and looks back up at me like I just asked for spare change.
“Done. You’ll have the paperwork within the hour.” She stands, smoothing her blazer. “Pack your things. Whatever you need for four months on the road. Report to the JFK private tarmac by ten o’clock tomorrow night.”
“Tomorrow night?”
“We’re taking a late flight to Miami. Charlie’s next performance is in four days.
She’s missed a few shows, but the tour continues.
” Sage picks up her untouched water glass and carries it to my kitchen sink, because apparently even in crisis mode she has manners.
“A car will be here tomorrow to pick you up at nine thirty. Don’t be late. ”
She’s halfway to the door when I stop her. “Sage.”
She turns.
“Honest answer. How high were you willing to go?”
For the first time, something like a smile crosses her face. It’s small, barely there, but it transforms her whole expression.
“Two hundred and fifty thousand,” she says. “You should work on your negotiation skills.”
The door clicks shut behind her.
I look at Black Cat. He’s still on the counter, watching me with those judgy yellow eyes.
“No,” I tell him. “You’re not coming.”
His meow is wretched and pathetic.
“You could stay with Forrest? Koda loves animals. You’ll be forced to wear bonnets and have tea parties, but their place is huge, and warm, and there’ll be tuna for days.”
If looks could kill…Black Cat would be charged with my murder.
“Fine,” I grumble out. “But you better be on your best damn behavior.”
I pull out my phone and log into Saylor’s Prime account, looking up overnight litter box solutions for private planes.
Yeah, that doesn’t sound ludicrous at all.
This is fine. I’m just abandoning my entire life for a third of a year, all for a girl I’ve known for about five minutes.
What could possibly go wrong?