Chapter 2 #2
“This one is specific to the video incident,” Tessa says. “There might be a few new clauses.”
“Ugh.”
She tosses the papers onto the coffee table. “You’ve got to tell him, Lexi.”
“No.” I sound so resolute, my voice rattles me a bit. Tessa is the only one who knows I recognized The Head.
“It’s your job! You got fired or restructured or whatever the heck this is because of his actions. He’s getting away with proverbial murder here.”
“What would it even help?” In my mind, snitching will only tarnish me.
We have a staring contest for a moment, but I’m the one to look away first.
“Who knows how it would help, Lexi. Stop being such a pushover.”
Her words hit several nerves, riling me up. “We didn’t have the talk about being exclusive.” Firstly. Secondly, he blindsided me so hard—
“What the hell, Lexi? There’s having the talk about being exclusive and then there’s sucking off a celebrity guest at work and being caught on camera. If he were still at St Chalamet, he’d be on his knees begging you to keep quiet.”
She’s right. And I’m an idiot. A few weeks ago, I was still in the throes of a crush on Brent Fisherman, late thirties, hot as all fuck, and so sure of himself as the second in command to the general manager.
Staff at St Chalamet isn’t supposed to fraternize or date, for obvious reasons.
How many would sneak off and have sex in empty rooms or other corners of the hotel if it were par for the course?
Enough that the hotel would malfunction.
What Brent knew, and I didn’t, was that he was being headhunted by a Chinese five-star hotel group and had been negotiating his flamboyant exit for months.
During his last weeks at St Chalamet, he toyed with me—after hours and never at St Chalamet.
At work, our interactions—to my infatuation-frazzled mind—were super cute and flirty when out of earshot, but utterly professional everywhere else.
I can see the game he played now, but at the time I was too flattered to be the center of his attention, to mean so much to him and to be the perfect girl and know he’d never dated someone this hot.
God. He’d sussed out my every insecurity, and I’d fed into it as if I were starving.
He was gone the day after I walked in on Mia Reed.
Not only because Brent Fisherman is a dick, but he’s also the owner of The Head between Mia Reed’s thighs.
If someone’s head should roll…
What game were they playing? I mean, it’s almost as if they wanted to get caught on camera.
For the two months I was Brent’s secret seasonal flavor—his pumpkin spice latte, to be exact—I didn’t pick up on any exhibitionist vibes.
But he knew the ins and outs of the security system at the hotel, and they should have been able to skirt them all, playing hide-and-go-seek.
I was the idiot who took him up on his first and only invitation to meet him in that banquet room, late at night, after the press and other influencers who came to interview Mia Reed, had left.
It’s one thing to have something going with another staff member off site.
To have the blind infatuation to think Brent Fisherman called me up to the banquet room for a little tryst because he couldn’t keep his hands off me after a long day of subtle teasing and not-so-subtle innuendo was pure, undiluted idiocy.
Me, men, and idiocy. The perfect trifecta of shame.
I close my eyes with a groan. “No. Brent’s gone to Beijing.
There’s no point.” Nobody there is going to care what happened at a hotel on this side of the planet.
I was an idiot for falling for him in the first place.
Pointing out that he was involved with Mia Reed would only unearth my secret affair with him and put me in a terrible light.
I can’t have that blight added to my reputation now—it’s hanging by a thread as it is, and HR would change St Chalamet’s squeaky-clean referral if they knew.
They might have their suspicions, but they’re only suspicions and must stay that way.
At that thought, I blurt out, “I’m leaving New York. ”
Tessa blinks. “To go where?”
“Evan said I can stay with him until I’ve sorted myself out with a new job.”
“Okay.” She nods in thought. “Honestly, it’s for the best. Can you imagine the circus if Mia Reed doesn’t pay them and that video hits social media?
” Tessa shakes her head as a pit opens deep in my gut.
That is literally the last thing I need, and at the thought a cold fever spreads over my skin.
“You have to admit, she has a bit of an unconventional approach to self-marketing, and right now, this could find the mark perfectly for her.”
Don’t I know it. Mia Reed is famous for two things: being a brilliant actress—rumor has it she’ll be nominated for an Oscar again next year, for a remake of Dangerous Liaisons no less—and for a sexting scandal when she hit her first Hollywood high three years ago in another steamy role.
I suck on my lip. Chances are slim, but they are there, that Mia Reed will decide, Screw it, let the world have an eyeful of me. It’s not as if they haven’t seen it before.
It would be a circus. The video would go viral. I would be all over social media. My face linked to a nationwide—even worldwide—sex scandal. My jacket slipping from my arm. My hand traveling up to my top button. Guilty for all to see.
Dad. Oh God.
I’ve experienced the media circus that could follow in the aftermath of breaking the rules once before. Yes, it wasn’t me, and it wasn’t a sex scandal, but once, even indirectly and vaguely similar, is enough to last a lifetime.
“What if I get recognized?” I choke out. I’m already so filled with tension that it has nowhere to go. Suddenly I understand why this whole situation is shaking me to the core: I can’t go through that again.
Whichever way you choose to interpret my actions in that video, that I’m potential collateral damage wouldn’t even come up in Mia Reed’s thought process when she considers paying the hackers or not.
At least St Chalamet had the guts to cut ties with me before and not after, giving me a clean slate, for what it’s worth.
“Girly…” Tessa trails off. “What are the chances?”
I shake my head. Slim to none, to two hundred percent. That’s the type of luck I have.
“Honestly, Miami would be good.” Tessa reaches for my hand and squeezes hard. “You’ll find work easily. Any hospitality company would love to have you.”
Her affirmation echoes Sheila’s from earlier this morning.
Don’t stay in New York; things could become nasty fast. Finding a job is my biggest concern, as it’s difficult to break into the five-star orbit, never mind the most exclusive tier where St Chalamet exists.
I crawled my way into it and had planned to stick around until retirement.
“When are you leaving?” Tessa asks. “You’re giving up the apartment? It’s the logical thing to do.”
“It’s a mess. We should have given notice.” I can’t even think anymore. Not with the anxiety that comes from every potential outcome pressing on my chest, nausea roiling in my belly.
“This happens all the time,” she assures me. “They have a waiting list for this block. Finding someone is the least of our worries.”
We both sigh in relief.
“I’m going to start packing.” I finish my tea. I need to deal with the whiplash of my morning in the quiet of my room, preferably starting with vomiting my heart out.