Chapter 66 Georgina #2
Miss Ricci, I’m sending this text in my professional capacity.
I’m deeply disappointed you didn’t come to this afternoon’s weekly team meeting.
Even if you despise me for personal reasons, you’ve still got a job to do, and I expect you to fucking do it.
You’re a writer for the world’s top music magazine and you need to start behaving like it.
Whatever has transpired between us, personally, it’s time for you to put your feelings aside and behave like a fucking professional.
I’ll expect you to attend next Monday’s team meeting.
I’ll also expect you to respond to all business-related texts from me, going forward, including confirmation that you’re safe and sound, within the next fifteen minutes.
I look up from my phone, gritting my teeth. Reed wants me to act like a “fucking professional,” does he? Well, all righty, then. How about this? I’ll write an article about him that kicks so much ass, CeeCee will have no choice but to publish it in Dig a Little Deeper!
Determination flooding me, I hop out of bed and plop myself onto the floor next to the cardboard box and begin sifting through its contents like a madwoman.
Quickly, I find the documents pertaining to Troy Eklund’s lawsuit.
It was filed six years ago, against Reed and River Records, and alleges four causes of action: breach of contract, breach of the implied covenant of good faith and fair dealing, fraud, and assault.
But before I’ve gotten past the second paragraph of Troy’s complaint, Dad pops his head into the room. And the minute he sees me on the floor, surrounded by legal documents, I know I must look to him like a chocolate-smeared kid surrounded by a mountain of candy wrappers on Halloween.
“Georgina Marie. You promised not to look at whatever’s in that box!”
I grimace. “Sorry. I wasn’t lying to you. I just... forgot.”
Dad points toward the hallway. “Get your butt into the kitchen and eat the meatball sandwich I’ve made for you. Dinner is served.”
“Sorry, Daddy. I need five minutes. There’s a text for work I need to send.”
“No.”
“It’s for work. I swear. I need to send it.”
Dad exhales. “You swear on Mommy it’s for work?”
Damn it. I hate it when he does that. He knows it’s the one thing I’ll never, ever fib on.
But, luckily, the text I want to send is to Margot.
Not about a work-related matter, actually.
But, hey, since she works for Rock ‘n’ Roll, I still think a text to her should qualify as something “for work.” I say, “Yes. I swear. I just need five minutes.”
Satisfied, Dad leaves my doorway, and I pick up my phone, intending to send my text to Margot. But before I’ve started typing, my phone pings with yet another incoming text from Reed:
The hotel informs me you haven’t checked into your room or retrieved your car keys.
I’m assuming that means you’re staying at your father’s condo.
Please confirm. If I don’t hear from you by 8:00 tonight, then I’ll have no choice but to call your father to confirm your whereabouts.
If you’re not at his place, and he hasn’t heard from you, then my next call will be to the police. Your choice, Miss Ricci.
“Bastard!” I whisper-shout. The clever man has found my Achilles’ heel.
He knows I’d never want the CEO of River Records calling my father about me.
How would I explain that to my dad, after the loan on his condo got magically paid off?
After a fancy stationary bike showed up at his house?
And, especially, now that my father knows I’ve been in bed, crying for two days because a stupid boy didn’t love me back?
Damn that relentless man! Gnashing my teeth, I bang out an angry reply to Reed’s missive:
Hello, Mr. Rivers. Yes, I’m at my father’s condo.
I’m planning to stay at the hotel starting tomorrow night.
Thank you for the room and rental car. Thank you for having the Peloton delivered.
Keep the Pilates machine, please. I missed today’s team meeting because I’ve determined I’ve got enough information from you, directly, for my article and will now begin gathering information from other sources.
Going forward, please keep future communications on a professional basis.
Thank you for everything you’ve done for me and my father.
We both appreciate it very much. However, as I hope you have discerned by now, my affection and trust do not have a price tag.
I press send on my message, and not ten seconds later, my phone rings with an incoming call from Reed—which I decline—and then breathlessly tap out a text to CeeCee’s personal assistant, Margot:
I know CeeCee will be slammed on Wednesday, since it’s her first day back, but I’m hoping to grab a few minutes of her time, one-on-one, before her scheduled meeting with Zasu and me at 2:00. I’m sorry to ask for this favor, but it’s an urgent personal matter. Thank you.
After pressing send, I toss my phone onto my bed and march into my father’s kitchen, my stomach growling and my head held high. Reed wants me to act like a “fucking professional”? Fine. Great. Then that’s exactly what I’ll do, stronzo.