Filthy Dirty Laundry (Filthy Dirty Laundry #1) Read online

  “So...” I can hardly believe my ears. “Are you saying...?”

  “I wouldn't have asked you to interview for this job if I didn't think you had a good chance at being the best person for it,” says Tegan. “And from everything you've said today, my suspicions were right. You've always been our best freelancer. The person we trust with the really big scoops. And I certainly hope Pepper Park feels the same way.”

  I feel my cheeks burning with pride. I look straight into Tegen's bright hazel eyes. All of the rest of LA out the window falls away. “Thank you so much for...for your faith in me, Tegan,” I say. “Whatever happens.”

  She stands up and shakes my hand. She's the picture of confidence. Effortlessly beautiful. Everything I want to be. 29, leaving to be the Deputy Editor of FACE in New York, about to be married to the man she loves. I'm almost awed by her presence.

  “It was a joy working with you, Sidney,” she says. “To tell you the truth, sometimes the only thing keeping me in this job, where there's so much fluff, was the sheer pleasure of reading your celebrity stories, with your fresh look and your unique voice. It always feels like you really understand the people you're talking to – you're an insider there – but somehow you're an outsider, too. Someone who isn't impressed by them. Who doesn't just fawn. It gives you a real stand-out perspective. Keep your voice unique, Sidney, because that's your biggest advantage.”

  I'm in shock. Tegan's always been nice to me, but when it comes to praise “THIS COPY IS CLEAN” is as far as she'll go. Usually it's REWRITE PARAGRAPH THREE or NEEDS MORE QUOTES. No praise. Just businesslike emails sent from her iPhone.

  “I'll miss working for an incredible editor,” I say. “Whatever happens. You weren't always easy on me, but you made my work better.”

  Tegan grins. “I know I say 'no hugs in the workplace...'” She comes over to me. “But just this once won't hurt? Especially now that I'm leaving.”

  I smile as she wraps her arms around me and squeeze her right back. My heart's beating faster and faster now, like a hummingbird's.

  “Whatever happens,” Tegan says. “I know you'll do great in your next job.”

  “From West Coast to East, huh?” I say.

  “I'm going in to fashion, hon,” Tegan says with a grin. “Now I finally have my chance. But you – you're perfect for the Hollywood gossip stuff. So here's hoping you'll get a chance to do more with it!” She grins at me. “And if you're ever in New York...don't be a stranger, hear?”

  “I won't,” I say, beaming.

  Tegan looks around the office. “It sure feels empty now that I've cleaned all my stuff out of it,” she says. “Well, I guess it'll get a new owner to mess it up sure enough. I hope it's you, Sidney.”

  She rises, and with that, the interview is over. “Goodbye,” she says.

  I nod and grab my bag. My chest feels like it's about to burst open. “Goodbye”

  Chapter 3

  I can't believe it. As I make my way back into the waiting room, I'm shaking, trembling. My heart is beating louder than ever before – there's no way that the girls in the waiting room haven't heard that distinctive thump thump thump that means I'm losing my actual mind. Me – the editor of the celebrity section at FILTHY DIRTY LAUNDRY? A few minutes ago I was embarrassed about having even turned up to interview, convinced that there wasn't a snowball's chance in the proverbial that I'd even be shortlisted for the position. I was at least 98% sure that Tegan was just going to laugh me out of the whole place. That I'd come out of that interview room with my tail between my legs and my eyes downcast, too ashamed to even make eye contact with the three perfectly coiffed candidates who are still sitting in their perfectly silky tights without a single run in them, cross-legged, in the waiting room.

  But instead I'm practically skipping. A red blush comes to my cheeks and I can feel them burn with an exhilarating feeling that's between happiness and pure unmitigated astonishment.

  Me – the best person for the job?

  I lost it in there, absolutely lost it. I didn't expect for a second that the word-vomit coming out of my mouth would do anything except make Tegan raise a perfectly plucked eyebrow at me – the poor girl, the outsider, the dumpster-diver, a girl who doesn't fit in with the office culture – coded words I'd heard so many times before. But instead, for some strange reason – maybe Tegan had a temporary brain injury or something – my words actually impressed her. She actually seemed to think that my outsider status was a plus, not a minus, when it came to getting under the skin and behind the mask of every celebrity from A-List to Z.

  And I'm breathless, gasping. Feeling something I've never felt before. A feeling that's warm, slow, like the feeling you get when you drink mulled apple cider in winter. Making me toasty from the inside out. The feeling that somebody, somewhere, finally believes in me, is finally willing to give me a chance, to take a chance on me. The outsider. The stranger.

  Not a lot of people in my life have treated me this way. My father certainly didn't. Sam Stone cared about one thing, and one thing only, and that's being a Big Shot. An A-Lister. A big-name boldfaced celeb. And the fact that he never got anywhere, despite his early promise, killed him. It destroyed his marriage, his career, his whole family, any dignity he had left after Monroe, MD was cancelled. He was so bitter about never having been a Tom Cruise or a Brad Pitt that it ate away at him. He hated himself. So how could he love anyone else? If I could afford therapy, my therapist would probably tell me that I shouldn't expect unconditional love from someone who saw love as something you only deserved if you were at the top of the heap. That his cold, brusque manner was a way for him to deal with his own demons, not mine.

  But like I said, I don't have health insurance. I can't afford a therapist. And my father's drunken rants about the bitches and whores of Hollywood had an effect on me, whether I wanted them to or not. Whoever said that people can only hurt you if you let them is a big fat liar. People can hurt you anytime they like.

  Same with my mom. She grew up thinking that her self-worth was predicated on the way she looked: or, more precisely, on the way men looked at her when they liked the way she looked. She learned from early teenagerdom to see herself in men's eyes and nowhere else. She tried to raise me as best she could. But she never really knew what made someone feel good about themselves – deep down, in that place that no body and no pair of eyes can touch. She never really knew what it meant to be happy.

  And today, for the first time, I feel like I'm starting to get to know that feeling. A feeling of hope. A feeling like I can do anything. Someone believes in me. Not because of how I look or how big my breasts are or whether or not some rich businessman wants to put his hand on my ass or whether or not some gossip columnist deems me an A-List celebrity this week. Someone believes in me because of my talent, because of my skill, because of the work I can do – work I know I can do.

  Maybe Tegan Snow won't be able to swing me the job. Maybe she'll be helpless in the face of Pepper Park and her number-crunching higher-ups. Pepper's never been anything but polite to me, but she's not a writer or an editor. She's a publisher, and she cares about advertising revenue more than she cares about content. That's her job. And if she thinks a bigger “name” will launch FILTHY DIRTY LAUNDRY from the realm of buzzy start-up to bona fide major player on the magazine stage, then there's nothing I can do but grit my teeth and bear it and keep freelancing for whoever the new person is that Pepper choses.

  But Tegan believes in me. That much is true. That much is something I can hold onto. Tegan believes in me, and for the first time I truly believe in myself.

  I walk down the hallway past Pepper Park's office on my way out the door. Somebody's in there already: he and Pepper are hunched over her glass-top desk, deep in conversation. He is striking – I've seen him somewhere before. I can't think where, which is weird. He's the kind of guy whose face you don't just forget. He's tall – I can tell even though he's sitting – about six foot tall, broad-shoulders, with muscular forearm
s in which I can see the slightest hint of veins. He's older than I am by a few years – maybe late twenties. Maybe he's some rockstar, I think. Wouldn't be the first time Pepper takes the best interviews with the coolest bands in her office.

  Pepper is leaning in hungrily, staring at the guy like a tiger would her prey. Not that I blame her. The guy – the rocker – is drop dead gorgeous. I find myself staring, too. I want to catch Pepper's eye – just to let her know that I'm here, that I'm interviewing, that I'm a viable possibility for Celebrity Editor, but she doesn't even so much as look up at me. She's too busy staring at Mr. Handsome over here. I can't blame her, though. I'd be doing the same thing if a guy who looked like that strutted into my office. Just saying. Just saying.

  So I give up and head out into the sunny day. FILTHY DIRTY LAUNDRY is located in a cottage-like building – charming enough, and a good sign, too. Despite being a start-up, FILTHY DIRTY LAUNDRY is making quite the profit: and it has the prestige address to boot. It may be new, but it's fast-growing. Exactly the kind of place where you want to get in the ground floor.

  I walk a few blocks over to my bike. The other girls working here might have cute pastel foreign minicars, but that's way beyond my budget. I bike to my apartment most days: a grueling journey. I feel the air on my skin. A beautiful sensation after the air conditioned chill of the building. I get on my bike. My leg vaults over easily. One of the benefits of wearing comfortable clothes rather than stylish magazine garb is that you can move around in it. Perfect for field reporting. Today I'm wearing jeans, a T-shirt, and a leather jacket, along with my trademark flats. You can't bike in heels after all.

  I get on my bike and start cycling along my usual route. But as I pass by the FILTHY DIRTY LAUNDRY offices, a silver Audi pulls out in front of me.

  Then I feel it. Pain, everywhere. I see the world flash before my eyes as I go flying through the air. I whirl forward, landing with a decisive sharp thump on the windshield. My chest, my shoulders all ache.

  “Ow...” I moan.

  Then the pain gets sharper. Stronger. I don't know what I hit but something's gone wrong. Something's flickering – the world around me is getting lighter, then darker. “Oh, God...”

  I feel a pair of strong hands shaking me. “Hey, hey, are you okay?”

  I moan again. I know the voice is coming from right behind me, but I don't have the energy to look up. My head is spinning.

  “God – where did you even come from?” It's a friendly voice, I think. Soft. Male.

  “I'm...” I'm confused is what I am. “Where am I?” I murmur, shaking my head.

  “You're in Santa Monica,” says the voice. “Right in front of the FILTHY DIRTY LAUNDRY offices. I swear I didn't see you dart out like that – I'm so sorry...are you okay?”

  “Dunno...” I whisper as the man turns me over.

  With a start I recognize him. Dark wavy hair, ice-blue piercing eyes. The most gorgeous pair of cheekbones I've ever seen. It's the man from Pepper's office. The rocker. Figures, I think hazily. He does have a slight British accent. All the best rockers do.

  “Rock you....” The words aren't coming out right. “Rock you...”

  “Pardon?” The guy looks confused.

  I'm going in and out of consciousness, somewhere between dream and reality.

  “Hot...” I murmur lazily. It makes perfect sense in my head.

  “HOT, yes,” he says. “FILTHY DIRTY LAUNDRY magazine was originally called HOT Magazine. That's where we are right now.”

  Sure, that's totally what I meant. But my head is throbbing and I can't form words, so I'll just go with it.

  “What's your name?”

  “Sidney....”

  I can get that much out.

  “Sidney.” He smiles – a sexy kind of grin that makes my stomach tense up.

  “Get in the car Sidney,” he says. “I'll load your bike. I'm going to get you to the hospital.”

  “Can't...” I form the words.

  “No, you have to...”

  “No insurance,” I mutter.

  “It doesn't matter,” says the rocker. “It's my fault. I'll pay for everything. Up front. Don't worry. Let's just get you better.”

  I'm in too much pain to resist.

  “We have to at least make you sure that you don't have a concussion. Those can kill you, you know. Like Natasha Richardson..terrible story...” He looks straight at me. “You have anyone I can call? Family? A boyfriend?”

  A boyfriend? Yeah, right. Like I have time to go on dates. And my mother will be more worried at the possibility of me getting a scar on my perfect face to care about the actual injuries.

  “Nobody,” I say.

  He almost looks sad.

  “I’m sorry I got you into this, Sidney.” He takes my hand as he leads me to the car. “I will fix it. I'll take care of everything.”

  “But I have to rock...” I mean to say “work”, but somehow, staring at this rocker's bright blue eyes, I lose my ability to form coherent sentences.

  “What? Rock?” He sighs. “Never mind. Let's get you to the hospital. Now.”

  Chapter 4

  I wake up. I'm groggy. The world goes in and out of focus, out of my consciousness. I'm not sure what I'm seeing, but whatever it is, it isn't sky. Not the blue bright lights of Rodeo Drive. Something else. Flickering. A flickering halogen light – that's what it is. A buzzing sound. No, not buzzing, beeping. The sound of a beeping machine. And the light is so strange. I'm indoors – that's all I know at first. I'm indoors and the ceiling looks cold and functional – I'm in some sort of municipal building, maybe. And the fluorescent lights keep making that buzzing sound. Everything feels so strange. Everything is spinning.

  My eyes catch something to my right. A table. Plastic wood underneath cheery floral curtains. Somebody's house. But not my house – like I have anything more fancy than Venetian blinds. There is a lock on the window. And on the table: a vase full of flowers. Bright white, red, and pink roses that are just opening, their bloom giving off a sweet and sensual aroma.

  “Feeling better?”

  A familiar voice. A foreign accent. Half-English, maybe, but not quite. An accent I can't place – just like the rest of this fever-dream.

  I turn to see a familiar face. The sexiest face I've ever seen. Fine, chiseled cheekbones. Piercing blue eyes. A face that makes me weak at the knees. Or would, if I weren't already lying in this hospital bed.

  Then I remember. The accident. My bicycle. The FILTHY DIRTY LAUNDRY rocker in the leather jacket cradling me in his arms.

  “You...” I whisper.

  “You passed out in the car on the way over to the hospital,” says the rocker. He's smiling at me so sweetly. Like he knows me. Like he cares about me. The gentleness of his smile is at odds with the rest of his demeanor: his expensive grunge clothes, his sexy-as-hell swagger. “You had a concussion. But you'll be fine now. The doctors were able to give you medication, treatment. They want you to stay overnight. The concussion was only a mild one. Don't worry. Do you need anything? Water? Food?”

  The light through the windows is the cool white light of dawn. I must have been here overnight. Has this rocker been there all this time – sitting in a chair by my hospital bed?

  “You looked peaceful, sleeping,” he smiles at me.

  What's he playing at, I wonder? What kind of stranger spends all night at the bedside of someone he doesn't even know – even if he is responsible for her accident?

  I look him up and down, trying to slow down my heartbeat. Who is this guy, I wonder. What band does he play for? Why is he here, with me, when he could be anywhere – and with anyone? Surely a guy this hot has women lining up for the chance to exist in his orbit. But instead he's looking down at me with such a kind, such a caring expression....why? My muscles tighten up. Something tells me that this is going to be a trap. People are never nice to you without an ulterior motive.

  “Sidney!”

  I hear a familiar voice as someone bursts i
nto the room. The exception to every rule. My best friend, Johnson, probably the only person in the entire universe who gives genuinely of himself to others and doesn't expect anything in return. He's like a Golden Retriever, the way he bounds to my bedside. I take in his lanky figure all at once. Dirty blond hair, bright Pacific blue eye, handsome in a California surfer, all-American kind of way: apple pie and blue jeans and surfer abs. He almost knocks me over, trying to hug me tight. He lunges, and for a second his lips get so close to mine I inhale sharply. Was...no, Johnson couldn't be trying to kiss me. In the four years we've known one another – all the way through college – nothing of the kind has ever happened, despite the late nights we've spent drinking and talking until morning. But he's leaning in and my heart stops...

  Until he sees the figure in the corner.

  Then he pulls away.

  “I was so worried,” says Johnson. “Then I got this weird call. I was the last person to text you I guess, so someone called who had your phone...said you were at the hospital...what happened, Sid?”

  “Uh...” I try to form words, but I'm still out of it. The whole room still feels like it's spinning. It's hardly a pleasant feeling. I don't...sorry....” More words come out. “I'll be fine.” I try to force myself up to hug him, but my body isn't listening. Clearly that injury from the bike took more out of me than I thought. “Sorry...I'm fine. I swear.”

  “I'm glad.” Johnson's arm muscles tense like he wants to raise them, like he wants to hug me again. “Who are you?” He turns to the rocker in the corner. Funny, I think. I have exactly the same question. But introductions seem to be having a nasty habit of being interrupted by my fainting spells.