Page 1 of Corrupted Tyrant

Chapter One

Candy

Between wiping nonexistent crumbs off the counter and trying to make sure everything is perfect for Maury’s visit, I’m pacing like a caged tiger in my own kitchen. It’s so unlike my usual casual approach that I’m scaring myself.

It’s just that I seriously wonder if Maury is going to fire me as his client. He’s threatened before, but I’ve always managed to talk my way back into his good graces. Well, he’s such a grouch I’m not sure he has good graces, but after all my previous fuckups, he’s always agreed to keep managing me.

This time might be different. I’ve never done something so shocking that it made the front page of major digital media outlets like TMZ, Access Hollywood, Deadline, E! News, and Page Six all on the same day. And none of the coverage is favorable.

Even though what the tabloids described as my “X-rated exit” happened on Friday night and it’s now Monday morning, I’m still photosensitive and dehydrated. I take a swig of OJ straight out of the bottle and shield my eyes as I glance out at my infinity pool. The glare off the turquoise water makes me squint. When was the last time I actually took a dip in there? I can’t remember.

Even though I’m expecting him, I flinch when Maury rings the doorbell. Am I still hungover after two days without a drop of alcohol? Why else would my head be pounding like a jackhammer?

When I open my front door, Maury grunts hello, a scowl on his face even though he has a cup of coffee in each hand and a bag of donuts curled in his fist. The aroma of freshly brewed coffee and sugary glaze wafts over me as he brushes past without waiting for an invitation. He slides into one of the chairs at the sunroom table, making himself at home.

Given Maury’s mood, I wasn’t expecting coffee and donuts. At his seat, I already had a steaming cup of coffee, filled with plenty of cream and three heaping spoons of sugar—just the way he likes it.

I ease into the chair across from him and start the peremptory strike I’ve been working on in my head.

“Maury, I know I shouldn’t have done it. I—”

He puts up a hand with a severe, “Shah!” Once he’s certain I’ve aborted my attempt to explain the unforgivable, he takes a bite of his powdered, raspberry-filled donut and chews. I curb my impulse to flick a finger toward my own lips, a hint that he has powdered sugar on his mustache. Instead, I wait like a terrified twelve-year-old for what I know is going to be a world-class dressing down from the man who is more like a father to me than my own dad.

“Candy, I’ve known you for what, ten years?”

Why does he always start his reprimands like this? The man may be pushing seventy, but he’s got a steel-trap mind. He knows to the day how long he’s managed me.

“Since I was twelve. I’m twenty-five now.”

“Twenty-five? You were better behaved when you were twelve.”

Ouch. He lured me in with a simple question and then whammied me with a scold. I know worse things are coming. He’s just gearing up.

“You’ve seen the tabloids?”

I nod.

“Because you might still be hungover, let me tell you some of my favorite headlines. ‘Starlet’s Wardrobe Malfunction: Caught in the Act’. ‘Oops! She Did It Again: Candy’s Racy Reveal Goes Viral’. ‘Exposed: Candy Wood Bares All in Public Scandal’. Oh, and my personal favorite, ‘From Fame to Shame: Candy Wood Stuns Onlookers with Public Flash’.”

I’m surprised he didn’t mention the “X-rated exit headline.” It sure caught my eye, although I doubt anyone was too intrigued by the headlines. It was the picture of me getting out of my car with my skirt hiked almost to my hips, my underwear left at home in a drawer, flashing a glimpse of my privates to the whole world.

“I’m not proud.” It’s all I have to say for myself.

“Understatement of the year,” he mutters as he looks heavenward, then takes another bite of his donut.

I know what’s coming next. The part I hate worse than anything. It’s not the criticism or his barely contained disapproval.

“Candy, I’m so disappointed in you.”

The words hit me like a punch to the gut, knocking the air from my lungs. I kinda love this man. Disappointing Maury Gold is the worst feeling in the world—worse than any scathing tabloid expose or online trolls.

“How did your parents talk me into representing you when you were just twelve years old? I don’t rep kids—at least I didn’t. It’s that I saw something in you.”

My stomach is squeezing in agony. I hate Maury being disappointed in me more than I hate being a fuck-up.

“I got you little gigs, let you learn the ropes on commercials and walk-on parts. Then you didn’t just earn a role on the Kids Entertainment Network, you became a star. Got your own show at fifteen! I was so proud.”

He was. I was more than just a cash cow to him, despite what my parents always said.

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