Page 2 of All Signs Point to Malibu

The three guiding principles that have helped me reach this level of undreamable success without landing me in some research facility for the “gifted.”

I log off and make sure the camera isn’t still recording so no one sees my vintage She-Ra pajama pants and fluffy slippers as I shuffle my way out of the office.

In my bedroom, I remove the wrinkle-free button-down I’m wearing over my matching Masters of the Universe tank top, hang it in the closet, then climb back into bed. I set my cell phone alarm for 9:00 a.m., a reasonable hour to be awake, then hit a button on the wall. Blackout blinds close automatically and once again I realize how grateful I am to be living this life.

And that I’m just one slip away from losing it all.

My eyes fly open as the room shakes around me and I’m tossed brutally from bed, as though that solitary thought has shaken my entire foundation. As if I’ve opened Pandora’s box and allowed chaos to finally track me down.

Face down on the floor, I hear crumbling above me and roll underneath the four poster, covering the back of my head with my hands. It feels as though my house has been swept out to sea as I ride out the nausea-inducing trembling and swaying of an earthquake that has to be a magnitude of six or higher. Cracking echoes all around me and I envision the whole house collapsing, the entire Malibu coast getting swallowed in a crevasse.

California is on a fault line and it’s only a matter of time.

Luckily, today isn’t that day. As fast as it came on, what will likely be deemed a “tremor” to prevent doomsday fanatics from freaking out, stops.

Today’s horoscope was a tad too on the nose—won’t be visiting that site again.

I roll out from under the bed, shakily get to my feet, and wait to see if there are any aftershocks. With one arm braced against the wall, I breathe deeply to steady my thundering heart rate. The health tracker on my wrist has gone offline—vitals unavailable. That can’t be good.

Once everything seems settled, I survey the room. A few items on the dresser have fallen and the drawers are open, but otherwise no real damage.

I leave the room and move slowly through the rest of the house. Thankfully the previous owners had been paranoid enough to have the house earthquake proofed. Larger appliances are attached to the walls with safety cables, the ceiling lights and fans are secured. Safety film covers the windows and glass doors.

There’s very little damage throughout.

Until I enter my office and see all the framed magazine covers have crashed to the floor.

With a shaking hand, I carefully sort through shards of broken glass to pick one up. The tagline boasting my success blurs as I once again feel faint—the lingering emotional aftermath of a natural disaster.

It was just a tremor...but all it takes is one small crack.

Hours later, I shake off that morning’s excitement as I sit at my desk, wearing a Golden Bears jersey sporting number 18—“Laywood”—on the back. Matching baseball hat over a cute, sporty ponytail, foam finger and I’m ready to go. I take a deep breath and wait for the online chat to connect.

And wait...

I confirm the date on my calendar. This is decision day.

Maybe they forgot or lost track of time. Maybe I was supposed to call them. If so, I’d hate to keep them waiting. I hit the call button on the screen and resume my excited, confident pose as it rings.

And rings... No answer.

I slump back in the chair as an email notification pops up—an announcement about a life coaching event next month at the West Beverly Hotel, where I’ll be one of the guest speakers.

Only the biggest life coaching event of the year. No pressure.

I click on the notification and see that Spencer Stanley, a charming, slick new coach dominating in the sports division, has been added to the list of panelists. His smug smile grates on my last nerve. The guy has only been in the business six months and already he’s got over a million followers and was deemed influential enough to be featured at the event. I’m not jealous of his success; I’m annoyed by it. Building a brand takes time and I’m not sure what horseshoe this guy has lodged up his ass to have reached the top so quickly.

Don’t look. You don’t want to know.

Opening his social media page, I immediately regret it as I see his latest post from...4:30 a.m.!?There’s no way he actually gets up that early.

Nothing better than waking up on a gorgeous Monday to a new client deal! That’s right, I can now officially confirm the rumors that I am partnering with Kirk Laywood—pro basketball’s hottest new rookie.

Damn it. I thought I had that guy.

The least Coach Riley could have done was give me a heads-up. I represent clients from all walks of life—actors, politicians, professionals, but I’ve yet to break into the pro-athlete market. Psychological research shows that motivators are a valuable part of an athlete’s team and yet so many of them are reluctant to accept that type of assistance with their careers.

At least from me.

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