Page 1 of For One Night Only

1

Valerie

When you become famous, everyone claims you can control your own image—but it’s the media that decides if you’re a darling or a diva. I’ve been stuck in the diva category since I was seventeen.

Every day there are headlines like, “We Liked Valerie Quinn Better When She Was Making Music,” and there’s nothing I can do to change the narrative. It’s not even accurate, but I guess “We Liked Valerie Quinn Better When She Was in a Band and Not a Musical TV Show” doesn’t have the same vicious ring to it.

Poor word choice is the least of my problems today, because there are photos everywhere of me all over my castmate Roxanne Leigh. With my aching head in one hand and my phone in the other, I sit at my cold marble kitchen counter, scrolling through one clickbait article after another with growing horror.

Last night is such a blur that the grainy images bring it back in fragments.

The lights were low and I was with someone beautiful, and I hadn’t been out since Theo dumped me, so I let myself forget about the consequences. There’s a pic where we’re too-close-for-friends ina booth at a club I don’t remember, another of us on a crowded dance floor with my hands gripping Roxanne’s waist, and one of me licking salt off her hand to do a shot. The photographer even managed to capture the horny spark in my eyes in that last one.

God, how embarrassing. At least I looked hot while breaking my one-drink rule. (The rule in question was my idea four years ago, after I threw up on John Mayer in front of the paparazzi at that Grammys after-party. Not my finest moment. In my defense, it’s hard to stay sober-ish when so much of this industry involves parties full of booze.)

Still, the only truly incriminating photos are outside Roxanne’s building, the two of us sharing a heated kiss and going inside together. And yeah, I know what it looks like, but we didn’t hook up. I was so drunk that I crashed on her couch.

This morning, I woke up in a cold sweat, threw up in her toilet, and awkwardly asked to borrow some clothes to make it back to my apartment. I’ll be lucky if she texts me again.

The photos imply a lot more happened. But the media’s job is to tell a story, and it’s rarely the whole truth. I accepted long ago that these invasive assumptions about my personal life are the cost of my moderate fame—I just can’t figure out why the internet is so angry today. I slam my phone face down on the counter, forcing myself to look away before the real self-loathing kicks in.

Sure, Roxanne and I are both actresses, but the headlines are singling me out as the problem. I can’t make sense of it with my tequila headache, but obviously it’s not good. Why else would my manager be knocking on my front door?

My stomach drops as Wade Ortega and I make eye contact through the window, and I launch myself off the barstool, hurrying to let him inside. Nausea roils my gut from moving too fast.

“Good morning,” I cough out, trying not to heave again.

“Hey, Valerie, you weren’t answering your phone,” Wade says.Even on a Saturday morning, he’s dressed impeccably in a gray suit, which is unsurprising. He likes suits. He’s Puerto Rican, with warm brown skin and black hair with a splash of silver that’s trimmed in a perfect fade.

Palming my forehead, I groan. “I left it on Do Not Disturb after the club last night.” I had so many notifications this morning that I didn’t even check who they were from.

“I’m assuming it’s too much to hope that you haven’t been online today?” Wade asks. I cringe at the question and usher him inside, bracing for the worst.

Wade is a former MLB outfielder turned talent manager, and he’s damn good at his job. His team has been tirelessly working for years to further my career and maintain my image, and he’s worth every dollar. But the thing about Wade is he prefers to do business in writing—text, email. I even got a postcard with an audition reminder that one time he was on a family ski trip without cell service.

If he’s showing up unannounced, something is horribly wrong.

“Let me get you some water,” I say, stalling for time. I head over to my fridge to get him a glass, then get one for myself after he cocks an eyebrow. With my hangover raging, it’s not a bad idea to hydrate.

Fortunately, Wade doesn’t comment on the ghostly green tinge of my skin. “Valerie, just tell me what you’ve seen.”

“I’ve seen photos, haven’t read too many articles…yet,” I admit. After the last time I made headlines like this, I became obsessed and fell into a total depression spiral. My therapist gave me homework toscroll pastthe bullshit, but I’m not very good at homework. At least today, my headache is preventing a deep dive.

“Well, I can give you the SparkNotes,” he says, letting out a huge sigh. “Has Theo Blake reached out to you at all?”

I freeze, confused. This question is “out of left field,” to use oneof Wade’s favorite metaphors. Maybe I was drunk, but I’d definitely remember if we ran into my C-lister ex last night—even if it was only by the suffocating aura of Calvin Klein Eternity.

“What does Theo have to do with this? Aren’t you talking about the photos of me and Roxanne?” I ask.

He sighs, running a hand over his hair. “Theo is spinning…something. Y’all broke up, right? You haven’t rekindled anything and forgotten to tell me? No judgment, I just need to know what’s going on so we can start damage control.”

Damage control?More nausea makes my head swim, and I clench my jaw to fight it back. Nothing makes sense today.

“Not even a little. It’s been more than a month since we split and we haven’t had any contact.”

“You should probably go to his page.”

My jaw clenches even more, but I do what Wade says and grab my phone. I don’t really care about anything Theo has to say at this point—we ended things when he signed on for a fantasy franchise in Spain, after we decided our relationship wasn’t worth long distance. He was kind of a jerk about it, actually.

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