Page 41 of For The Record

“Oh, so we’re immature brats now, got it,” I say, a breath away from stomping my foot on the carpet and proving every point he could make against me. I probably am already proving all the arguments that anyone could make against me. Emotional, irrational, illogical, hot-tempered. I am ruining my own career.Calm down, Skye.“I’m sorry, that was a regrettable choice of words. But this situation just doesn’t seem fair to me.”

“Heis an artist who could be worth millions someday,” he says. “Don’t think that I won’t be taking disciplinary action, but giving a pop star a lecture is something I don’t have time for.”

“So he could be worth millions, but I’m worth nothing,” I say. “I’m just a little nobody publicist who’s only here because of all the men that she’s been with. Right? Don’t bother spending your precious time yelling at me, then, Leo Perez.”

I turn on my heel, snatching my purse and my coat from my desk as Mark Leong enters the open-floor office plan with a tray of coffees.

“Skye!” His second iteration of my name is raw, much more impassioned than the previous one. “Skye, come on!”

I pass an open-mouthed Mark Leong and keep walking, taking one of the lattes from his tray. “Thanks.”

Then I jab the elevator button and get in before Leo can stop me.

#

@AJR: leaked audio recording of leo perez and unknown employee getting into argument below

@PrescottJ92: isn’t this illegal?

@Ttang: who is @AJR and how are they a reliable source?

@OllieJames: @AJR Unknown employee? Sounds a lot like you can hear the name of a certain pop star’s ex…

Chapter 20: Skye Holland

“You know, you still haven’t told me how things are going with your man,” Poppy sing-songs over brunch, poking at the overpriced fried egg on her duck confit chilaquiles with a knife. “It’s been three dates. That has to be some kind of record for you, right?”

Brunch is our once-a-month ritual, instated because once a week would be impractical and expensive, and both of our jobs keep us too busy anyway. We rotate between a few cheap but trendy spots, and Redbird is her favourite, not mine. It’s expensive, but beautiful, set in an old cathedral with tiled floors, a rooftop patio, and views of downtown L.A. Parking was a nightmare, but I’m glad I have my car back from the shop. I make a mental note to pay Leo back. I don’t want one last piece of him hanging over my head.

“First of all, he’s not ‘my man’ anymore, remember? Second of all… What do you mean?” I say, slyly trying to dodge her question. With Poppy, it’s more like escaping a fleet of dodgeballs thrown with expert precision by seventeen-year-old boys in gym class: impossible. “I’ve gone on three dates with a guy before.”

To be truthful, I don’t want to think about how my argument with Leo ended.

And how I let my emotions impede my professionalism. And I can’t even say that I’ll never see Leo again since we work together. And this is why I should never do this whole ‘dating your boss’ thing again.

Not to mention that I’ve been oh-so-maturely avoiding him—or doing my best—ever since we had an extremely unprofessional blowup. In the middle of the office. Right next to the water cooler. Like an idiot who wants to lose her job and make her own life a living hell.

Yeah, I think it’s safe to say that I’m just going to swear off men. For alongtime.

“Yes, but the three dates were in college, with my brother, so it doesn’t count,” she says, aiming her egg yolk-covered fork at me. I make a face, gesturing for her to put it down before she drips it onto either of us. Neither my cream-coloured tunic nor her white silk slip would survive the casualty. “I’m talking about going on three dates with a new guy. Leo Perez. I have to say, Skye, he didn’t strike me as your type.”

“What do you mean?” I say warily, taking a bite of my blueberry pancakes drenched in syrup. “I don’t have a type.”

If I do, it’s apparently guys who are intent on breaking my heart.

Poppy snorts. “You have a type if I’ve ever seen a type.”

I eat in silence, not wanting to accept the weight of my best friend’s too-true judgment.

“First year of college. You dated that guy, Ethan, the tattooed drummer in his best friend’s rock band. What was the band called again?” she snaps her fingers.

Sadly, I even remember the name of Ethan’s band. And how he had a tattoo of his ex-girlfriend’s name on hisknee, of all places. “First to Midnight.”

“Yes! That’s it. And they dressed like Goths or vampires or whatever. How did you kiss him with that lip piercing? I’ll never understand it,” she says, shaking her head. “And then, when you guys broke up because he—”

“Cheated on me with that groupie,” I say automatically, no longer feeling the sting of that breakup. At this point, it’s just a story for us to rehash over hash browns. “And then, I dated Drake, who was—”

“Trying to imitate theactualDrake,” she says, and we both recall his terrible rapping skills. “I’m sure his parents are glad he didn’t drop out of engineering after dropping that mixtape. And after Drake, there was Charlie, who—”

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