Page 14 of Filthy Rich

“Did you see the email?”

“Bea, I’ve been up for ten minutes,” I say. “I watched the video, called Adam back, and then I called you. What email?” I drag myself across the apartment and start a pot of coffee. Even with the adrenaline, my eyes are burning, and my head feels fuzzy. I am so not a morning person.

“They want you to come in early this morning,” Bea says. “You’re doing the music video with Octavia, not Patty.”

“They’re cutting her for the video—what about the movie?”

“I think she’s safe there,” Bea says, “if she agrees to do some damage control. She’s already released some crap about how the video was spliced and the whole thing was taken out of context.”

I can’t help rolling my eyes, not that Bea can see.

“Losing the music video’s her hand slap, I guess,” she says.

“They have to prove they don’t think I’m ugly.” The words are so faint I can barely hear them.

“You’re with Octavia now?”

“Duh,” Bea says. “She’s really not excited about doing the music video.”

“Do you think there’s any chance she posted the video?” I whisper.

Bea laughs. “Not a single one.”

“Then who do you think it was?”

“I’m not sure I can tell someone who blasts all their thoughts on social media.” I know just the expression she has right now. Smug condescension.

That means she saw my post.

“In case I haven’t said it yet,” Bea’s whispering now. “Thank you. I love you for that.”

It warms my heart a little bit to hear it. I’m not sure why I care, but I can’t help myself from asking, “Did, um.” I clear my throat. “Did Octavia see it?”

“See what? The video?”

“Never mind,” I say. “How long do I have to get ready?”

“They want you there for blocking in an hour and ten minutes,” Bea says. “Octavia’s doing her hair.”

“Didn’t you tell her that professionals will do that for her on set?”

“She’s not keen on anyone else messing with her hair and makeup, but I did mention it,” Bea says.

“Well, I’ll see you in a few, I guess,” I say.

Usually I roll in for prep with wet hair and whatever t-shirt I happen to grab off the pile, but I find myself doing my hair, at least a bit, before we go. We’re only blocking for the video, after all. That means they may not do anything. I’d hate to look like an idiot, you know, in front of whoever might be there.

Not any particular person, but just, whoever.

I have an image to uphold, and after my post, it can’t hurt to look my best. Inexplicably, Patrice is there when I arrive, waiting. She’s sort of fiddling with the ring on her left hand, almost as if she’s nervous.

When I head for the set, she moves to intercept me.

I brace myself for whatever favor she’ll be asking this time. “Hey, Jake.” Her forced smile sets my teeth on edge.

I bob my head, my lips compressed tightly.

“I saw your post—I thought it was so well done. You were careful not to imply that I had anything to do with the studio’s decision, and you even complimented my singing.”

---