Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 96802 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 484(@200wpm)___ 387(@250wpm)___ 323(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 96802 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 484(@200wpm)___ 387(@250wpm)___ 323(@300wpm)
“It was for a reason.”
“Yeah, because you were pissed your husband cheated on you.”
The girls all sucked in breaths at my words. Even Gavin looked wounded. Camden’s face was blank, but I could see the questions in his eyes. But it was English who hadn’t moved at the words. At the cruel things I’d said to get a reaction out of her.
She just took a step forward. “We’re leaving.”
“I’m not going anywhere.”
Her hand circled my wrist. Her nails dug into my skin. “Now.”
“No.”
She stared back at me, resolute. “What was your plan tonight? Just going to get wasted and take a girl home? Not care about who sees you or how it looks for the campaign a week before your mother needs to get nominated for the primary? You can be a fuckup all you want when it only affects you. But you’re jeopardizing other people’s livelihoods, and you’re so flippant about it. Do you only care about yourself?”
Her words cut like a razor blade across my jugular. Hadn’t people been saying that to me my entire life? I knew she was pissed. That she was just throwing more of her own mess at me. But she’d gone for the jugular.
I wrenched out of her grip. “Fine.”
“Fine,” she spat back.
She turned back to our friends and grabbed her purse. She and Lark exchanged a glance, and then she forced her way out of the booth. I gritted my teeth and followed her. I’d come out, wanting a fun night, and instead, I ended up with this shit. I’d thought I’d finally be getting laid tonight. Nope. Just fucking dealing with English. I couldn’t think of a worse torture that my mother could have devised than getting me a publicist.
I pressed back through the throng of bodies. My anger simmered right at the surface. It was one thing for her to scream at me in my apartment because I’d fucked up when we were trying so hard to change my image. It was another thing entirely to drag me out of a club when I was doing nothing wrong. Nothing that was going to end up in the papers. Page Six didn’t even care about a Kensington going to a club. That wasn’t news.
I’d leave this time. And then we’d have words. Because this wasn’t fucking continuing.
I stepped out of the club on her heels. She had her head down, staring at her phone. She looked worried as she bit down on her bottom lip. Then her eyes found mine, and she released her lip and put her phone away.
“Let’s get a cab to your place. I want to see that you get home,” she told me.
“Fine. And then we’ll talk.”
She rolled her eyes and said nothing.
I turned my head away from her as she flagged down a waiting cab. That was when I saw a man appear from around the building. He was a lanky, disheveled fucker with a giant camera around his neck.
“English,” I muttered in confusion.
She whipped around, trying to figure out why I’d spoken. Her eyes narrowed, and she reached for me in that moment. As if she were going to stuff me in the cab before the man could get any closer.
But the instant her fingers wrapped around my bicep to try to steer me clear, the man yanked up the camera, and the flash went off.
“Fuck,” English groaned.
“Anna, do you have a comment about Josh?” the man asked.
And then I put it together. Paparazzi. Us Upper East Siders weren’t hounded by the paps like movie stars and rock stars were, but I’d seen my fair share around Fashion Week and in the Hamptons. The press had tried to get a statement out of me after Jane and I were arrested. This guy was different though. He clearly worked for a tabloid and cared less about crimes and more about the scandalous lives of the people he photographed.
“I told you earlier, no comment,” English said.
“He already bothered you?” I asked. For some reason, that made all my anger boil over.
I stepped forward, getting right in the guy’s face. “You need to stop harassing her.”
“What is this, the new boyfriend?” the guy asked her.
“She’s going through enough without you hounding her, you piece of shit!”
“Court,” English muttered. She pushed me away from the photographer. “God, I’m sorry about that. Ignore him. He’s just a client. You do know that I’m a publicist, right? This is what we deal with.”
“Sure, sure,” he said, sounding disbelieving.
“Could you just delete the photograph you took? It’s not what it seems. I can get you an exclusive or probably a favor with Poise PR.”
She dug in her bag and removed a business card. The man swiped the card, stuffing it in his pocket without looking at it.
“I’d take an exclusive. With you or Josh.”