Total pages in book: 137
Estimated words: 127991 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 640(@200wpm)___ 512(@250wpm)___ 427(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 127991 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 640(@200wpm)___ 512(@250wpm)___ 427(@300wpm)
Bossman Stephen: Reagan, we have a problem. Please respond.
Bossman Stephen: Reagan, I need you to be in the office at 8:00. It’s an emergency.
Bossman Stephen: Reagan?
Jesus Christ.
I blinked my eyes and tried to focus on the screen, trying to make the messages make sense. Stephen Price was a highly anxious thirty-something with an endless supply of identical brown suits, an array of Perfect Attendance plaques proudly displayed on his office walls, and an annoying habit of using my name in every sentence, which he’d probably picked up from reading Team Management for Dummies. He was a nice enough guy, but he’d never messaged me before, and I sincerely wished he hadn’t now.
I slapped the phone down on the mattress and groaned at the ceiling. The only silver lining of my boring job was that fiber companies didn’t have public relations emergencies, which meant I was never asked to stay late or come in on a weekend. Why did today of all days have to be the exception?
But I’d blown my shot at getting Thatcher to notice me for the right reasons, and I wasn’t walking away from this job, so I was just going to have to work harder, do better, if I wanted to prove myself. And that meant showing up, even on a holiday, even when your supervisor gave you forty minutes’ notice to haul your ass to the office.
Besides which, if I spent the day alone in my cubbyhole apartment, I’d probably end up jerking off to memories of my hot asshole boss, and… no. I refused.
I threw off the covers, sent Stephen a message that I was on my way, and quickly got ready before hustling the ten blocks to the smaller office building adjacent to Pennington Industries’ headquarters.
When security let me in, the lobby was so deserted it was almost spooky. But that changed instantly when I got off the elevator on my floor. It seemed like the entire department was present, all racing around and giving the office a sense of competent but time-sensitive industry.
I paused at the cubicle next to mine, which belonged to one of PennCo’s marketing copy editors. “Nataly? What’s going on?”
She glanced up from her maniacal typing, and her shoulders slumped when she saw me. “Oh, Reagan, thank god. Everyone’s been waiting for you. Nova Fucking Davidson, huh?”
“Nova Davidson… what?” I demanded.
Nataly’s eyes widened. “How can you not know? I thought you were Mr. Social Media.” She twisted in her seat, making her dark curls bounce. “You know who she is, right?”
“Obviously,” I scoffed. I’d followed Nova on all the socials from the moment she started making a name for herself, which meant I’d watched her go from an up-and-coming singer to an impending train wreck over the past year or so. She was a talented musician and a classic example of what not to do in terms of solid social media branding. “I haven’t been online yet. I was asleep until…” I glanced at my phone. “…forty-three minutes ago.”
“Wellllll.” She leaned toward me, speaking quickly. “Apparently, Nova left Janna Keefe’s Bangers on the Beach New Year’s party early because of some romantic drama. She was already drunk off her ass, though, and crashed her little pink sports car into a tree—I know,” she agreed when I gasped. “Fucking awful. Fortunately, no one was hurt.” Nataly’s lips twisted as she added, “But the paparazzi were on the scene even before the police were, and they got video of her stumbling out of the wreck—”
“Oh, shit.”
“Right? Get on TikTok later and see the carnage for yourself. She was screaming obscenities, talking shit about Janna, singing parts of her new single totally off-key—”
“Jesus.” I took my phone from my coat pocket and opened TikTok.
Nataly’s hand shot out, blocking my screen. “You haven’t heard the relevant part. She did all of this while wearing a T-shirt that said ‘Elustre: Sponsor of Your New Year’s Resolutions.’”
“What?” I glanced up, truly horrified, my phone forgotten. “Where’d she get that? From us? Or someone at Apex Athletics? Because this is going to be bad—”
“It wasn’t anyone here,” Nataly said confidently, “but it’s already bad.” She waved her hand to indicate the flurry of activity around us. “Speaking of which… get your butt in the conference room. The leadership meeting is about to start, and they’ve been waiting on you. Scoot!”
“Leadership meeting? Waiting on me?” I snorted at the very idea. “You mean waiting for Stephen.”
“Reagan, Stephen’s out sick. Didn’t he tell you?”
“He… no. His text just said to come in.”
“He’s probably not thinking clearly, the poor guy.” Nataly stood with a sigh and straightened her skirt. “You know how he’s been sniffling for days but insisted it was allergies because he refused to lose his perfect attendance award? Doctor says it’s flu. High fever, cough, the works. And since Megan and Arvand are out of town for the holidays, you’re the last man standing from the PR department. You are representing PR in the leadership meeting,” she added, poking me lightly in the chest when I continued to stare at her, dumbstruck.