Page 6 of Kennedy Sloane Gets Scooped
Hey Dear,
Saw I missed you. Dr. Love created a real mess for me and Lonnie this time. Before you get yourself all in a tizzy, we didn’t know about the interview until theDaily Mailbroke the news this morning. Which means we weren’t present and have no idea what he said. As you know, this could have major implications for our case and trial.
Clinton’s sickly father took a turn for the worse yesterday and Judge O’Toole called an emergency hearing just before the courthouse closed for the day. He released Clinton from prison with an ankle monitor until his trial so he could spend time with the old man who is on his deathbed.
We haven’t spoken to Clinton since we dropped him at home after court yesterday and that’s where things get murky. But this is what we’ve pieced together.
Clinton went to visit his father last evening and Clinton White Senior’s doctor was there. The doctor has a daughter who is in the page program at NBC and has her sights set on on-air reporting (Blonde hair, blue eyes, big boobs. Sounds more like FOX material, right? LOL.). Anyway, Clinton invited the father-daughter duo over to his house and around 1:00 a.m. neighbors saw camera crews loading into the garage.
Judge O’Toole is PISSED. He immediately sent a warden to Clinton’s house to pick him up and haul his ass back to prison. He continued tomorrow’s hearing indefinitely, so we won’t be back in court until October at the earliest.
Sorry if this throws a wrench in your plans.
Lonnie or I will call you in the next few weeks.
—Luke
Kenny’s blood boiled.
“Don’t you dare ‘Dear’ me, Mr. Luke Locke!” Kenny screamed. “I’m a professional and deserve to be addressed as one! Andthrow a wrench in my plans? This is a hammer—no, a chainsaw. This a chainsaw cutting right through my career and my whole life’s happiness.” She continued her tirade.
“And don’t even try the media jokes with me! Better suited for FOX, don’t ya think, ha!” She growled, now flailing her arms in the air, and pacing back and forth in her one room rectangle, affectionately called The Dollhouse. “What I do think is that you’re a lousy attorney who lost all control over your wife-killing client because he has the hots for a glorified intern!”
She collapsed on the couch, exhausted after her second spontaneous one-sided rant of the day.This is another topic I should broach with Marilyn, Kenny thought. Yelling at people who aren’t there can’t be a healthy habit. When she finally closed her mouth and regained awareness of her surroundings, she heard muffled sounds coming from the couch.
“Kenny! Kenny! Earth to Kenny,” the words whispered, becoming clearer with each pillow and cushion she moved.
“Oy! I’m coming, Colby! Hold on. You fell somewhere between the arm of the couch and mattress.” Kenny yelled at the floor as she wrestled to find the phone that was lodged in the frame of her pullout sofa.
Still breathless and exhausted, she squeaked out a weak, “Hey, Colby. Sorry. I must have butt-dialed you when?—”
“During one of your meltdowns?” Colby interjected. “Yeah, I figured. I heard the whole thing. At least now you won’t have to recount the saga for me over Margarita Wednesday tonight.”
“I don’t think so, not tonight. It’s been a day, and it’s not even noon. You don’t know half of it. And Margarita Wednesday isn’t a ‘thing.’ You’re like freaking Gretchen Wieners trying to make ‘fetch’ happen.”
Before Kenny had time to rile herself up again, now that she had a captive audience, Colby stopped her dead in her tracks.
“You’re right, hon, I’m sure I don’t know half of it. And guess what, I really don’t care, love,” Colby purred in his sweet, condescending tone only he could pull off. “I don’t have the mental capacity to ponder network booking wars today. You know this month’s self-care project is freeing up space in my head. As is making Margarita Wednesday a ‘thing.’ My shrink says midweek pick-me-ups are vital for sanity.”
Colby Jackson and Kenny had been best friends since the pair met on treadmills in the gym at the West Side YMCA on West Sixty-Third Street the summer after they both graduated from college. He was the Stanford Blatch to her Charlotte York. She was the Grace Adler to his Will Truman.
Kenny worked down the street as a desk assistant at WBS and couldn’t afford membership at one of the fancy, boutique gyms or high-end sports clubs most of her colleagues belonged to, so she took advantage of her parents’ family plan package. They were lifelong members at the Y in her hometown in Pennsylvania.
Colby moved to New York from the Midwest to accept an entry level gig at Bound Books, a powerhouse publishing company, and was squatting in one of the Y’s dorm-style rooms until he became acclimated to the city and found an apartment and roommates.
He was a husky, not too tall, not too short build with strawberry blond hair, fair skin, and almond-shaped deep brown eyes. He was born and raised in a small town in South Dakota and went to the University of Madison–Wisconsin for agriculture. His father was furious, nearly disowning him and threatening to pull tuition money, when Colby switched to journalism—a major his father deemed for sissies and liberals.
“How will you ever find a girlfriend or support a family with those credentials?” Colby’s father demanded.
Kenny and Colby quickly became thick as thieves. They knew everything about one another. The good, the bad, and the ugly. They always had one another’s backs. She flew to Deadwood over the Fourth of July one summer to offer moral support and function as a buffer when Colby decided to tell his father he was gay.Andhad fallen madly in love with a Puerto Rican named Paolowhowas twenty years his senior.
Colby planned and executed an intimate, yet lavish, bridal shower for Kenny at a swanky wine bar in the West Village that even caught the eye of a photographer fromNew York Bride Magazine. The next week, he drove her home to her parents’ house two states away and helped Mrs. Sloane ship back all the gifts after Kenny called off the engagement to George. He also tracked down the editor-in-chief ofNew York Brideand threatened a lawsuit if there was any mention or visual of the spectacular celebration in upcoming issues. Though deep down, he wanted nothing more than his event planning skills to be flaunted on the glossy pages of a widely read magazine.
Their relationship knew no bounds. There were no secrets. It was built on brutal honesty and trust. And even though there was never any physical attraction or chemistry between them, it was the most intimate relationship either ever knew.
“You have such a way with words, Colby Jackson. I don’t have the mental capacity to deal withyoutoday,” Kenny shot back. “I think your shrink probably meant going for a jog around the lower loop of Central Park as an outlet for a midweek pick-me-up, not promoting Wasted Wednesdays. But fine. I’ll meet you for one drink.One. The minute you utter a word about your Labor Day plans for Fire Island or try to talk me into a nightcap at Flaming Saddles, I’m out the door. I’m not kidding.”
“Calm down, Queen,” Colby hissed.
