Page 20 of Ms. Fortune

“He knows,” I say, handing back her phone and taking a sip of liquid life force. I close my eyes as the warm elixir hits my soul, ensuring that I will, in fact, make it through this morning. “He’s pretending too. It was his idea in the first place to help with his image during the whole insider trading thing. And I thought it would be good to push Mischief’s name out there.”

“Well, you certainly accomplished that. Our phones have been ringing off the hook since last night. But not for reservations, for interview requests for you. It’s crazy.”

I blanch at the thought of giving an interview of any kind. “That will definitely not be happening.” It was explicitly not a part of our deal last night. No interviews for me. I wouldn’t know what to say anyway; I don’t know Brandon, not as a person. Not like a girlfriend should know their boyfriend.

I’m reminded of our negotiation last night for the parameters of our dating and future kisses, and my neck grows warm at the thought. How he looked at me and said I would eventually be the one instigating a kiss made me almost want to believe him. But then I remember he also initially offered me money to date him, and he’s right back on the garbage pile of my brain, next to decaffeinated coffee, kale, underwire bras, and every other idiotic thing on the planet.

“Oh, there was a guy at the depot this morning when I picked up the car who wanted to talk to you. He said he wasn’t with the press and that it had something to do with Victor.” She digs through her purse and pulls out a wrinkled business card to hand me.

I glance down at the card and notice the Calnetta Cars logo on the front next to the name Frank Santangelo. His title is listed as ‘Consultant.’ That’s dubious. When I flip the card, it reads “CALL ME” in all caps, scrawled across the back.

“He didn’t give you any clue as to what it was about?” Memories of Louie Calnetta grabbing my arm flash through my mind. I don’t like this.

“No, but he gave me the creeps.” She shivers with an exaggerated shudder.

“Oh? Why’s that? Did he say or do something?” I like this less and less.

“No, it was just a vibe I got from him. Definite creeper.”

“Awesome. After the stellar ending to last night, today is starting out just as fanfuckingtastic.” I turn and throw the card on the island. I am not in the mood to deal with guys like him today. “I’ll be ready in 10 minutes. Let me go shower.”

“Sure thing, boss.” Bianca has a knack for making snarky comments sound sincere. I don’t know how she does it, but it doesn’t do anything to fix my mood.

I spend most of my time in the shower considering just dropping everything here and going back to my life in Sacramento. It would be so much easier to do that. But I can’t do that to Chelsie, and I can’t do that to my dad’s business. I’m determined to turn things around for his legacy if nothing else. He deserves that much from me since he trusted me with everything.

We make it out of my neighborhood and to the Mischief Motors depot without incident. Getting inside the lot itself is another issue. The number of photographers has multiplied exponentially overnight, and Bianca seems to have too much fun pushing them gently out of the way with the car, swearing in Italian at them all the while.

“Vaffanculo! Oh my God, these idiots. I swear they want to be run over.” She inches forward, making super slow progress to the gate. “You see what they’re doing, right?”

A mass of people with cameras leans against the car and peer through the windows. It would be difficult for me not to see what they’re doing. Even though the windows are heavily tinted, it’s not impossible to see in, especially with the bright Las Vegas sun shining through. It’s starting to make me claustrophobic.

“Yup. I see.” I sigh. I may have bitten off a tad more than I can chew. I wanted Mischief Motors’ name out there. Be careful what you wish for. This is quickly becoming a nightmare. I’m going to need to do something about this. But what can I do? I can’t get out of the car; I’ll be mobbed.

Just then, the gates open, and our mechanic, Wayne, comes out waving his arms wildly and yelling at the photographers to move out of our way. Wayne is about a hundred and seventy-three years old and has no business working anymore. He should have retired a century ago, but he still shows up every day and takes care of the cars as if they were his own. Luckily, the photographers listen to the old man and let us through.

“Thank you, Wayne.” Bianca waves at him as we pass and enter the lot without running anybody over. It’s a minor miracle.

I don’t know what I’m going to do about all of this. I’ve barely had time to read what all is being published about Brandon and me in the short drive here, and what I did see is crazy. The press has resorted to making up whatever they think will earn more clicks. One story even had me being his lover for years with a secret family, including twins. It’s unreal.

“If it isn’t Mrs. Carmichael, gracing us with her presence. Just a head’s up, don’t believe everything you read on the internet.” Chelsie greets me with a healthy helping of snark as I enter my office. She’s in her usual spot with her feet on my desk, scrolling on her phone. I debate telling her to clear off, but I need to pick my battles carefully. Feet on a desk, I can deal with. Secret twins? Not so much.

“Did you know I used to be a stripper?” It’s almost addictive to see what insanity people can say about you. I certainly got an eye full reading some of the lies online.

“I didn’t! Was that before or after you were a backup dancer for Celine Dion?”

I pretend to stop to think, considering her question. “It was between Celine and Britney.”

We both burst into laughter, and it feels good to make light of the situation for a change. Let the tabloids make up whatever lies they’re going to. If I let it, things like this, regardless of how ridiculous it is, could give me major anxiety. The last thing I need is to have a full-blown panic attack in front of the press. Outlets like laughter help a lot.

“Oh man,” Chelsie sighs, still chuckling, “Dad would have gotten a kick out of this.”

Now we both fall silent, thinking about our dad and his crazy sense of humor. He would have absolutely had a blast with this publicity fiasco. Thoughts instantly morph into emotions of missing him, and it falls quiet between us. At first, it’s somber, but then it turns awkward the longer it goes.

“So, which one had me as a dancer? That’s kind of original, at least.” I sit in the chair beside her and cross my feet on the desk next to hers. We didn’t get a chance to be very sisterly to each other when we were younger, so it’s nice to experience moments like this on occasion where it feels like we do share a family.

“Blindsided, of course. They said you were “Following in her mother’s footsteps.””

“Ugh. They’re the worst. And now they’re bringing my mom into it? Good Lord. She is not going to be happy.” As I say this, I’m reminded that Bianca told me the phone was ringing like mad with press inquiries. I haven’t heard a single phone ring since I’ve been in the building. “Why haven’t the phones been ringing?”

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