Computing…
Ding!
Answer: Slim to guaranteed fuck all chances.
Zero. Zilch.
None.
A familiar voice in the elevator breaks my concentration. I hadn’t realized I’d been standing in the elevator, staring at the tickets for god only knows how long.
“Uh… Are you gonna get off or look at a ticket stub all day?”
I look up suddenly, my disappointment instant.
It’s Chad Beckett. The only other intern at the paper.
The sports writer.
Of course.
Chad and I went to the same college and apart from him being the one to make my college years a living hell, the only other thing we have in common is snagging an internship at the same newspaper.
He because of his jock family contacts, and me because I can actually do the job.
I scurry to exit the elevator, not surprised when his big arm shoots out and blocks my way.
His equally large foot keeps the elevator door open as he sneers at me.
“Wanna get off, Penelope spit-stop?” he challenges.
The nickname he coined for me in college, that’s as lame now as it was then. But it still hurts for some reason.
Especially trapped in close quarters with an ape like—
“Everything alright here, Beckett? I’d like to get in my own damned elevator if that’s alright with you,” A crisp voice snaps. Slicing the tension in the air instantly.
Chad is shocked at the sudden interruption but before he can even move his arm, I duck under it.
Out and away as fast as I can from the college bully I still face daily, and from the actual owner of the newspaper.
Sebastian Hawke.
Numero Uno.
The big cheese.
The boss.
Even if he has no idea what’s happening in his newspaper. He does own it, and a thousand other things like it.
It’s a rare sighting, the man, but his timing couldn’t be better.
Sebastian Hawke is not a guy anyone wants to be around even if they do work for one of his companies.
I smile to myself as I hear the elevator closing behind me, knowing Chad will be well taken care of by the only one in the building we all answer to.
But my mind is quick to return to the real issue.
Tonight.
Jett Masters.
Do I really have to prove his whole act is just smoke and mirrors?
That’s my job. As a science writer, I look for the facts. As an entertainment writer, I look for value and entertainment.
As a girl with sudden and undeniable needs below the waist area?
I’m looking to get as close as I can to Jett Masters, anyway I can. Even if it’s just to add a little more fuel to my already active, almost obsessive fantasies about the man.
It didn’t show in Karlee’s office. But if she saw my apartment, the glossy pictures and posters I have up everywhere…
The very thought of my apartment makes me groan aloud as I stop short of reaching the huge glass doors of the building.
My single room apartment is right above the diner where I moonlight as a waitress.
So I actually have someplace to live. Have something to eat.
‘Free’ rent and board (diner leftovers) for a set amount of hours worked each week.
Tips are split fifty-fifty.
Being a Friday night, my boss, who’s also my landlord, isn't gonna be sharing my enthusiasm when I tell him I can’t work tonight.
Problem is, my landlord, Tony Favela makes jocks like Chad seem nice by comparison.
He’s a sleaze. A slob. An absolute asshole to the power of ten.
Not the kind of guy to let me off the hook on short notice, or any notice for that matter.
I remember having to work back-to-back shifts one time when I broke my ankle, and one of the other waitresses quit suddenly.
There was no sympathy then, so I don’t think I’ll get any today either.
Before I leave the quiet building foyer for the busy streets, I figure I may as well just get it over and done with.
Mentally preparing to return the tickets once he says I can’t go.
Well, I might as well call the prick… it was a nice idea while it lasted. But damn! Jett freaking Masters. Front row…
“You got tickets to see what!” The gravelly voice rumbles through my phone when I explain.
Trying to explain myself.
My face twists at the thought of the man as he coughs and wheezes.
Yuck.
“Jett Masters,” I squeak. “I got two tickets and was just hoping I could… I mean… I-I could make up the hours,” I stammer, but it’s no use.
“Two tickets?” Tony snaps, and I can almost hear his mind churning.
Oh god. No.
“Are they good seats?” he asks impatiently as I swallow harder.
Please, god. No. Anything but—
“Front row,” I squeak.
I silently kick myself when he laughs until a hacking cough takes over.
“Then it’s settled!” he shouts. “We’re goin’ ta see Jett Masters live! And you’re right… You will make up the hours. Throwing this on me at short notice… Don’t be late getting back either.”