The Dirty Truth

His lips press flat as his incredulous stare bores into me.

“Anyway, I don’t want to keep you. I’m sure you have more important things to tend to.” I tug my cardigan tight around my pajamas and cross my arms to secure it in place. “Oh, by the way. I met your niece today.”

Squinting, he sniffs. “Excuse me?”

“Found her on a bus bench on Tenth when I was on my way to grab a coffee. She was upset, and we had a nice little talk.”

Disbelief colors his chiseled face.

“Sandy hair, big blue eyes, lots of makeup, tiny clothes,” I elaborate. “Said she just moved here and things weren’t going well . . . then you showed up looking all angry and—”

“She was ditching school.”

“She hates it here.” I toss my hands in the air. “This city’s not for everyone.”

“Not that it’s any of your concern, but she doesn’t have a choice,” he says. “I’m her legal guardian, and she’s stuck with me for the next four years.”

Just when I thought the most self-centered man in the world couldn’t be more self-centered, he pitches a curveball that begs to differ.

“It’s weird thinking of you as an uncle,” I muse aloud, taking him in under the fading early-evening light.

“What’s weird about that?”

“Because it implies you have a soft spot . . . and there’s nothing soft about you. You’re all edges, West. You’re ice cold. A person could get frostbite just looking at you.”

“Poetic.”

The journalist in me is dying to know the story behind this iron-hearted media mogul taking custody of his teenage niece, but I don’t dare ask unless I want him to rip off my head and spit the answer down my neck.

“You know, I’ve probably googled you a hundred times,” I say. “And there’s nothing. It’s like your past has been completely scrubbed clean.”

“I pay good money to keep it that way.”

“What are you so afraid of? Is your past so colorful that it could shatter this perfect illusion you’ve built up?”

“Not afraid of anything,” he says. “I value my privacy.”

“I’m sorry, but don’t you lose some of that when you plaster your own face on the cover of the most widely circulated men’s magazine in modern history? You’re basically a millennial Hugh Hefner—minus the girlfriends and orgies. At least I assume. No one really knows for sure . . .”

“I’ve had to put a pause on those.” His mouth turns up in one corner. “It’s a little difficult to host orgies when I’m sharing the roof with my fourteen-year-old niece.”

Choking on a laugh, I say, “So you do have a sense of humor . . .”

“Excuse me . . .” A man in ripped jeans and a designer T-shirt stops by. “I don’t mean to interrupt, but are you West Maxwell?”

West gives a subtle nod, hardly attempting to disguise the annoyance emanating from him in waves.

“Would you mind if I got a selfie with you? My roommates are never going to believe this . . .” The guy readies his phone, but West waves him off.

“Not right now, man,” West says in a bro-to-bro kind of tone he must reserve for his fans and stans.

The smile evaporates from the poor guy’s face, and he slides his phone away as quickly as he got it out.

“Of course. Sorry,” he mutters, lifting a hand and offering an apologetic wave.

“He only takes pictures he can photoshop,” I tell the guy before he scurries off.

West shoots me a pointed look.

The guy stops in his tracks, carefully reaching for his cell. “I can use one of those Snapchat filters . . .”

“Yes, great idea. Give me your phone.” I wait for him to ready the filter before grabbing his phone, and then I motion for the two of them to stand closer. “Okay, one . . . two . . . three.”

The guy wears an ear-wide smile and flashes a peace sign while West gives his signature devil-may-care smirk.

“Here you are.” I hand the phone back. “And don’t worry, West—your skin looked flawless in that one. No Photoshop necessary.”

Not that he needs it anyway . . . he’s the epitome of human perfection in its physical form.

The guy heads off, and I shoot West a wink.

“You just made his day,” I tell him. “Do you always say no to selfies?”

“Plenty of people say no to selfies . . .”

A tepid draft of early-evening wind ruffles my hair and sends a chill through my thin pajamas—a wordless push to wrap things up and get inside.

“So?” I ask. “Did you say all the things you came here to say? Wait . . . what did you come here to say?”

His perfect nostrils flare from his perfectly straight nose, and he gifts me with weighted scrutiny.

“You didn’t hear a word I said, did you?” he asks. “Too busy giving me what for.”