Dirty Laundry (Get Dirty 2)

I laugh. He’s got a few points. “That actually is true, so I think I can sell that. Okay, honest . . . to a point. Charming and genuine. Promote. That it?”

Todd claps his hands together, satisfied. “I think that’s probably a tall enough order for today. You good? Really?”

I take a big breath, trying to focus. “Yeah, Todd. I’m good. Thanks for talking me off the ledge. You know I hate attention like this already, and with Carsen, it’s hard to keep from freaking the fuck out.”

Todd, who’s kept my secret well, nods. “I know, Keith. Everything you do is for Carsen and for the music. That always shines through, even when you’re being an ass. That’s why I’m still working with you.”

I laugh. “Naw, that’s not it. You just like those platinum albums on your resume and my pretty-boy face.”

Todd barks out a laugh, getting up from his chair. “Yeah, that’s it, of course. Your mug. Speaking of, you’d better get cleaned up. The reporter will be there at four. Dinner service arrives at six for you two to take a break, and then interview number one ends at eight. I’ll help you arrange a few things for steering, but if you think you’re good, I’ve got a decent trio that’s looking at becoming a bunch of solo acts.”

“Why?” I ask as I run through a mental list of what I need to do . . . starting with locking Carsen’s room. Thank God she’s got her own bathroom.

“Same shit as always. One thinks she’s better than the others . . .”

“Damn. Good luck,” I reply, thinking about one thing. In four hours, a reporter will be asking me questions, digging into my past, my thoughts, and my heart.

It sounds like hell.

As soon as I hang up with Todd, I work like a madman, calling in for an emergency cleaning from my housekeeper as I scrub every trace of Carsen from the common areas. After that, I plaster a smile on my face and get dressed to kill, hoping that at least my country boy charm can carry me through some of this train wreck.

When the doorbell rings promptly at four o’clock, I force myself to inhale deeply a few times, attempting to calm my nerves. The most important thing is that Carsen is over at Sarah’s for the night and I’ve got a plan in mind for an ‘all-access’ grand tour that goes nowhere near her room.

You never know just how eagle-eyed and sneaky reporters can be. Carsen’s door is locked, so if the reporter checks it, she’ll probably think I’ve got some red room of pain hidden upstairs. But honestly, I’d be better with that than if she exposed Carsen.

I open the door and am immediately struck stupid. The woman standing on my front doorstep is gorgeous. She’s tall and lean, but with curves in all the right places, barely contained in the slim-fitting dress she’s wearing.

Her blonde hair is pulled back in a ponytail, fully exposing her high cheekbones and the graceful length of her neck. Her blue eyes hold a hint of amusement at my obvious freeze, and something tickles the back of my mind. She seems familiar, but I think I’d remember a woman this beautiful, even if I only glanced at her for a moment.

“Mr. Perkins?” she says after a moment. “I’m Elise Warner from The Daily Spot. I’m here for the interview.”

I nod, but I’m still checking her out, if I’m honest, blood rushing to my cock instead of my brain, so it takes a second for what she said to sink in.

“Wait. Did you say Elise Warner? As in the reporter who started this whole clusterfuck in the first place?” I fume, and she nods. “Oh, fuck this.”

Before I even think about it, I slam the door and walk off into the house. She should know to leave it alone, walk away and maybe send someone else. Someone I don’t want to crucify for fucking with my life. But does she?

Of course not.

Instead, she starts ringing my doorbell over and over like a damn five-year-old. Ring-ring, ring-ring.

I snarl in frustration, turning around halfway down my hallway, and stalk back, yanking the door open. “What?”

In her defense, she doesn’t look cowed by my grumpy assholeness, instead lifting her chin up defiantly. “You’re right, Mr. Perkins. I am the one who reported that you seem to have some interesting things happening in your life. That’s my job . . . to report on things our readers find interesting. And now it seems our jobs align. Mine to interview you and you to be interviewed . . . by me. Or perhaps there was some misunderstanding with your record label? Maybe you should call them? Or I could, if you’d rather.”

I narrow my eyes, taking her measure. She’s bluffing, but somehow, she hit on the one thing I don’t want to do—call the label and tell them I’m not doing this. That happy bunch of assholes would probably just put out a fucking press release saying I’m off the market and probably start selling tickets to some fake engagement party they set up for PR. Instead, Todd’s voice echoes in my ear. Charm her, tell some stories, get on with life. I can do this. I can wrap her around my little finger, no problem. It’s gonna suck big hairy balls, but I can do this.