Winning Hollywood's Goodest Girl

My eagle-eyed manager notices my stupid overreaction, then the very visibly empty room, and makes a beeline over to us. “What the hell is going on here?” she questions aggressively. “Where are all the people?”

“Heidi,” I start, but Harrison interrupts me, sticking out his hand for her to take.

“Harrison Hughes. Father of the baby. Nice to meet you.”

Heidi looks down at his hand with distaste and distrust and pulls me back with a strong hand at the shoulder immediately.

“This is a professional engagement. Contracted and signed by HawCom Media. I don’t know who you think you are, but—”

“The CFO of HawCom,” Harrison interrupts calmly. “And also, the father of Rocky’s baby.”

“Rocky?” Heidi says sourly. “Jesus Christ. Come on, Raquel,” she instructs, trying to push me to the door. “I’ll be filing a complaint with the bureau of businesses—”

“Heidi, stop!” I yell, struggling to get my footing on my six-inch heels like a newborn colt. “Harrison is the father, and I’ve known him since I was five years old, so you can calm your tits. No need to call the National Guard.”

“Do you think this is funny?” she asks me, frowning severely. “Your security is a joke to you?”

“Of course not!”

“You’re acting like it. It starts here, and the next thing you know, psychos are knocking down your door. We don’t need another incident like 2009.”

Harrison steps forward, a line forming in the skin between his eyebrows. “What happened in 2009?”

“I had a stalker.”

“A stalker?” he replies with concern.

Heidi rolls her eyes. “Yes. A stalker. She’s a celebrity, for God’s sake. She has men like you crawling all over her all the time.”

“Men like me?” Harrison questions, justly offended.

“Yes. Money-hungry, fame-seeking—”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa. I don’t want money from her. I definitely don’t want fame—”

“That’s what they all say,” Heidi says snidely. “And they’re all fucking liars.”

“Hey!” I finally squeeze in. “Harrison isn’t like that. And I’m guessing he doesn’t need the money since you said he paid a million dollars for this.”

“Likely a scam. Probably embezzled it from the company.”

“I have my own fucking money,” Harrison booms. “I don’t need to steal it.”

I try manically to put an end to this shitshow, turning to Harrison, my eyes apologetic. “I know you do. It’s okay. We’ll give you the money for this back, by the way.”

“We absolutely will not!” Heidi shrieks.

Harrison waves a hand to me, ignoring her. “I don’t need it. Put it in a trust for the baby.”

Heidi shakes her head smugly. “Wow. Flaunting your wealth a bit, aren’t you?”

Harrison scoffs soundly. “First, I’m money-hungry, and now, I’m flaunting my wealth? Which is it?”

I put my fingers to my lips and blow, and a piercing whistle cuts through the room. Both of them freeze, turning their heads to me, but Heidi, being the way she is, does it with an extremely bitchy scowl.

“Let’s go back to my apartment. We can continue this—or not—but for the love of God, if I don’t have to be in this outfit, I’m gonna get the hell out of it.”

“You have your fitting for—”

“I know, I know. The fat dress for the Oscars. Reschedule it.”

“I can’t just—”

“I’m thinking this is a little bit more important, aren’t you?” Harrison says on my behalf. It’s sweet, but dear God, it only lights a fire under Heidi again. I can see it in her eyes.

Instead of waiting for another explosion, I grab Harrison’s hand and head for the door.

Consequences to all choices are inevitable—I’m waddling proof.

But in this case, there’s no way forward but to take a step or two back.

Harrison and I might’ve only spent one night together, but no one can deny that one night has connected us forever.

The night of August 15th, 11:45 p.m.

Raquel

I am a woman on a top-secret mission to avoid…humans—at least any humans that resemble anything relating to Hollywood.

Fingers crossed no one catches me in action.

Cool rain pelts my heated skin, pricking at my goose bumps like needles as I run down the deserted New York sidewalk.

Gobs of nearly black hair stick to my face, and my tennis shoes feel heavy with saturation. Passing storefront after storefront, I peer frantically inside, looking for somewhere to escape the onslaught.

I feel out of control and reckless, and the first bar I come to is going to have to restock their liquor when I’m done with them.

That’s a lot of big talk for someone who doesn’t drink, my mind taunts, but I shake it off.

Forty-five minutes I spent letting some man I don’t even know ask me questions I probably wouldn’t tell my own girlfriends—if I had any. As it is, I’m a floundering solo act with no one but the people I pay to turn to. People I don’t even know what to think of anymore.

I spent another half hour on top of the show listening to my manager and my agent tell me what good news it was that Niall so carelessly and callously discussed my personal life for a live audience of two hundred and fifty and millions of other television viewers before I had enough.