Bad Liar (The Reed Rivers Trilogy 1)

“A two-pager, including a three-by-five photo. That’s my final offer.”

Fuck. I say nothing for a moment, mulling my options.

“A two-pager can’t, by its very nature, be as in-depth as the five-pager I’ve been dying to do for Dig a Little Deeper. Plus, don’t forget, this would be for Rock ‘n’ Roll, so it will be fluff. Mostly.”

“So, it’ll be like the ‘Man with the Midas Touch’ interview?”

I can practically hear her devious smile. “No, it’ll be meatier than that. For God’s sake, Reed, for that one, the only really personal thing you said was you’re not interested in marriage or children. I’ll need a lot more than that for a River Records special issue. But, still, yes, the piece will, by necessity, be basically on-brand for Rock ‘n’ Roll.”

I roll my eyes at my predicament, even though CeeCee isn’t here to see it. “Okay. Fine. A two-pager. But it’s not going to ‘peel back the layers’ of my onion too far. I’ll give a little something more than last time, but my deepest layers will stay firmly unpeeled.”

“Deal. We’ll peel back only one layer of your onion.”

My driver honks his horn and screams at a yellow taxi that’s stopped immediately in front of us to let its passengers out.

“Ah, New York,” CeeCee says. “I can hear it from here.”

I chuckle. “There’s no place quite like it. So, will this Georgina of yours interview me for this onion-peeling interview?”

“Do you want Georgina to be the one to interview you?”

I pause long enough to make it seem like I’m genuinely considering the question. “Yeah, that’s probably a good idea. She might bring a fresh perspective and voice a more seasoned writer wouldn’t. Plus, you already interviewed me for that ‘Midas Touch’ piece. Might be fun to switch things up.”

“I agree. I was actually going to suggest she do it. I’ve got a hunch she’s going to be particularly talented at peeling back your layers, my dear.”

Another wave of paranoia washes over me. Seriously now, did CeeCee notice me losing my shit over Georgina—and she’s been fucking with me this whole conversation? “Just make sure she knows she’s only allowed to peel back one layer of the onion,” I say, hoping my voice sounds playful and calm. “No additional layers shall be peeled during the course of this interview.”

“I’ll be sure to tell her. No worries, sweetie. Hey, would you be willing to give Georgina a work station at River Records for the summer—just for ease of access?”

Ease of access. Oh, God. I’ve got such a dirty mind. Upon hearing those words in reference to Georgina, my brain can’t help but imagine myself opening Georgina’s olive thighs and sinking myself deep inside her—getting to feel the Nirvana I’ve been waiting ten fucking years to feel, ever since I first laid eyes on Georgina’s double a decade ago and felt an urgent, animalistic desire to fuck the living hell out of her.

“Reed?”

“Yes. A work station for Georgina would be fine with me. Talk to Owen about it. Just as long as we’re clear that she’s your employee. Not mine. I don’t want my artists thinking this girl is a shill for our marketing department. It’s important they know she’s a bona fide reporter for Rock ‘n’ Roll, interviewing them for an important special issue. You’re her boss. Not me. I want them to take her seriously.”

“Of course, Reed. So do I. You know I’d never allow my magazine to be used as a propaganda arm of your label. This issue is going to have journalistic integrity, even if it happens to work to your label’s and artists’ extreme advantage, as much as it works to mine.” She clucks her tongue. “Oh goodness, my mind is already racing with a thousand ideas. When will you be back from New York? Let’s have dinner.”

“Not before you head off to Bali, unfortunately. We’ll have to do it when you get back. In the meantime, feel free to call Owen to arrange logistics and scheduling. Let’s get this special issue cooking with gas.”

“Fabulous. Georgina mentioned she’s graduating on the twenty-second. So I’ll get her on-boarded the very next day, right before I head off to Bali.”

My limo stops in front of the Ritz Carlton, right across from the Park, and a doorman in white gloves promptly opens my car door. “I’ve made it to the Goats’ hotel. I gotta hang up.”

“Bags, sir?” the doorman says, and I motion to the trunk before striding toward the double doors of the hotel lobby.

“Have fun in Bali,” I say. “Say bonjour to Francois for me.”

“I will. I’ll call the cancer charity now, right after we hang up, and email you the info for the donation. Oh, and, Reed. One more thing.”

I stop walking, just inside the doors of the hotel, my heart pounding. Is this it? Is she going to tell me she’s sniffed me out?