Winning Hollywood's Goodest Girl

My voice stutters as my stride does the same. “A million dollars? For a meet-and-greet? I didn’t get paid that much for my first three movies.”

“Exactly. They were apparently very eager to have you. That’s what the woman I spoke with on the phone said anyway. ‘No one else will do, and we’re willing to do what’s necessary to make it worth Raquel’s time,’ I believe is what she said.”

“God. That’s insane. I hope they realize I don’t have any special talents. I can’t balance a ball on my nose or—”

“For God’s sake, Raquel. They know you’re not a seal.”

“Well, I don’t know!” I huff and toss out both of my hands. “Tell me, Heidi, what are they expecting me to do for one million freaking dollars?”

My security guard, Freddie Bones, as he likes to call himself, takes his place behind us as we leave my penthouse apartment and head for the bank of elevators just down the hall. The doors open quickly, and we all step inside.

“Pose for pictures. Smile. Chitchat. Should be an easy payday.”

A wave of nausea rolls through me, and I cringe. Should be an easy payday, sure. In theory. Unfortunately, getting out of bed and, you know, completing the simple tasks of eating and drinking is a damn challenge these days.

Ugh. And riding the elevator. I put one hand to my stomach and another to my throat to try to choke out the vomit’s exit like a tourniquet.

Once the elevator dings its arrival on the bottom floor of my apartment building, we swiftly step out into the lobby. Heidi doesn’t break stride as she takes her position in front of me, nodding to the doorman to swing open the door as we approach.

The warm California sun isn’t the only thing that greets us outside. A wall of noise smacks the previously silent air as flashes go off every millisecond. Paparazzi shout my name and aim their cameras at my stomach, but I duck my head, eyes shielded behind my sunglasses, and let a veil of hair fall over my face.

The door to my car is open and waiting, and I slide inside the tinted-windowed black Tahoe and settle into my seat as the door shuts with resonance behind me. Cameras jostle outside the window as people push and shove at one another in an attempt to get the perfect shot of me.

I keep my eyes down and my focus averted until we finally pull away from the curb.

My driver moves expeditiously, weaving strategically in and out of busy LA traffic until we lose all the people attempting to follow us. It’s adrenaline-inducing and surely not the best thing for the baby, but it’s my life, and I don’t envision it changing anytime soon.

Especially now that I’m with child. It’s like they somehow expect to be able to get a shot of my little peanut through my freaking uterus.

Notwithstanding any new technology I’m unaware of, I don’t think that’s likely.

“So, we’ll need to be out of here before the hour is up because I promised Francesca Murazzi you’d come for a fitting for your Oscar dress. Now that you’re not a standard size anymore, she wants to try to get ahead of the ball,” Heidi says, diving into the agenda with no further ado.

I roll my eyes. Nice. I’ve always dreamed of being constantly reminded of how big I’m getting throughout my pregnancy.

“So, let me get this straight. This company is paying me a million dollars to do an appearance, and you’ve essentially double-booked me on them?”

“No, no. We’ll be there long enough to meet the conditions of the contract.”

I bite my tongue and look out the window before letting it roll off my back. Whatever. It’s not like I’ll somehow change her mind.

The car makes a sudden turn, pushing me into the door, and I grab on to the handle tightly. We drive down into an underground garage, and my eyebrows shoot together. “What’s going on?”

“We’re changing cars,” Heidi says simply, grabbing the door handle as we screech to a stop.

She’s about to jump out when I reach for her arm and grab it. “Why?”

“Because they also explicitly asked for discretion, and with the band of photographers trying to follow your every move, we need to be in a car they’re not expecting.”

“This is starting to feel a little too ‘black ops’ for me. Why would a company care if people know I did a meet-and-greet with them?”

“Raquel…they are paying you a million dollars. For forty-five minutes of your time. Who cares why they want discretion?”

God, Heidi, it seems the only one who cares about the stupid money is you. I could literally give two shits.

I scoff. “Just remember you said that when I get ax murdered and you don’t have anyone to collect a commission off of anymore.”