CARSON
Sandra keeps looking up at me over her phone with wide eyes. I don’t like that look, and I definitely don’t like that she’s giving it to me now, right in the middle of a taped interview. Someone comes up behind Lyle Tucker and hands him a piece of paper. He takes it and smooths his hair piece, a grinch-like smile lifting the corners of his mouth. Mother fucker. Here comes the ‘gotcha’ journalism.
After seeing what he’s done in other interviews, there’s a reason I only agreed to do this if it was taped instead of live.
My assistant goes pale and considering she and her wife literally ran with the bulls two years ago, anything that makes her nervous is bad news. She waves her hand in front of her throat and mouths, “Don’t. Say. Anything.”
“Fuck,” I breathe out quietly. Whatever this is, it can’t be good.
“So,” Lyle says, lifting his eyes back to me and flashing shark-like grin toward the camera. “Tell us about Aria Ventimiglia.”
I frown, hating that he even had her name in his smarmy mouth. Aria is off-limits. Full stop. “No.”
He raises his eyebrows and blinks at me rapidly, then laughs like a gameshow host. “No? So, you don’t care to refute the article posted by TNZ just half an hour ago, stating that you paid Ms. Ventimiglia a very large sum, employing her as your personal, live-in ‘companion’.”
I glare at him. “Considering that I haven’t read the article, I’m not issuing a comment on any of its contents.”
Lyle holds out the piece of paper in his hand. “Here, see for yourself.” I snatch it from his hand, too pissed off to be polite to this cockroach. I skim the printed internet post, my blood pressure rising with each word.
The accusations against Aria are disgusting. Aria, who doesn’t have a malicious bone in her body. Aria, who stepped in to help me when no one else could. Aria, who fought her way out of this kind of garbage, just to have people drag her back through it.
I’m seeing red before I even hit the halfway mark. The ugliness of it all, the accusations, lies, and name calling, it’s just… jaw-dropping.Escort. Trailer Park Princess. Conniving.And then there’s the picture. One that was obviously shot by a trespassing drone, and shows Aria,my Aria,in a compromising position thatIinitiated.
Blood pounds in my ears, rising until it’s almost all I can hear. I grit my teeth, trying to keep my cool. When I glance up, Lyle is still watching me with those dead eyes and humorless smile. He is a grade-A piece of shit, and he’s lucky I’m not a violent man.
“Yeah, I have a comment. I hired Aria Ventimiglia to train my dog. The one I promised my sister I’d take care of before she died.”
Lyle swallows, but it’s the only shred of humanity he shows.
“I paid her a lot. Because she had to quit her job to take us on as clients, because she started the same day, and honestly, because she was worth it. I’ve never seen anyone so good with dogs.”
“But youaresleeping with her,” he presses. “She got herself situated in your house and then she seduced you, did she not?”
“No.” I scowl at him. “No, she did not. I fell—" I bite my tongue. No way I’m saying that here. I stand up. “We’re done. If you air one word about Ms. Ventimiglia that isn’t true, my lawyers are going to have a lot of fun with you.”
I leave the set and toss my mic to the sound guy. He catches it and gives me a sympathetic smile. Poor guy has to work with that asshole every day. Sandra follows me wordlessly out of the studio. “Is this what you were freaking out over?”
“Yes, sir. The article went live just a couple of minutes after the interview started.”
I crack my neck, trying to ease some of the tension compressing my spine. “Never again with this asshole. Tell the PR team I won’t do it. This entire network is dead to me for as long as he works for them. TNZ too.” Sandra hustles after me typing notes on her phone, her shoes clicking on the cheap flooring.
“Noted.”
“You know what? The parent companies too. Find every network, every brand they’re associated with, and then cut anything out of my schedule that overlaps.”
“That will most likely interfere with some of your contracts,” she offers.
“I don’t care. If they ask why, you can tell them Lyle Tucker is a leech, and I won’t work with companies that give him a platform. Give me my phone, please.”
Sandra’s eyes are wide, but she doesn’t argue. I take my phone and power it back on. There’s a veritable mountain of new voicemails and text messages, but there’s only one from Aria. One from the only person I’m concerned about right now.
“Carson, it’s Aria. Duh, you probably know that. I just got a weird phone call from some asshat at TNZ. He’s claiming that you’re paying me to be his ‘professional companion’, which I’m pretty sure is code for expensive whore, and—Oh, Christ…” her voice breaks as she trails off.
My hands are shaking as I call her back. It rings and rings but goes to voicemail. I try three more times, but don’t get an answer. On the last try, I leave her a message.
“Aria, it’s going to be okay. I promise, I’ll get it retracted. I’ll clear everything up…” I press my palm to my forehead as we reach the back door. I can already hear the reporters through the door. I don’t want anything they’re going to shout recorded for her to hear. “Call me back as soon as you get this. I lo—I’ll talk to you soon. I miss you.”
I shoot text message after text message, first to Aria, then my PR people. How in the fuck did this break without them knowing anything? Sandra stares at me and, for once, she looks lost for words.