57
CONNOR COBALT
“Does Rose give better blow jobs after two-plus years or does she still suck?” Scott asks with a snide smile. “Pun not intended.” He saw the first time she ever blew me—the first time she ever gave oral to anyone—since it was recorded in the bathroom.
Fry his dick.
Rose’s hostile voice returns to my head.
I internally grin. I can have her again as my conscience and do this right. I’m certain of it now. “She’s a fast learner,” is all I say.
I watch him sloppily eat a bar burger in a dim booth of Saturn Bridges. We’re shoved in the back corner where no one can see us, no fans or journalists lurking.
He licks his fingers. “Daisy could probably teach her a few tricks.”
I wait for the perfunctory laugh, but it never arrives. He’s serious.
I lean back and take a swig of beer, relaxed. Inside, my blood begins to boil, and I concentrate on loosening my grip from the bottle. “Experience?” I wonder with a lighthearted laugh. The game has shifted just slightly, and I remind myself to pivot my strategy later to accommodate it.
Scott grabs his burger again. “Let’s put it this way, I would pay her ten grand to suck my cock right now, but her psychotic boyfriend would never let me near her.” He takes a large bite.
Because Ryke values and respects women—he’s psychotic. Lo called Scott a “human turd” yesterday but I honestly think that’s being too kind. “What about during Princesses of Philly?” I wonder. “Ryke wasn’t with Daisy back then.”
He chews and swigs his beer. “They were still together all the time. I wish he left her with me for ten minutes. I would’ve had that little blonde bitch on her knees so fast.” He licks his fingers again.
I smile and stomach this lie, “I always thought she liked to suck cock.” Richard, ew. I know, Rose. I might as well be gnawing on rotten meat, the distaste sliding down my throat.
He nods in agreement, and then points his burger at me, the lettuce falling out of the bun. “You should fire your PR person, by the way.” He dunks his burger in mustard. “The fact that she told you to lie about sleeping with a bunch of men is fucking retarded. I can think of twenty different publicity stunts that’d top it.”
He thinks Naomi advised me to say I’ve slept with the three guys but leave an open-ended conclusion, so I’d gain more attention. To me, the media attention was the adverse effect of my speech, a consequence that I knew would happen. To Scott, it’s a benefit.
“I might,” I lie, leaning back and taking another swig of a beer. “Do you have a publicist?”
Scott pops a fry in his mouth. “No, I don’t need one.” Rose growls in my head, I hope he chokes on that fry.
I feign concern, touching my lips, my brows cinching.
“What?” He chews slower.
“I stopped by GBA’s offices yesterday to talk about advertising for Cobalt Inc.—nothing for Princesses of Philly.” I did actually meet with advertising at GBA for Cobalt Inc. yesterday, on purpose just to cover my tracks. “I wouldn’t go over your head with the production for season two.”
“You better not, you dick,” he jokes with a laugh. He wipes his mouth with a napkin and leans back like me, attention now mine. It’s like hooking a fish in the throat. I watch him pick up his beer. “And?”
“I overheard some things.” I didn’t hear anything out of the ordinary, but hearsay is hardly verifiable one way or the other. I scratch my neck like this is hard for me to share. “I’m telling you this because I think it’s in your best interest to know. Otherwise, I’d just shrug it off.” I gesture my beer to him. “So Princesses of Philly came up offhand, and I asked if they knew you, since you were in charge of season one. The execs…” I cringe.
“What’d they say?” he snaps, his fist tightening around the bottle.
“They mockingly called you the porn guy, and they didn’t seem to take you seriously.”
Steam might as well be blowing out of his fucking ears, and I sincerely hope he grows fond of these sentiments. He’s going to be asphyxiated with them in the next few weeks.
“I know you’re looking at a high-level position at GBA if we sign to a season two of the reality show, and I have a lot of experience in the corporate world. Reputation can make or break you, and being the porn guy will make it difficult to acquire respect from people who matter. It’s one thing for GBA to promise you twenty-year security in a job with high turnover, and it’s another for you to have purpose there. They could put you in a cubicle and tell you to shut up.”
He groans out a couple swear words and then glowers at the wall. He doesn’t even question the validity of my statement. I’m probably his best friend in Philadelphia now, so why would he?
And then he points at me with his beer bottle. “What do you think I should do?”
What do you think I should do? I’d call him an idiot, but I’m more of a genius for placing a gun in the middle of a table, telling him to pick it up and shoot whoever I want. In this case, I’m going to tell him to turn it around on himself and pull the trigger.
“You need to distance yourself from the distribution of the sex tapes in some way.” I leave it open-ended for Scott, so he’ll feel like it’s his idea, not mine. “Let me ask you this: what do you want more, to profit off the remaining undistributed sex tapes or to gain an executive position at GBA while being more useful than a stapler or a fax machine?”
I know which holds more importance to him, which is why he’s going to give me what I want without a single hurt feeling.
This is how you never make enemies.
“GBA,” he says. He lets out a vexed breath. “I’d have given Rose the sex tapes if she just fucking signed to the season two.”
“She doesn’t want to make a deal with you,” I tell him. “But she’s finding benefits in reviving the reality show. I convinced her that the exposure would help Calloway Couture Babies, so I think she’ll come around within the next month.” Not true. Everyone is still adamantly against a second season. It was never going to happen.
“I don’t want to give the tapes away without something in return, and I don’t want the press to keep stating who I fucking sold them to.” Celebrity Crush likes to track the distribution of the sex tapes, and they always cite Scott Van Wright in the articles.
For once, Celebrity Crush’s tactless journalism may spin in our favor.
I wait for him to sort out different scenarios in his head, and I bite into my blue cheese burger. After a full minute, I feel his eyes set on me.
“Would you buy them off me?” he asks. “It’d be a silent transaction. That way I’d get some money, and you can get off to them or whatever the fuck you want.”
I shrug, not at all eager. “It depends how much you want for them.”
“I’d take fifty grand for the rest at this point.” That’s nothing. He’s received over a million for just one sex tape before.
“How many undistributed tapes are left?” I wonder.
“I’ll show you,” he says. “I’ll call my lawyer, you call yours, and I’ll sell you all the rights back tomorrow.” He’s the eager one, ready to patch his sullied reputation before he’s even officially begun working at GBA.