Dirty. Sexy. Love.[*Complete*]

Chapter Six -- Jez

Jez

After showering at home, I styled my hair and put on one of what I called my press-breaking outfits. A tight fitting short black skirt, a matching black vest and a white shirt with French cuffs with little silver brass-knuckle cufflinks. For the winter, I had a matching jacket, but it was far too hot out for it. Trading in my cutch for a black briefcase, I slipped on my favorite pair of Gucci sunglasses and the Louboutin's I only wore when I knew I was going to be on camera and got into my car.

The first thing I did before even putting the key in the ignition was to let the office know about the clusterfuck Asher started. We called it priming the machine, but that so-called mechanism was one giant pile of worthless. I'd never once used one of the ideas churned up by the partners. They could quiet controversy well enough, but Unusual Things would get a boost from what Asher did; even if it was beyond mind-numbingly stupid to attack a man in broad daylight, no matter how much Eric Stevens deserved that and more. Honestly, I'd be lying if I said that Asher hadn't endeared himself to me to some degree—if only he'd had the sense to be more discreet.

Sitting in the driver's seat, I stared at my eyes in the rear-view mirror for a moment. Every move made had to be carefully calculated. When dealing with celebrities, however, sometimes it ended up as me trying to play four-dimensional chess with a fucking checkers set which happened to be missing a few pieces. Sighing I got out of the car and instead sent a text out to the agency's car service. It was the smarter move and gave me more options.

Minutes after I pressed send, a black town car pulled up in front of my modest townhouse, and I primed myself for the feeding frenzy. Not driving freed up time for me to glance over how the whole thing was playing on social media. It was overwhelmingly positive, Eric Stevens resigned from his hospital bed. He 'fell down the stairs' according to news reports. The band and Asher were trending on Twitter, with those #RelationshipGoals right alongside it followed by clips of him destroying the car.

My phone rang, and I groaned before answering. It was Calvin Frazier, the head of Calibur Records' in-house PR team—he'd been trying to poach me forever.

"Rue here."

"Rumor has it that neither of us will be sleeping tonight."

"Oh? I just checked everything, and it doesn't look half that bad from my side."

"Okay, I was bluffing. And I've called because I have a gift. There's a model named Alissa Jacobs, a super hot commodity, and she's come to us directly about what Eric Stevens did to her last year when he scouted her for a record deal. And she's only nineteen." Of course she was, he has a type doesn't he?

I took a deep breath and suddenly wished I'd maybe taken Asher up on the yoga offer that morning. Instead, all that mindful breathing I did accomplished was centering my inner bitch goddess.

"Gee and I wonder when she reported what he did. So did someone drop the ball over there or did you fuckers know this whole time what that motherfucker had been doing for the last ten years at least?" I wanted nothing more at that moment than to scream and just utterly destroy something. Without the option, I was left to clench my jaw and pick at my skirt.

"You know I can't discuss it, but I will admit that we fucked up, not to the extent we did, but in general. Should I kiss your feet and beg for forgiveness, Mistress?" His tone was snide, but I didn't even bristle at the accusations anymore. Four years ago, I might have freaked out a little, but I'd grown up enough to accept the comments for what they were—gibes at me being ruthless which was more or less what I was.