Hollywood Confessions Read Online Free PDF Page B

uncomfortable.
     
    Felix leaned in, coming almost nose to nose with me. His voice was low, intimate, barely audible above the humming newsroom just outside his door. “You might be good in bed, Allie, but if all you were was a great lay, I’d have fired you months ago.”
     
    I’m not sure what I expected him to say, but his frank language took me by surprise. I swallowed, opened my mouth to respond.
     
    But he cut me off, stepping away and diffusing the moment as quickly as he’d charged it. “Go home. Quick. And tomorrow I want an interview with Davies on my desk by five. Sharp.”
     
    I cleared my throat and nodded. “Right. Five.”
     
    “ And this lead better pan out,” he warned me, “or the story is Tina’s, no matter how low your necklines go.”
     
    I opened my mouth to protest, but it died on my tongue as I saw the corner of his lips quirk up. He was mocking me. Jerk.
     
    “ You’ll have your story by four ,” I countered. Then pushed out of his office.
     
 
     
    * * *
     
 
     
    As much as I was itching to get to Davies, I knew Felix was right. The best time to catch him would be at the studios tomorrow. And it would probably be a good idea to conduct the interview sans glitter. So instead of diving into my headline story, I hopped in my Bug and headed toward home for a much-needed shower.
     
    I lived in a one bedroom on the bottom level of a fourplex on the outskirts of Glendale, tucked up against the foothills of the San Gabriel Mountains. It was as rural as you could get in L.A. Which didn’t really mean rural rural, but trees lined the streets, the hills provided a backdrop of green when you could see them through the smog haze, and at night I only heard the distant hum of a single freeway instead of four. All in all, it was the most peaceful escape I could find on a tabloid reporter’s budget.
     
    I parked in my reserved spot beneath our building and took the stairs up to my place on the ground floor. While the outside of the building was standard Southern California grey stucco, I did my best to make the interior my own. The brown renter’s carpet on the floor was covered in colorful throw rugs in shades of purple and pink. The free couch I’d gotten off Craigslist was covered in a white slipcover, accented by hot pink pillows I’d sewn myself, featuring little gold tassels at the corners. A vase of gerbera daisies sat on my pink coffee table, and I’d hand painted the plain wooden kitchen table and chairs with pink flowers and yellow smiley faces. My last boyfriend had said walking into my place was like walking into Barbie’s dream apartment. I’ll admit, it was a lot of pink. But pink made me happy. And if you can’t be happy in your own home, what have you got?
     
    I set my keys down on the pink end table by the door and grabbed the stack of mail that had been shoved through my door slot while I’d been at work. A Macy’s bill, a Banana Republic bill, a Limited bill, and a coupon for half off graphic T’s at Old Navy. I ripped the coupon out, put it in my purse then shoved the bills into the heart-shaped cookie jar on my counter. Seeing bills did not make me happy.
     
    I took a quick shower, removing most of the glitter (though a couple patches of stubborn wax still clung to my ankles) then dug into the refrigerator for dinner. Half of a pizza and a salad with low-fat dressing stared back at me. I did a mental eeenie meenie minie moe , but it was pretty clear which one was going to win out. I opened the pizza box and indulged in a Hawaiian with extra pineapple. While it always made me feel better about myself to buy salad, it usually just sat in my fridge until it wilted, died, and I went out to buy more. I mentally calculated how much time I had to do on the stepper at the gym to make up for the Hawaiian calories and decided it was well worth it.
     
    I took my pizza into the living room and plopped on the sofa. Immediately my lap was filled with a white, fluffy ball