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Backstreet Boy, we’re in the big leagues. And big leagues mean big budgets mean money for perks, like promotions. But don’t you worry about that, Gregg. You just keep doing what you’re doing.”
    Morgan smiled.
    Why did big cheeses like to say that? I heard the just-keep-doing-what-you’re-doing crap at every performance review. It only made you feel worse and more powerless than you already did. After all, what you were doing wasn’t getting you anywhere but brushed off. Maybe Gwen and Jeremy and Remke would like to try living in New York on twenty-six thousand a year, reading manuscripts on the subway to and from work. Maybe Remke would like to choose between buying cigarettes or dinner on the night before payday because he was totally and completely broke.
    Okay, okay—I was done whining. And if I quit smoking, I’d be able to afford the super-sized chicken fajita burrito from Blockheads, the cheap Mexican restaurant Eloise and I always went to, right? I knew that, okay? But how could I quit smoking when I couldn’t even get through a conversation with Remke without uttering an um?
    Remke tapped his pen on his Armani-covered thigh. “What are you both still doing here? Shoo. Go. We’re done. Where’s Black!”
    Morgan lifted her nose as she walked past me out of Remke’s office.
    â€œThanks, William,” I said. “About the Nutley release. I was, um, really proud of that myself, and—”
    â€œThat’s fine, Gregg. Thanks. Close the door on your way, out, will you?”
    Well, at least I’d gotten a compliment. And a maybe. Well, more a goal. My glum spirits perked up a bit. I’d gotten more than a just-keep-doing-what-you’re-doing, I realized. Remke had pretty much outlined a defined thing I had to do: get Natasha’s book on The New York Times extended bestseller list. That was the only way I’d get promoted. Unless Jeremy really did manage to sign the Backstreet Boy and up the budget for everyone. But unless the Boy was gay, I doubted Jeremy could work his magic quickly, if at all.
    â€œGregg, where are you taking Natasha Nutley to lunch today?”
    Hand on the doorknob, I turned around. “Um, the Blue Water Grill?”
    He stopped thumbing. “Are you asking me or telling me?”
    What was wrong with me? Why was I a blubbering mess with this man? Why was I so insecure all the time?I could only be grateful Morgan Morgan wasn’t around to shoot me evil smiles.
    â€œThe Blue Water Grill,” I corrected with a firm nod.
    â€œFine. Keep it under a hundred. And keep her talking, too. This is the big time, Gregg. Natasha’s a big fish for Posh. I’ve entrusted her to you instead of Black because you’ve got the school connection. Women yak, especially when they go back that far. Get her to confide in you. The goal is to help her reveal every sordid detail of the affair and to sign her to a sequel, focusing on her months in rehab. Rehab’s sexy now. Do your best, Gregg.”
    Maybe he’d forgotten that he’d already given me that speech five times since assigning her memoir to me last week. “I will,” I said, and slipped out of his office.
    Rehab is sexy now. Remke was such a jerk. Sometimes I wanted to take my fist and punch him right in his facelifted face!
    I had bigger problems at the moment, though. Like how I was supposed to take Natasha Nutley to lunch at the Blue Water Grill without going over a hundred bucks. I’d have to say no to an appetizer or a salad, order the pathetic filet of sole and a glass of tap water, and watch Natasha fork the best salmon in the universe into her perfectly outlined mouth. Correction: I’d have to watch her order it, then eat only three bites, so she could retain her supermodel figure.
    I’d fill up on the Blue Water’s incredible bread. The bread was free.
    â€œMorgan!” Remke screeched from behind me.