1 player, p.1
#1 Player, page 1
#1 Player
Published by T Gephart
Copyright 2017 T Gephart
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This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places and scenarios are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.
Cover by:
Hang Le
Editing by:
Nichole Strauss, Insight Editing Services
Interior Design & Formatting by:
Christine Borgford, Type A Formatting
To my Mum,
Who doesn’t run a whorehouse, but who waved me goodbye—with love and understanding—when I was 18 (and 20, 21, and 23) because my heart was desperate to wander. I needed to find my place in the world, turns out it was here all along.
Contents
#1 Player
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Books by T Gephart
EVERY YEAR, RICHARD BENTON INVITEs the beautiful and noteworthy to fill the hallowed ballroom of The Plaza for his coveted New York Impresses event. A literal who’s who, where the worlds of Hollywood, politics, sports and music collide in one big hot mess of who has the biggest ego. Here’s a hint . . . none of us give a shit.
Ugh.
My finger hammered on the key until I was once again looking at a blank page.
Lance Priestly had concertgoers on their feet as he shook his Levi-clad ass at Madison Square Garden on Friday. The not-so-bright Tennessee native, who is short on talent but big on sex appeal, flashed his dumb-but-still-charming smile at the crowd, gaslighting hundreds of otherwise smart people.
God damn it!
The flashing black line ate the words, banishing them to the never-to-be-read abyss.
Manhattan, NYC—Lila Callan, journalist for The New York Times, was found dead at her desk earlier this afternoon by her editor, Dick Voss.
While Lila had dreamt of a promising career contributing to the world in a meaningful way, she soon found that sharp editorial pieces and in-depth reporting were left to the senior members of the writing staff, leaving her shit out of luck. Of course, her personal brand of flare and insight was welcome in the arts section where she was relegated until Karen Harrow came back from procreating for a second time in eighteen months. RIP Karen’s vagina, we were all pulling for you, boo.
Lila’s cause of death is still pending a coroner’s inquiry, but early speculation leads investigators to believe she literally died of boredom. Expired in a lethargic sea of malaise, and a bunch of other two-dollar words she’ll never be able to use while describing Bella—last-name-unpronounceable—’s tiny ass or RuRu LaRu’s bountiful bosom.
She leaves behind two loving parents, a small posse of cherished friends, and a vibrator called Ryan—Ryan York, he was not named after you, so deflate your ego.
Her final thoughts were of an earth-shattering orgasm while clutching a Pulitzer Prize—sadly she perished with neither.
May her soul rest in eternal peace.
My hand hovered over the send button, itching to submit the editorial, which would most likely be accepted as my resignation . . . but I didn’t.
It would be stupid. More than stupid, it would be career suicide. Because, as much as I was bored out of my ever-loving mind, I was one of the lucky ones. Landing a job at The New York Times was the Holy Grail. Usually you had to wait until some crusty senior journalist retired or moved on to pen some novel about a past president or the changing political climate. So, that I was even here in the first place was a miracle in itself. Most editors had taken one look at me, seen my blonde hair, blue eyes, and slender frame and assumed I’d sucked cock to get my 4.0 GPA. Because clearly you couldn’t be smart and attractive, someone call CNN to confirm.
So yes, I knew things could be worse, even if my current mood didn’t reflect my feelings of good fortune. And working at The Times had always been my dream, so there was no way I would toss away the opportunity. Even if it was going to take a while before I graduated from the kiddie table.
But help me, Lord Jesus, I was bored.
My long-time best friend and usual partner-in-crime, Tia, had hooked up with a movie star. You heard that correctly. A movie star. The sexy, rich, successful kind, who was better looking than should be humanly allowed. So it’s hardly surprising that our adventures of general mayhem had been curtailed. While she split her time between L.A. and New York, sharing her bed with Eric Larsson—the hot, sexy movie star in question—I spent quality time with a vibrator, eating cold Chinese takeaway, drinking alone while I met deadlines. Not even good deadlines, I doubted my editor would even notice if I didn’t submit my shitty think piece on who was seen at the latest opening of whatever.
Ugh.
Maybe I needed a new vibrator.
“Lila, can I see you in my office?” Dick Voss, my boss and editor, poked his head over the divider of my cubical.
“Sure, be right there.” I smiled sweetly, grabbing a notepad and pen in case the mind-numbing shit he was about to share was important. Ha, doubtful.
“Hey, Dick, what’s up?” I lowered my butt into the seat opposite him.
“Lila, I’ve told you at least a hundred times, it’s Richard, not Dick.” His eyes narrowed as he watched me sit. “I’m beginning to think you call me that just to get a reaction.”
“Moi?” My hand daintily rested on my chest while an adequate amount of shock flashed across my face. “I would never dream of such insubordination. It was just a slip of the tongue. I assure you it won’t happen again.”
We both knew I was lying.
I called him Dick because he was one. While he wasn’t a misogynistic A-hole like some of the other good ole boys in the industry, he was an equal-opportunity prick. Mean, with a tunnel-visioned view that unless you were over the age of forty-five you had nothing worthwhile to contribute—he had a strong distaste for millennials. My twenty-eight years made me just right for his personal brand of loathing. Add in my smart mouth, a better-than-average intelligence and I was probably his least-favorite person. Which of course meant I had a civil duty to antagonize him, flying the flag for young people everywhere. And it also helped pass the time.
“Regardless, I didn’t call you here for that.” He rocked slowly in his office chair as a sly grin crept on his face. “I have an assignment for you.”
“What?” The look of shock no longer manufactured as I sat up straighter in my chair. “An assignment?”
In all the years I’d been working at The Times, I’d never been given an assignment. Tossed suggestions about what I should be writing—aplenty, but something just for me—nada.
“I thought that would get your attention.” His lips spread, his teeth yellowed from excessive coffee and tobacco making an appearance. “I need you to cover the MCM charity event.” He steeled his fingers in true villainous fashion. “In Hollywood.”
MCM, one of the largest studios in Hollywood, threw a charity gala every year to raise money for whichever pet cause their CEOs felt would give them the biggest publicity. Biggest dog and pony show where an award wasn’t given out, and for the starting price of three thousand dollars a ticket, you too could rub shoulders with the famous elite. Except it was invitation only. What? They weren’t going to let just any old nobody in there with all the beautiful people. And if that wasn’t limiting enough, it was also strictly a no-press zone, with cameras and reporters banished to the other side of the red carpet.
“Yeah, last time I checked they didn’t let the press inside.” I smiled, conveniently playing the dumb-blonde routine despite knowing exactly what he was suggesting.
Don’t get me wrong, I absolutely abhorred women who pretended to be inadequate or stupid, it was demeaning. But in some instances, I allowed the loophole. This was one of those times.
“They don’t, but I figured with your connection—” He waved his hand in the air. “—you could get the inside scoop. Imagine the headlines now.” The look of satisfaction barely contained on his smug-ass face.
“Dick.” He was acting like one so that’s what I was calling him. “Assuming I could get access with my connection.” No prizes for guessing he meant I Barbie doll’d up and put the hard word on my BF F and her super-hot leading man. “I’m not in the habit of using my friends for a story. And even if I did lose my mind, became a money-hungry bottom dweller and turned on the people I cared about to further my career, my name would be toast.”
“Richard,” he corrected me, the vein in his neck twitching. “And wasn’t it you who was complaining just the other day how you wanted something meatier, more relevant to report on?”
Oh, please tell me he was not equating that to this. “I was talking about the new health care bill before the senate, or maybe the pharmaceutical company jacking up the price on life-saving drugs. Or even investigating the movement of aluminum helmet wearers who believe the Hadron Collider has shifted us to a parallel universe.” I was a sucker for a conspiracy theory.
“Those stories are all taken.” The leather of his chair creaked as he leaned back, no warmth to his smile. “So, you can head to L.A. and write the story I’ve given you or find me something as equally juicy. But I want it entertainment-based, and interesting. We have enough people in this city popping antidepressants, the art section isn’t supposed to have them reaching for another hit of Valium.”
“Fine.” The eye roll unavoidable as I rose to my feet. “I’ll be on the first flight tomorrow.” I didn’t wait to be excused, giving him a half-hearted wave as I saw myself out.
The nerve of that man. I childishly flipped off the closed door as soon as I’d shut it. There was a snowball’s chance in hell I was going to sell out the closest thing I had to a sister for some bullshit fluff piece. I was still seething as I walked back to my desk.
“Hey, Lila.” Chris from sports leaned up against the wall of my cubicle, his big biceps bulging against the sleeves of his polo. “How are you doin’?”
“Hey, Chris.” I did my best to force the smile. “Doing great.”
He was cute in a quarterback sort of way. Tall, athletic, with hair so shiny I could use the reflection to reapply my lipstick. But I was almost positive he was more in love with himself than he could ever be with any woman. And jocks really weren’t my thing, which is why I’d been dodging his advances for the past three months.
“So, I was thinking.” His eyes dropped to my boobs, his lips spreading into a grin. “The Giants, Jacksonville game is this Sunday at MetLife. Thought you might like to join me.”
Wow, he’d finally worked up the nerve to ask me out and that was the best he could do? I was thinking maybe dinner, or a movie where he tried to slide into second base by the time the credits rolled, but a game? Did he even know me?
“Aren’t you working that game?” I eyed him suspiciously, the question more rhetorical since he’d told me on more than one occasion that he covered almost every game both at home and on the road.
“Well, yeah.” The cocky grin made two dimples pop on his cheeks. “I can get an extra pass for the box. You have press credentials, so it will be no sweat.”
“Well, gee.” I gave the offer some thought for a minute longer than it deserved. “As much as I would love to.” Watching football rated just above a root canal. “I’m heading out of town tomorrow. Maybe some other time.”
“That blows.” Chris looked genuinely disappointed, girls turning him down probably a new occurrence. “Where are you going? You coming back any time soon?”
“L.A.,” I answered, the thought of seeing Tia and chasing some warmer weather making the idea more appealing. “Not sure how long I’ll be gone, but maybe we could do something when I get back?”
Why I had to go and add the last part was beyond me. I was almost positive I wasn’t interested in Chris in any way that was romantic. But, while there was little chance of a relationship blossoming between me and Captain Polo Shirt, it had been a while since I’d dated. And it might be nice to have sex with a real penis for a change. All those muscles. Hopefully the one that counted flexed in all the right places too.
“Yeah, that would be great.” His chest puffed out, his confidence restored. “You know, for a second there I thought you might have been blowing me off.” He shook his head, discounting the thought anyone could be immune to his charm. “But then I realized how ridiculous that would be.”
“Yeah.” I tried to stifle my grimace. “Totally ridiculous.” I punched him lightly in his big, bulgy arm, wondering how much worse the day was going to get. “I’ll call you.”
“Why don’t you give me your number, just in case you lose mine.” He gave me a wink, not so subtly reminding me I’d yet to use the number in the three months since he’d given it to me.
“Suuuuure.” I hoped the cringe was only inward and not plastered all over my face. “I’ll write it down for you.” I flipped over my notepad and scribbled my number against my better judgment.
Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad? While he didn’t seem overly bright, he’d always been polite. And sure, he did spend an obscene amount of time checking out my boobs—hard to avoid those suckers, I’d been blessed/cursed with ample boobage—but he’d been nothing but nice to me. Plus, he was attractive; most of the men around the office looked like a walking advertisement for either cholesterol medication or erectile dysfunction. See your doctor to check if inflate-a-dick is right for you.
I should give him a chance. It wasn’t like every man I dated had to turn into some long, serious relationship. Besides, it had been so long since I’d had real sex it was possible I regained my virginity. I made a mental note to investigate hymen regeneration later.
“Here it is.” I tore the page and handed it to him, the piece of paper folded neatly before sliding into his pocket.
“Thanks. Enjoy L.A.” He tapped the side of my cubicle and then sauntered off, a satisfied grin on his face.
Ugh.
I had issues.
While yes, I was less than twenty-four hours from getting on a plane for a story I hadn’t yet conceived, but it was the interaction between Chris and I that was weighing heavily on my mind.
I had a somewhat skewed view on relationships. It wasn’t that I was a prude, oh no, I loved sex as much as anyone. Probably more so—which I totally blamed on genetics—but I just couldn’t do the casual sex thing.
Not. At. All.
I tried a few years ago, went home with a guy I barely knew who I’d met at a party. By the time we got to the sex part I was so far from aroused, not even lube helped. It felt too contrived, too forced. And without the emotional connection, I just couldn’t come. It was one of the worst sexual experiences of my life, and losing my virginity had been no picnic, so that was saying something.
Funny how it becomes a hang up when your mother runs a gentleman’s club in Vegas and most of the boys you grew up with assumed you were a whore.
Of course, my mother had never been a prostitute either—that had been my grandma—my mom had been the enterprising young woman who decided if grandma was going to sell her ass, she might as well be making a profit. So while other teenagers were working part-time jobs at the mall, my mom was coordinating grandma’s johns. Which I guess made her a pimp.
But not content with thinking small, she took some classes in community college and before you knew it, she’d parlayed her little business into a major Nevada attraction. And while it was completely legal—almost everything was in Vegas—she got the law’s attention in a different way, the local sheriff falling desperately in love with her. Yeah, you heard that right, my father was a sheriff while my mother was a madam.
What sounded like a tagline for a dodgy B-grade movie—and don’t even start with a Freudian analysis—was actually my life, and had I not been raised in an obscene amount of love, I would probably be in therapy.
And other than a strong aversion to one-night stands, I’d escaped relatively unscathed. Although it was also probably one of the reasons why I hadn’t had a serious boyfriend until I’d moved away from home and gone to college in New York.
Moving away had been intentional. While not all women in Vegas wore sequins on their boobs, I just didn’t fit in in the desert. So the big city it was, and there was none better than NYC. Ironically, it felt more like home than home ever did, which is why I didn’t move back after I graduated. That, and obviously I wanted to be a big-time journalist.
Shaking off thoughts that were way too deep for a Thursday, I ignored the noise of the office and picked up my cell and dialed.
