Celebrity Dirt: A Fake Relationship Romantic Suspense Standalone

  Celebrity Dirt

  Copyright © 2021 J.D. Hollyfield

  Editor: Word Nerd Editing

  Proofing: Novel Mechanic

  Formatting: Champagne Book Design

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by an information and retrieval system without express written permission from the Author/Publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  About This Book

  More from J.D. Hollyfield

  Epigraph

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Keep up to date on all things J.D. Hollyfield

  More from J.D. Hollyfield

  Acknowledgements

  To my amazing team who carries me all the way to the publish line.

  You’re the true celebrities.

  Since day one, working as a gossip columnist at Celebrity dirt, Chicago’s trendiest tabloid magazine, has been cutthroat. Now, after three long years of chasing that big break, it’s finally my turn.

  It’s simple:

  Steal an invite, pretend to be somebody else, get the dirt, make a name for myself.

  Sounds easy, right?

  That’s until I realized that somebody else is the same person who has a target on their back by Chicago’s most notorious mob boss.

  But he’s not my biggest problem. No, my biggest problem would be the mob boss’s broody, sexy right-hand man with a serious chip on his shoulder who tells me the only way to survive is to trust and do what he says…

  Now, I have to figure out how to play by his rules while getting the story and somehow not end up six feet under—or worse, under him.

  Dirty Little Secret Duet

  Bad Daddy

  Sweet Little Lies

  Love Not Included Series

  Life in a Rut, Love not Included

  Life Next Door

  My So Called Life

  Life as We Know It

  Standalones

  Faking It

  Love Broken

  Sundays are for Hangovers

  Conheartists

  Lake Redstone

  Junkie

  Chicks, Man

  Paranormal/Fantasy

  Sinful Instincts

  Unlocking Adeline

  #HotCom Series

  Passing Peter Parker

  Creed’s Expectations

  Exquisite Taste

  2 Lovers Series

  Text 2 Lovers

  Hate 2 Lovers

  Thieves 2 Lovers

  Four Father Series

  Blackstone

  Four Sons Series

  Hayden

  There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you.

  —Maya Angelou

  “Jesus, Addy, you’re late again. Get in there before Craig has a shit fit, and we all suffer.”

  I race past Stu, the magazine’s senior editor, into the small newsroom, and throw myself into the closest open seat. Sadly, that seat happens to be at the front of the conference table, right next to Craig, my boss.

  “Ms. Finch, late again I see. Remind me why we keep you employed here?”

  The rest of the tabloid columnists at Celebrity Dirt laugh, and my cheeks blaze the color of my red underwear, soon to match my maroon bra. “Sorry, sir. Traffic was horrible. A bad accident on Lake Shore Drive.”

  “Well, why don’t you write about it so I can trash that storyline too? Now…” He turns to the rest of the staff as I sink down in my chair. “We’ve just entered into the summer rush. As you should all know, because I fucking pay you to know, this means bathing suit season. Rooftop parties. Mindless celebrities drinking too many martinis and forgetting people are watching. Those people are you! Do what I hired you to do. Go search the local hotspots for celebrities people give a shit about. I’m talkin’ Post Malone’s beach parties, Kanye’s clubs, wherever the latest sex scandal’s secret underground hangout is. I don’t give a shit if you crash Oprah’s reading club, just get me some goddamn juice!”

  Rebecca Haines, junior journalist, raises her hand, glittery, cat-like nails catching the sunlight from the wrap-around window. “Question! Do we get specific picks per our ranking? Since I’m above some of these fools, I think I should get the top leads. Sports celebrities, as we know, are my strong suit.”

  “Yeah, strong suiting them into bed,” Bill Irish from marketing mutters, causing a few chuckles.

  Rebecca takes her notepad and slaps it against his bicep. “Fuck you, Bill. At least I don’t pay for sex—or is that not the reason your wife’s leaving you?”

  A flow of “oh shit” and “damn” scatters across the room, and Craig slams his hand on the table, eyes transfixed on his phone. “Hold on. Whatever I just told you, scratch it. I’ve got a lead about a huge fucking celebrity gala at Navy Pier.”

  “What is this, a kid’s column?” Justin Lester, junior editor, asks, tapping his pen on the table. “Gonna write an explosive story about teenagers making out on the Ferris Wheel?” He laughs, then shuts up fast when Craig takes his pen and darts it forward, hitting him between the eyes. Justin grunts, holding his nose. “Shit!”

  “Shit is the creek you’re going to be up if you don’t shut up and listen. We all know Chicago’s hosting the AMA awards this year. Well, a source just told me there’s an exclusive, invite-only party happening there tomorrow night.” His eyes move back and forth, his face lighting up with excitement. “Fuck me, this list is huge. Post Malone, Taylor Swift, Justin Bieber, Lady Gaga!”

  “If it’s invite-only, how do we get in?” Bill asks, ducking as Craig whips another pen.

  “Jesus, is this your first day? How are you all still employed here?” Turning, he picks up a dry erase marker and scribbles four words on the board.

  Find a ticket in.

  He turns back. “This is so elite, only one hundred invitations are being dispersed to exclusive media and local influencers. Invitations will be personally hand-delivered today. Your job is to intercept those. Get your hands on one and get into that goddamn party. Whoever does and gets me a story gets the open senior journalist spot. Whoever doesn’t, you’re covering the tampon art exhibit at the Daily Plaza and annual summer American Girl Doll showing at Water Tower Place.”

  Everyone grumbles. Well…mostly me. I’ve had to cover the American Girl Doll premiere the last three years. I’m still waiting for my big break. I’m what you call the bottom of the totem pole. The one who’s never fast enough to get the big stories, secure enough to follow through with any risky leads, or bold enough to take the reins. That’s why, after three long years at the small tabloid, I’m still stuck as a
n associate columnist.

  It’s not that I’m a terrible journalist. It’s that there are so many bigger stories out there to report on. Why pour all my blood, sweat, and tears into D-list celebs’ secret fad diets—surprise, it’s cocaine!—when I could be exposing real-life issues like Chicago’s misuse of city funds and the serious corruption in politics? I want real interviews, real stories. Instead, I’m chasing mindless gossip.

  I raise my hand, and Craig rolls his eyes in annoyance. He flicks his wrist for me to speak, and I sit up straighter. “Yes, thanks. So I thought maybe I could interview the mayor? There’s been some buzz regarding his office and pretty heavy racketeering charges—”

  “Pfft, easy there, Katie Couric,” Rebecca snickers. Pulling out a nail file, she starts to saw at her pinky nail. “If you did that, how would the world know about the newest arrival of kids’ toys?” Stu laughs but quickly catches himself and sticks his head into his notebook. “Back to the important stuff. How the hell do we know where these invites are being delivered?”

  I slump back in my chair.

  “In about five seconds, Hilda will forward you the guest list. It has names, addresses, locations of P.O. boxes. Snatch one, and you’re in.” Phones start to ding around the room, and all attention diverts to them, scanning the email. “Why are you still sitting! Get the fuck out of here!”

  Everyone flies out of their seat—everyone but me. My over-sized cardigan gets hung up on the back of my chair and I fall back into my seat. “Jesus. Addy, do yourself a favor and just head to Water Tower. Hope some of Chicago’s home-based, D-list celebrity feels like building their street cred and takes their little spawn to buy a tacky doll.” He turns on his heel and storms out, leaving me trapped in my chair, wrestling my cardigan free.

  By the time I make it back to my desk, the office is a ghost town. Everyone grabbed their gear and went in search of an invite. Ever since my first day at Celebrity Dirt, it’s been cutthroat. I’m not sure how I’ve managed to stay here this long. Playing dirty to get leads and storylines isn’t the way I want to move up. Maybe that’s another reason I’m still at the bottom. Believe it or not, Rebecca and I started together. We’d even become friends—then the first gossip lead posted. Some people will do anything to work their way to the top—even if it requires being on the bottom.

  Sitting on my yoga ball, I open the email about the gala, and the beautiful emblem on the front of the envelope immediately catches my eye. More screenshots of the invitation appear, then the guest list, and I scan the names. Jealousy swirls inside me: movie stars, political figures, music artists. By now, every single person has been stalked. Their mailboxes ransacked. As much as I want to be the lead on this story, I won’t.

  Closing all my search engine tabs about Mayor Brighton, I reach for the small bottle of fish food, twist off the cap, and sprinkle a pinch into my fishbowl. “Oh well, Anderson Cooper. Next time.” Closing my laptop, I grab my purse, stuff my notepad in my shoulder bag, and head out to Chicago’s infamous Water Tower Place.

  The sound of over-excited girls rattles my eardrums as I walk into Chicago’s historic landmark, a gigantic skyscraper right off Michigan Avenue filled with a shopping mall, theatre, and condos. As I pass a family staring too closely at the mall directory, I lean in and say, “The store is on the main level, but I would take the elevator to the second. It’s most likely where the line’s at.” Then I head up the escalators and make my way toward the elevator, stopping to accept a mint chocolate from a vendor standing outside the candy store. I haven’t eaten breakfast yet and I’m starving.

  Every year, it’s the same. Screaming kids, yelling moms, and a whole lot of money spent on an overpriced doll and her entire wardrobe, only to bring the doll home and have their precious child botch it by cutting the hair into a sideways bob. I mean, don’t people know there are kids in third-world countries who’ve never even owned a toy? And whatever happened to an old-fashioned Cabbage Patch Kid? Or even better, Barbie? The need to spoil and teach our children that getting expensive things is our right is so wrong. It reminds me of the piece I pitched to Craig last month about exposing the truth behind abuse allegations from major international toy workers—another story that needs to be told—but was shut down.

  As I wait for the elevator, I watch a mother drag her young child out of a store, kicking and screaming about how she hates her for not letting her get the shoes she just had to have. The mother looks ready to leave her own kid right there in the middle of the foyer. It’s hard not to shake my head, ashamed for the child and her poor mother. A wave of jealousy washes over me as I envision my coworkers chasing the thrills and excitement of the exclusive invitations that will get them into the most talked about gala of the summer. It might not be a story about the corruption in our city’s office, but it has to be better than bratty kids and overrated plastic dolls.

  I stomp my foot against the marble floor, frustration getting the better of me at how long it’s taking the darn elevator to reach the first floor. I should be out there scoping out real news. Stories that will make a difference. If Rebecca hadn’t cut me off, maybe Craig would have heard me out and finally let me follow my lead. “Stupid Rebecca and her—”

  “How utterly embarrassing. That woman is practically dragging that thing across the floor. I’d leave the little tyrant here. Then again, I know better than to have devil children.” My attention snaps to the harping woman and her friend, suddenly standing next to me. The woman’s hair is as gold as the sun, and I bet as smooth as silk, unlike my brunette mop. Her makeup is flawless, her face glowing with perfection. And that outfit. God, I wish…wait—holy smokes! That’s Francesca Vaughn, the biggest influencer in Chicago! Known for wreaking havoc through all of Chicago’s nightlife. Posting everything from pictures with famous DJs to smoking pot with notorious artists. Rebecca has been trying to get an exclusive with her for months.

  I mentally eek!

  This could be my big break.

  Ask her a few questions, get a quick shot, and be done. I can say she offered me drugs and to hang at some lavish party. Our readership won’t know any different. It’s a gossip magazine, for Christ’s sake—stretching the truth is what we do. Then I can put my focus back on the mayor’s story. If I just present the entire article to Craig, there’s no way he’ll turn me down.

  I take a deep breath and compose myself. This is it. I open my mouth to lock in this lead when the mother and her flailing kid stumble and bump into Francesca, knocking her into me. Her large Gucci handbag flies from her dainty arm, items spilling across the department store floor.

  “For the fucking love! What the fuck!” she screeches, taking me down. Booze and pot linger on her breath. The frantic mother continues her battle, dragging her child out of the store without stopping to assist. Francesca’s friend scrambles to the ground, grabbing her purse and helping her up. I sit up, dizzy from my body having saved her head from hitting the marble. I shake off the pain in my brain and help gather her scattered belongings.

  “Oh goodness! Let me help you.” I reach for a tube of lip gloss and a bottle of pills. “People can be so pushy, am I right?” I babble, snatching up another lip gloss, trying to gather my thoughts on how to approach her. “I mean, who treats their parents like that?” Another tube… Jesus, how much lip gloss does one need? I pick up her pack of cigarettes and a—

  My hand freezes.

  The material below my palm is smooth—an envelope made of what feels like satin. My eyes lock on the emblem stamped on the front. The symbol from the email. She has an invitation. But how? I don’t remember seeing her name on the list. My breath catches. I try to stop time as I figure out what I do next. Francesca is still swearing as her friend adjusts her hair. Too busy throwing accusations at everyone around her and so boozed up and high, she wouldn’t notice if I slipped it right in my pocket and walked away. It’s also your way to finally earn Craig’s respect, so he’ll take your journalistic talents seriously! Ugh, it’s not ethi
cal to steal to get ahead. Neither is sleeping your way up the ladder—take it! Shoot. Without another thought, I slide the invitation under my butt and slip it into my back pocket while Francesca is preoccupied adjusting her bra.

  Not caring that she hasn’t collected all her things, she turns her nose up at me. “Excuse you too! Taking me down like that. God! People are so desperate when it comes to famous people. Someone should drag you out of here.” The elevator finally makes its appearance. The doors open, and she steps over me and walks in, turning back to snarl at me. Losing all sense of manners or work ethic, I reach up and take a quick snapshot of her just as the doors close.

  Night of the Celebrity Gala

  I stare at myself in the mirror, looking back at a stranger. A good-looking stranger. I barely recognize myself in the long, red silk evening gown I purchased…temporarily. It cost more than three months’ rent—hence why I have the price tag tucked away in my bra to return the moment the gala is over. I apply a generous amount of the new tube of red gloss Francesca abandoned to my full lips, smacking them together to even it out.

  Get in, get the story, get out.

  I catch a cab to Navy Pier, so I don’t ruin my dress on the ‘L’. The Pier is lit up like a Christmas tree with the media and their flashing cameras. So much for this being an exclusive event. Bodyguards surround the entrance, guiding people to specific lines. I fight through the chaos of screaming fans and pesky reporters. By the time I make it to the entrance specified on the invitation, my nerves are wrapped around my throat, choking me. I anxiously watch others, worried I have “I’m a fraud” stamped on my forehead. Will someone know I’m not who I say I am? Francesca is well-known. If anyone puts the name to a face, I’m toast. What if she figured out I stole her invitation and security is waiting for me? I don’t have anyone to bail me out if I get arrested for false impersonation. My skin starts to tingle with panic, a thin layer of perspiration building along my forehead.