Beloved Liar (The Reed Rivers Trilogy Book 3), page 21
“Sure thing.”
“I had such a hard time writing this one. You know, getting it right. I kept going back and forth on what information to include. What to exclude. It was important to me that the piece has journalistic integrity and a strong voice. I didn’t want it to be nothing but a sappy love letter to my boyfriend.”
She smiles. But I can’t muster one in return. Now that I love Georgina more than life itself, now that her dreams are mine, how could I possibly nix a single word of this damned article—even if she’s included information about me I don’t want to share with the world? If I’m forced to choose between supporting Georgina’s career and ambition, versus guarding my own need for privacy and control, how could I possibly choose anything but what Georgina wants?
She stands, her excitement palpable. “So, can I grab my computer now?”
I take a deep breath. “Of course.”
Hooting with glee, Georgina bounds out of the kitchen like a gazelle. And a moment later, she returns and places her opened laptop before me on the table. “Promise you’ll read it with an open mind, okay? Fair warning, parts of it are almost certainly going to freak you out, at first. But if you give it a fair chance, and read it with an open mind, I’m sure—”
“Enough,” I say, more harshly than intended. “We’ll let the article speak for itself.”
As Georgina resumes her chair, wringing her hands, I exhale a long, slow breath, place my elbows onto the table, on either side of the laptop, and let my eyes settle on the title of the article that’s surely going to hurtle me into a massive existential crisis. It reads, “Reed Rivers: The Man with the Midas Touch Unexpectedly Has a Heart of Gold.”
I look up, frowning sharply. “What the hell is this?”
“The article I wrote about you.”
“I thought you said you want your article to have journalistic integrity, and not be a sappy love letter to your boyfriend.”
She winks. “How about we let the article speak for itself? Read to the end before providing commentary, please. Thank you.”
Exhaling with annoyance, I return to the screen, and, after reading only a few paragraphs, easily surmise this article is a fucking travesty. A fluff piece. Shameless propaganda. Georgina describes how “brilliant” and “hands-on” I am, in every aspect of running my “empire.” She says I’m “gifted,” not only at holistic marketing, scouting, and negotiations, but also, at assisting my artists with “honing, maximizing, and developing their unique talents.”
She writes, “But Reed’s greatest talent lies in something that’s hard to encapsulate in words. Something that’s awfully hard to perceive about him, unless you’ve spent days observing him in his natural habitat. As crazy as it might sound to a casual observer, Reed Rivers is genuinely inspirational. Through more than his words—though his example, his persistence, his drive—he inspires the people around him to reach for their best selves and conquer the world.”
Georgina goes on to admit I’m not perfect. I can be “shockingly harsh” and “grouchy.” “At the office, annoyance and impatience are Reed’s default modes. But all of that’s okay with his team,” Georgina writes, “because Reed’s artists, and everyone who works for him, understand and respect his mission.” Which, she goes on to explain, is fundamentally built on an “uncompromising commitment to greatness.” Georgina further writes, “Everyone who works with Reed is well aware he only commands from others what he commands of himself. Excellence. And that makes them respect the hell out of him, both personally and professionally.”
I look up from the computer, scowling. “CeeCee will never publish this tripe in Dig a Little Deeper, and you know it.”
“Which is why I’m submitting this for Rock ‘n’ Roll. For the special issue.”
I pull a face like that’s the most moronic thing I’ve ever heard. “CeeCee explicitly assigned you to covertly try to unpeel my onion and bring her something on-brand for Dig a Little Deeper. Come on, Georgina. You’re still vying for a spot at Dig a Little Deeper. Don’t dim your light for anyone. Not even me. You know very well an article about me in Rock ‘n’ Roll isn’t an A-plus result for you.”
Georgina shrugs. “A’s are overrated. C’s get degrees, dude.”
I stare at her blankly, incredulous. I’ve told this shark of a woman every fucking thing about me, every embarrassing, sensitive, excruciating, torturous thing... and this piece of shit is what she decided to write about me? I’m flabbergasted. Shocked. Annoyed. “You’re sincerely proud of this... article? And, yes, I’m using that term loosely.”
She laughs. “Yes, I’m very proud of it. Keep reading, please. No further commentary until you’re finished. Thank you.”
My pulse thumping in my ears, I return to Georgina’s screen and continue reading at the point where I left off. It’s the turning point of the article, it turns out. The place where Georgina gets to her true thesis: “But Reed isn’t merely a wildly successful and brilliant mogul-innovator-influencer-genius, he’s also, surprisingly, a truly good, generous, and kind human being, as well.” According to Georgina, I’m a “devoted son” who plays Scrabble and does yoga with his “beloved mother.” A loyal big brother who put his little sister through school and adores his nephew. “Reed is loyal as the day is long,” Georgina writes. “A man who’s had the same best friends since college and who grew up to hire his childhood nanny as his housekeeper, as soon as he could scrape together the funds to do so.”
To drive her thesis home, Georgina quotes several of my employees, including Owen, all of whom babble about whatever exceedingly nice thing I’ve done for them, or their family members, over the years, without fanfare or taking credit for it. Owen, in particular, goes on and on about my over-the-top generosity. “He’s a dream boss,” Owen is quoted as saying. “There’s never a dull moment with that guy. I learn something new every day by watching him.”
“This is hideous tripe,” I spit out. “I feel like I’m reading my own fucking obituary.”
Georgina giggles with glee. “Read to the end, stronzo. What part of that instruction do you not understand?”
Begrudgingly, I return to Georgina’s screen, only to discover I’m not only a “philanthropist” who “generously” supports such and such causes, I’m also a guy who “regularly” helps good friends and family, and their friends and family, with whatever they ask of me, while never seeking acknowledgment or praise for any of my covert good deeds.
“Not true,” I mutter under my breath. But I know better than to look up from the screen again. I continue reading: “Why does Reed help so many people, without seeking credit or adulation? As far as this writer can tell, he does it simply because he can. Because helping people gives his life purpose. Because he’s a genuinely good man who likes watching other people soar. Of all the wonderful things I’ve discovered about Reed this summer, I think that’s the thing I like best about him. The thing that made me fall in love with him the most.
“Yes, you read that right. This writer has fallen hopelessly and totally in love with Reed Rivers. I didn’t mean to do it. In fact, I tried very hard not to give him my heart. But it couldn’t be helped. He’s irresistible. Thankfully for me, though, luck was on my side. When I gave Reed my heart, he gave me his in return. And let me unpeel it, down to the nub. And that’s why I’m able to tell you, with certainty, The Man with the Midas Touch truly does have a heart of gold.”
And that’s it. The article ends that way, without any mention of my father—not even the golf story I explicitly gave her permission to use. She doesn’t bother to mention the fact that I play all that Scrabble and do all that yoga with my “beloved mother” in a mental facility. Similarly, there’s no mention of my parents’ divorce or Troy Eklund or Stephanie Moreland. For crying out loud, Georgina’s article is so opposite a hit piece, so unabashedly—and explicitly—a sappy love letter to her boyfriend—I mean, for fuck’s sake, she literally declares her love for me!—it’s an embarrassment. Not only to me, but also to Georgina.
And then it hits me. She’s playing a prank on me. Ha! I look up, chuckling. “Good one. You almost got me. Now, show me the real article.”
Georgina smiles. “This is the real article.”
“No more joking around, sweetheart. I’ll cherish this forever. It’s sweet. But, please, show me the one you’re actually planning to submit to CeeCee.”
“This is it. I swear on my mother.”
I pause, utterly floored. Not to mention, disgusted. “Are you insane? You can’t submit this!”
She laughs. “Why not?”
“Because it’s everything you said you didn’t want to write. Propaganda. A love letter to your boyfriend. Not to mention, it’s full of brazen fabrications and untruths.”
“Name one thing that’s not true.”
“All of it! It’s not any one thing. It’s the total effect of it, put together. You’ve made me sound like a saint.”
“The article is well-researched and every word is accurate.”
I scoff. “I funded your grant because I wanted to fuck you. Did you forget about that?”
Georgina folds her arms over her chest and leans back from the kitchen table. “Then why’d you pay for my father’s medication, on top of my salary? Why’d you donate so much money to the cancer charity, if your only goal was getting me into bed? Surely, you could have paid my measly little salary and nothing else, if you sincerely didn’t have any altruistic motivations.”
Well, shit. She’s got me there. I’ve already told her, repeatedly, I had parallel motivations on that front. So, fuck, I guess I need another tack. “Yes, okay, but you make it sound like I’m never selfishly motivated, in anything I do, and you know that’s a bald-faced lie. There’s always something in it for me.”
“Is that so? Why’d you help Keane with his career? His agent wouldn’t send him on any serious auditions, so you pulled strings, without a moment’s hesitation. What’d you get out of that?”
“Where’d you hear about that?”
“Kat.”
I roll my eyes. Fucking Kat. It’s no wonder her family calls her The Blabbermouth. “Did Kat bother to mention Josh asked me to do it?”
“You also helped Hannah get a job.”
“Because Henn asked me to do it. Whoop-de-do, I sometimes do favors for my two best friends. It hardly makes me a saint. Do you know how many favors they’ve done for me over the years? Josh paid for every fun thing we ever did in college. He flew a group of us to Thailand for spring break! Did you know that, after graduation, he’s the one who gave me a loan to help me get River Records off the ground? I owe everything to Josh for that loan. Just as much as I owe CeeCee for putting Rock ‘n’ Roll’s reputation behind a nobody-band called Red Card Riot. And don’t get me started on Henn. You already know that guy helps me left and right, in a million ways. And not just regarding occasional hacking. He’s my conscience. He keeps me sane and on the right track. So, okay, yes, I do nice things for my friends, sometimes. It doesn’t mean I have a ‘heart of gold.’ It only means I’m not a sociopath. But that’s hardly something to praise me for in a gushing piece of tripe.”
She giggles. “It means you’re fiercely loyal. Which is how I’ve described you in the article. Yet another thing I’ve said that’s totally true.”
I scoff. “I’m almost always motivated by selfishness, Georgina. One way or another. I just mask it well.”
She flashes me a look of total incredulity. “What about Zander? Were you being selfish when you helped him land a job as Aloha’s bodyguard?”
“Actually, yes! Ha! Aloha needed a bodyguard on her upcoming tour, and I knew Zander would be a perfect fit for her in terms of personality. And I also, selfishly, didn’t want Barry going on tour with Aloha himself—which was exactly what Aloha, little miss diva, was demanding. I selfishly wanted Barry to stay in LA and work on my shit. So, I pulled strings and arranged a win-win-win-win.”
“That doesn’t sound selfish. It sounds brilliant. Which, again, is exactly how I’ve described you in my article.”
“Georgie, I get what I want by giving other people what they want, too.”
“Exactly.” She laughs. “Wow, Reed, you’re such a dick.”
I run my hand through my hair. “Why didn’t you at least tell the golf story?”
“Do you want me to tell the golf story?”
“No. Not particularly. But I don’t want you to compromise your journalistic integrity by excluding it.”
Georgina shrugs. “I decided that story wasn’t on-brand for Rock ‘n’ Roll. Which is the publication I decided to write this for.”
I lean back in my chair, bewildered. “This is insane. You make me sound so nice. And we both know I’m not. I mean, I am. But not this nice. I’m short-tempered. Harsh. Vaguely annoyed at all times.”
“I’ve said all that.”
“But not enough. Oh! I’m arrogant, too. But you didn’t bother to say that.”
“Okay, I’ll add it. Fair point. Anything else?”
“Just paint an accurate picture of me, for crying out loud. Come on. Drag me.”
“Why would I do that? I had a thesis, which is that you have a heart of gold. Anything not supportive of that thesis isn’t relevant.”
“Not relevant?”
“This isn’t a biography, Reed. It’s a short little piece for Rock ‘n’ Roll about how unexpectedly wonderful you are—which is something the world doesn’t already know about you. And that, my darling, was my actual assignment from CeeCee. To uncover a side of you nobody has seen before.”
I shake my head. “I won’t approve the article unless you make it a more accurate depiction of me. You need to dick me up a bit.”
“No. If I do that, I’ll look like an idiot for falling in love with you.”
I grunt. “Yeah, about that ending...”
Georgie’s face falls in earnest. “You don’t like it? You want me to take it out?”
Oh, my heart. Fuck. “Come here, sweetheart.” I pat my thigh, and Georgina leaves her chair and slides into it. “It’s my favorite part. Thank you. But you can’t leave that part in for the version you send to CeeCee.”
“Why not? It’s the truth.”
“CeeCee will never print that.”
“Well, I guess there’s only one way to find out.” She nuzzles her nose into mine. “Please, let me submit this article, as is. If CeeCee doesn’t like something, she’ll tell me to change it. But this is the article I want to submit. This is my truth.” Before I can reply, she begins laying soft kisses up my jawline to my ear, licking and nipping and kissing as she goes, until I’m rock-hard and feeling incapable of saying no to her. “Say yes,” she purrs. “Let me submit this, as is.”
“It’s propaganda of the worst kind,” I whisper, but I’m smiling. Paradoxically, turning to steel underneath her while melting into a puddle of pliable goo.
Georgina’s lips find mine and skim softly, making me shudder. “I’ve peeled your onion, down to your very core, my love. And what I found there, is what I wrote about.” She places both palms on my cheeks. “Say yes.”
I still can’t believe this is what The Intrepid Reporter came up with, after everything she’s discovered about me. Especially given that she thinks her dream job at Dig a Little Deeper is still on the line. Yeah, I know CeeCee is planning to offer Georgina a full-time slot, but Georgina doesn’t know that. And, yet, Georgina is nonetheless willing to submit this puff piece for Rock ‘n’ Roll, rather than something that would surely lock down her dream job. “I just don’t want you compromising your professional judgment for me.”
She smirks. “Says the man who’s about to release a single for my stepsister.”
My cheeks flush. “But I’m not compromising anything to do that. Alessandra has all the makings of a quirky little indie star. She just needs some guidance and coaching.”
“And you’re willing to take the time to give Alessandra that ‘guidance and coaching,’ personally, because... why?”
I bite back a smile. She’s got me there.
Georgina presses her forehead into mine. “I’ve written this article about you, for Rock ‘n’ Roll, because I love you with all my heart and I believe in this article. Which is the same thing as you producing and releasing Alessandra’s song because you love me and believe in her. That’s love, Reed. It’s a two-way street.”
Oh, my heart. If anyone is a saint here, it’s Georgina. I press my lips to hers. And as I do, a dam breaks inside me. Girlfriend isn’t enough. Matching tattoos aren’t enough. I want it all, and I can’t deny it a second longer. I want Georgina to take my name and wear my ring. I want us to pledge forever to each other in the most sacred way known to humankind. I want her to be my wife.
I’ve tried my damnedest to avoid reaching this conclusion. I’ve shucked and jived and thrown shiny objects into my own path to divert myself from reaching it. But the truth is, with each new ploy designed to convince myself I’m perfectly satisfied with shacking up, with each new label I use—whether it’s girlfriend, lover, or partner—and each tiny letter we get permanently inscribed onto our bodies, all of it keeps bringing me to the same place. The same inescapable conclusion. It’s not nearly enough. I want Georgina to be my one and only wife. Forever. And I won’t settle for anything less.
“So, can I submit this article, as is? Please?”
I look into her hazel eyes, feeling overwhelmed with love and excitement about the decision I just made. “Just be prepared for CeeCee to say it’s not what she wanted.”
“I’ll take that chance.”
“Okay, you win, you relentless force of nature. Submit it. But only if you do a happy dance for me.”
Squealing, Georgina gets up and gives me what I’ve demanded, making me laugh and clap. Breathlessly, she slides back into her chair, as I refill our champagne glasses and say a toast to the “godawful” article.
“So... there’s actually one more thing I’ve been wanting to talk to you about,” she says, putting down her champagne glass. “I figured I’d wait until you got home to tell you about it in person.”
