Living with the Dead - By Kelley Armstrong Page 0,2
with tales of her wild sex life with Brock. Man’s inhumanity to man. Sometimes it was shooting a helpful stranger, sometimes it was beating your BFF’s dignity into the ground with a crowbar.
“But I’m going to get her back. I have a plan.”
Portia’s singsong cracked at the edges, and Robyn bled a little for her. She wished she could write Portia off as a vacuous twit who was sucking her dry with her neediness, but she supposed it would take another 170 articles in her scrapbook to drain her last ounce of sympathy.
Or maybe Robyn just liked to bleed. Maybe that was why she’d taken the job. Representing Portia Kane was the lowest, most meaningless form of PR work she could imagine. But after Damon’s death, she’d had enough of representing not-for-profit organizations for a pittance. No one else cared. Why should she?
“Oh, and then, just before the bill came, Penny called and guess what? They can’t make it to Bane tonight because—get this—they’re going to the opening of Silhouette with Jasmine. How much you want to bet Jasmine told Penny to call at lunch so she could watch my reaction?”
Every dollar I have, thought Robyn. Portia wasn’t stupid. That was the problem. It’d be so much easier if Robyn could write her off as a vacuous twit. But then she’d show some spark of intelligence, some proof that she could do more with her life than grace club openings.
“So what about that benefit concert tonight?” Robyn asked. “If you’re skipping Bane, I can call and get you back on the list—”
“Benefit concert? Oh God, Rob, kill me now. No, I’m still going to Bane, and you’re coming with me.”
How lonely did you need to be to invite your PR rep clubbing? “I’d love to, but I have plans. Remember that friend I was with yesterday, when you came by?”
“The Indian girl?”
“Hope is Indo American.”
Portia’s put-upon sigh made Robyn press her fingertips into her temples. Portia never ceased to complain about Robyn correcting her gaffes, ignoring the fact Portia had asked for that “sensitivity training” herself, after she’d been quoted making a racist comment about the city’s Hispanic population. Hiring Robyn had been her idea of damage control. She’d needed a new PR rep and someone mentioned Robyn, saying she was looking to relocate after her husband’s death. A real tragedy. He was trying to help a stranded motorist, but the woman saw a black guy coming at her on an empty highway and shot him.
With that, Portia had seen the perfect way to prove she wasn’t racist. Then Robyn showed up—blond haired and green eyed—and from the look on Portia’s face, you’d think she’d never heard the term interracial marriage.
Portia was still nattering on about Hope. “So bring her and make sure she looks hot—but not hotter than me.”
“We already had plans, Portia.”
“It’s Bane. Now, I know she works for True News, but under absolutely no circumstances is she allowed to report on our evening. Got it?”
In other words, Portia expected full coverage on the front page.
“Hope isn’t a celebrity reporter. She’s their weird tales girl, so unless you’re going to sprout a tail or breathe fire, she’s not—”
“Okay, tell her she can report on it. An exclusive. Oh, and make sure she brings that hot boyfriend, and tell him to bring some friends. Hot friends.”
“He doesn’t have friends here, Portia. They aren’t from L.A.—”
Portia let out an eardrum-splitting squeal. “Finally. Jasmine’s coming out of the restaurant. Tim, start the car. Move forward, slowly. Rob, hold on.”
“What—?”
The line went dead. Robyn was putting the phone down when it rang again.
It was Portia. “Remember how you gave me shit for wearing that micro skirt last week? Wait until you see this.” A split-second pause. “Well? What do you think?”
“Of what?”
“The photo I just sent you.”
Robyn checked her mail. There, with the caption “Wait til tabs see this!!!” was a picture of Jasmine Wills wearing what looked like a baby-doll nightgown. A see-through nightgown. Gauzy pink, with a red bra-and-panty set underneath.
“Well?”
“I’m . . . speechless.”
“You’re going to send it, right? To the tabs? Oh! Send it to your girlfriend at True News.”
“She doesn’t cover—”
“Then tell her to make an exception. Oh, my God! There’s Brock! Tim, pull forward.”
Click. Portia was gone.
HOPE
It took a half-dozen tries to get the key-card light to work—long enough that Hope was tempted to practice her electronic lock-picking skills. When the light finally did turn green, she was leaning against the door, handle down, and it