Love Me Tender by Laurie Horowitz

Author:Laurie Horowitz
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Little, Brown and Company
Published: 2017-08-01T04:00:00+00:00

Chapter 15

When you get back to your room at six in the morning, and you are still wearing clothes from the night before, it’s the walk of shame no matter how much fun you had. Leslie’s glad she chose to stay at a big anonymous hotel. There is no one there to judge her as she creeps in, makeup smudged, hair a mess, and clothes askew.

She opens the door to her room with the keycard and falls onto the bed. Ouch. Her head hurts. And she’s a little sick to her stomach. She has a massive hangover. The physical pain is nothing compared to the emotional pain she’s experiencing. She feels like such an asshole for getting involved with Patton when she knew what she was about to do to him.

I was drunk and got seduced by Patton’s stage presence, she tells herself. His offstage presence was nothing to scoff at either. She drinks three tall glasses of water and takes two Advil.

All of this might be manageable if the only thing she was feeling was nausea and regret. But for some reason, expansive feelings of love are dogging her like a frolicking puppy. She feels herself hoping—and this is ironic—that Olive hated the story and decided not to run it.

Leslie hasn’t even looked at her phone. She’s been at Cinderella’s ball, and one glance at her e-mail could have turned her coach into a pumpkin. The sound of the phone startles her. It’s quacking like a duck. That’s the ring tone she’s assigned to Olive.

Leslie is almost afraid to answer. If she’s lucky, Olive is calling to read Leslie the riot act and tell her that she was sent down there to write a fun piece on some idiot who thinks he’s related to Elvis Presley, not excoriate the dolt and the whole industry besides. Shit!

Leslie grabs the phone. “Hello?” She pretends that she doesn’t know who’s on the other end. It gives her an extra moment to think.

“Wake up, sleepyhead,” Olive spouts.

“It’s not even seven a.m.,” Leslie points out.

“The early bird gets the worm.”

“You don’t say.”

“I’m surprised you haven’t asked.” Olive has a habit of clicking her fingernails against her phone, and Leslie can hear it. Tap. Tap. Tappity-taptap-tap.

“Ask what?”

“If I liked the story. What else? Jeezus, are you on another planet?”

“Sort of.” Yes. It was odd of Leslie not to ask. She has finally written a kick-ass piece of authentic journalism. The real Leslie Stern would be itching to know if Olive liked the piece and when it was going to run. “Did you like it?” Leslie finally asks, reaching for another glass of water.

“To tell you the truth, I thought it was great. Even controversial. I have to admit you did a damned good job. I knew I could count on you.”

“Thanks.”

“You don’t sound too happy about it.”

“So, are you going to run it?” Leslie asks. She’s trying to figure out how to ask Olive to bury the story and to forget she’s ever seen it.

“It’s already up on the website.

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