The Duet(6)

Next to it, I found a small sample-sized vial of perfume. I sprayed it directly on my armpits and smiled. Sure, I smelled like a retirement home, but I didn’t care. I was actually going to pull this off. I’d walk in and apologize profusely for being late and then they’d smile and offer me coffee and a chocolate croissant. This day was going to turn out okay, I knew it.

We pulled up outside of Global Records and I took in the glossy building. Two iron statues, in the form of lions, guarded the front entrance and people, donned in power suits, walked in and out of the sleek front doors. They probably weren’t even talking to anyone through their Bluetooth headsets, but it was all about the image.

“Good luck, Ms. Heart,” Jerry said as he pulled open my back door. I bolted from the car and thanked him as I darted past, but he called out for me.

“Wait! Would you like my jacket?” he called out.

The paparazzi were lined up along the street already snapping away, and I cringed at how terrible I probably looked after last night. I didn’t want to stay out there for another second.

“No, thank you, Jerry!” I answered, pushing through the front doors and heading straight to the elevator. The lobby staff hadn’t asked me to check-in for years, but the woman behind the front desk gave me a strange look as I passed. Maybe I hadn’t put as much make-up on as I should have.

It wasn’t until the doors to the elevators were closed, and I was well on my way to the thirty-fifth floor, that I thought back to Jerry’s question. Why would he offer me his jacket? I frowned and then glanced down at my shirt.

Oh dear God. No. No. This was not happening to me.

The t-shirt I’d pulled out of my closet earlier was not just a plain white t-shirt like I’d assumed. Nope. Instead, “FUCK DA POLICE” was printed in big, black letters across my chest.

For ten seconds, I just stood there, trying to grasp how I could have possibly been so stupid. I contemplated the idea that I’d woken up in an alternate universe, or that maybe I was in an episode of the Twilight Zone, but no. This was my life.

And if you’re wondering why I even owned a shirt like that, Cammie and I had gone as rappers for Halloween the year before and we’d purchased the shirts as a joke. I respect all law enforcement personnel, so don’t get your panties in a wad. I mean, who doesn’t love a man in uniform?

Dammit. I still had the shirt on.

I dropped my purse on the elevator floor and then reached for the hem of the shirt so that I could turn it inside out. It’d look completely ridiculous, but it was better than walking into the meeting with the offensive phrase on display for everyone.

I’d just pulled the shirt up over my bra when the elevator chimed and the doors slid open. I froze. There, directly in front of me, was the conference room I was supposed to have been in thirty minutes earlier. I’d always thought the room was spectacular. It had floor to ceiling glass so that everyone could easily see inside and out. Unfortunately, on that morning, I hated the see-through glass with every fiber of my being because as the doors slid open, my eyes locked directly with Jason Monroe. Like a slow-motion movie he glanced up to see me standing there in my bra, with my shirt half over my head.

“Fucking hell,” I hissed under my breath, tugging my shirt back down to cover myself. It was time for Plan B: Try to force a heart attack to get out of the meeting.

As I stepped out of the elevator, Jason Monroe’s eyes slid over the letters on my shirt and then he dropped his gaze to the desk and shook his head as if he couldn’t believe my nerve.

Oh yeah, great. Join the club, bucko.

With a deep breath, I pushed open the glass door to the conference room and all five heads swiveled around to face me. These were five people that had the power to drastically change my career, and they were all reading the words on my t-shirt. My brain yelled at me to say something, anything, so I just blurted out whatever I could think of.

“This is not my shirt and I have no clue how I put it on this morning,” I said, moving toward the empty chair next to Jason’s. “I am, and always have been, a staunch advocate of the Los Angeles Police Department, and first responders everywhere.”

Awesome, I sounded like a loony-tune.

“Do you think this is some kind of joke, Brooklyn?” Mr. Daniels asked. Mr. Daniels was the head of the record label and he was arguably the most important person in the music industry. Oh, and he did not find my shirt funny at all.

“Absolutely not. This is not my type of humor. It’s not funny at all. I was running late this morning, as you all know,” I rambled on, making eye contact with everyone but Jason. The guy had seen my bra, so I wasn’t quite ready to meet his gaze. I could feel him staring at me though, judging me silently. “I’m very sorry about being late and this shirt is just— I can’t — Is there water in here?”