• • •

Carter shows up at my front door a little jittery, like he thought it might be a good idea to toss back an espresso at ten p.m.

Pushing past me, he heads straight for the kitchen and opens the cabinet with the plates. “Where do you keep the booze?”

“Erm,” I say, following him, “above the stove, but don’t get your hopes up. I think your options are Bacardi, Captain Morgan, triple sec, and . . .” I trail off as he pulls down a bottle of vodka I didn’t know I had, grabs a glass, tosses some ice cubes in it, and pours himself a hefty shot.

His throat bobs distractingly as he swallows. I’ve only been home for about thirty minutes myself and want to tell him about our badass 9 to 5 adventure (Dolly Parton would be so proud!) and what we found, but he seems a little preoccupied.

“What’s going on?” I ask, walking over and stretching to kiss his boozy mouth.

“I quit.”

I pull back, shocked. “Pardon?”

“You heard me. I quit. I have no idea what comes tomorrow, but I told Brad that I was out.”

“I . . . I. Wow.”

“I love you, but I didn’t do it for you,” he says, eyes wild. “I did it because I can’t work there one more fucking second. Brad is scum.”

“Well, yes,” I say, stepping back and watching curiously as he reaches for the bottle again.

“I went to Brad to talk about how things went down with you and him.”

I groan. “Carter, you don’t have to fight my battles for me.”

“I know this. If there’s one thing I definitely know, it’s that Evil Abbey can take care of herself. But . . . I had to say something. I couldn’t not. The way he acted was completely unacceptable.”

Well. He gets a kiss for this. It seems to calm him a little, too. I can’t blame him for the vodka now; his adrenaline must be up to eleven.

“Anyway, he wasn’t very receptive to the conversation—”

“I don’t imagine.”

“And it hit me,” he says, shaking his head, “I hate it there. I love what I do—I love you—but I hate P&D. It’s like trying to work in the middle of a dodgeball game.”

This makes me laugh, and I pull him out of the kitchen and into the living room. He sits on the couch, and I follow him, straddling his lap.

“So we’ve made a fucking mess of things,” he says, leaning to kiss my neck. “But I did hear from Dan today.”

He pulls out his phone, showing me a string of texts from Dan Printz.

Hey man.

Sorry I haven’t been around today.

I talked to Ted at Variety, he said the announcement came from some PR firm called Roar?

Who fucking knows. Bottom line: I don’t care what the agency is, I just want to work with you.

I have a press party I have to go to tonight so give me a call in the morning.

Let’s get some papers signed and make some movies.

Roar PR. I freeze. “Brad was the one who spilled?”

Carter’s eyes narrow. “What?”

I stretch across the couch, reaching for my laptop bag.

“Well . . . I had a bit of an adventure tonight.” I slide the computer onto the coffee table, boot it up, open Jess’s spreadsheet, and then turn the screen to face him.

“Okay?” he says, glancing from it to me again. “What’s all this?”

“Have I got a story for you.”

• • •

Former Price & Dickle talent agency executive Brad Kingman was arrested Tuesday in Los Angeles on charges of wire fraud, embezzlement, and identity theft.

According to prosecutors, Kingman set up a network of bogus companies, which he then used to submit fraudulent invoices to his agency for work that was never done. These bogus companies ranged from hair and makeup services to dog walkers and nanny agencies.

U.S. Attorney for the Southern District Emery Ridge said, “The FBI obtained emails and vendor contracts showing that Kingman used these stolen identities and tax ID numbers to submit fraudulent invoices and conceal his crimes. This isn’t a matter of an employee taking a few extra dollars from petty cash. So far Kingman is accused of skimming upwards of two million dollars.”

The print copy of the Hollywood Vine is laid out flat in front of us, and Daryl, Amelia, and Steph fall silent around the bar table. We’re all here for the Super Bowl, and television sets overhead broadcast commercials that make the assembled mass fall into a reverent hush, but none of us are able to look anywhere but at the article in front of us.

“Two million dollars,” Steph says quietly. “Guess it wasn’t just expenses under your name.”

“Just mine most recently—everyone else he used is gone.”

“And now bye-bye, Brad,” Daryl says.

The morning after our trip to Brad’s home, Eric walked casually into Brad’s empty office, drafted a new email to the FBI, and attached all the files I transferred to the thumb drive. The FBI would never know I had anything to do with this, but Brad would.

I’ve had dozens of pretty amazing orgasms with Carter, but I won’t deny that one of the most euphoric feelings I’ve ever had was watching the FBI emerge onto our floor amid a deathly hush and move like a mob of righteous justice toward Brad’s office.

They knocked on his door, ignoring Kylie’s anxious yipping that he was busy. In fact, two agents quickly identified Kylie, pulled her aside, and took her into the conference room for questioning.

Brad opened the door, face stark, and looked right at me. I lifted my chin and smiled.

“Mr. Kingman, we have some questions.” The voice of the lead agent carried easily down the hall. “If you don’t mind coming with us, we can ask them in a more private setting.”

I wanted Brad to refuse. I wanted them to question him right there, right in front of me. But it was also nice to watch him leave under the wide-eyed rubbernecking of everyone in the office. He moved, surrounded by the law, down the hall.

The elevator doors sealed around him, and then he was gone.

Bye, Brad.

I left P&D by choice that same day.

“So now I need to figure out what I’m going to do,” I tell my friends, folding up the newspaper and tucking it back in my purse.

“You could come back to Alterman,” Steph says with a hopeful smile.

“You could come work with me.” The voice comes from behind me and we all turn. Carter has materialized, and looks . . . stunning. Flushed with some exuberant emotion, he’s clearly just come from a meeting: neatly pressed suit, dress shirt open at the collar, tie loosened around his neck. I feel all of us exhale in a swoon in unison.