And so, in an ironic twist, the story that brought us into contact with Keith Perkins was easily explained.

I pause, pondering before highlighting the whole paragraph and deleting it. “Nope, just won’t do.”

“What won’t do?” Maggie asks, making me jerk my head up. “Let me guess, Keith’s got a girlfriend?”

Ouch, close to the bone. “No, it’s not that,” I reply, lying my ass off while trying to distract my friend. “I just . . . I have a lot of information, and it’s been harder trying to figure out what’s supposed to go in this one and what goes in the next one.”

Maggie nods, taking a seat on the edge of my desk, a familiar spot for her. “So what’s his big secret then?”

I smirk, knowing I’m lying, but it’s the lie that Keith said was okay when I texted him. “He was out running errands, and if you can believe it, his maid was having a bit of a situation and he was just doing her a favor.”

“Uh, by buying half the aisle?” Maggie asks, lifting an eyebrow. “Nice boss. I think if I had that problem, Donnie’s response would be to ball up a copy of The Times and chuck it at me.” She doesn’t sound remotely convinced.

I shrug, wanting to change the subject as quickly as possible because the more I think about it, the more ridiculous it sounds. “Keith’s just boring, really. His only unusual hobby is archery. Next time, I’m going to get some shots of him practicing. But other than that, he’s just a normal guy. So . . . what’s with your face?”

“My face?” Maggie asks, rubbing at her cheeks. “What’s with my face?”

I look closer, squinting as I confirm my suspicions. “You’re . . . glittering. What the hell have you been up to?”

“Oh, well . . .” Maggie says, blushing. “That undercover at the senator’s office didn’t pan out, so Donnie has me following another angle. There’s this club out by the airport, Petals of Heaven—”

“Oh my god, Donnie has you, of all people, at a strip club?” I ask, gleefully shocked. “I mean, not that you don’t look the part but . . . well . . .”

“Don’t worry, I’m not stripping,” Maggie reassures me. “I’m a cocktail waitress, so the glitter’s more for showing up under the blacklights.”

“What does Donnie have you out there doing then?” I ask, worried. I’ve heard of Petals. It’s one of those places where you don’t ask questions most of the time. You don’t want to piss off the owners.

“They get a lot of celebrity patrons, apparently,” Maggie says, waving her hand. “One of Hollywood’s big family men, in particular, has been in three nights in a row now, having himself a particularly good time in the private rooms in the back. I don’t have pics yet, but I think I’ll be able to. Someone’s going to have some explaining to do!”

“Wait, what is this?” I ask, surprised. “You’re liking this assignment, aren’t you? Our innocent little librarian has a naughty streak to her? What happened to the Maggie who was scandalized when someone told her that her ass looked good in a dress?”

Maggie blushes and shrugs. “She’s still there. I guess I get caught up in the fun of the bust, that’s all. Speaking of busts, tell me how the interviews with Keith are going. I need boring and nice right now, honestly.”

I lean back in my office chair, humming. “He is nice, actually. Still sometimes a bit of a commanding asshole, but . . . well, it’s the good kind of commanding asshole. I’m feeling good about the interviews.”

“Feeling good, huh?” Maggie asks, lifting an eyebrow. “Sounds like you’re feeling good about him. You starting to like him?”

“No!” I protest, maybe a bit too strongly. There’s no way I’m going to let anyone, even sweet little Maggie, think that I’m getting this story Francesca-style. I can’t even let them think that I’m interested in Keith. “I just . . . it’s nice to be pleasantly surprised, that’s all. He’s hot but boring.”

“I see. Well, I think—” Maggie starts, but before she can finish, I hear a yell from down the hall.

“ELISE!”

“Oh, great, what’s he want?” I mutter, looking at Maggie. “Any ideas?”

“Maybe Donnie wants to say great job and give you a raise?” Maggie asks, then grins. “It’d be a first, but hey, miracles do happen.”

“We’ll see,” I answer as I get up. “See you later.”

I head down the hall to Donnie’s office, where I find him behind his desk, popping jellybeans into his mouth. “What can I do for you, Donnie?”

“Have a seat,” he says, pointing as if I don’t know where the chair is. “I wanted to talk about your third article.”

“What?” I ask, surprised. “Donnie, I barely got the outline done and sent in to you.”

It’s company policy that all articles other than editorials need to be outlined and sent in to Donnie after the website got burned to the tune of a half-million dollars for not verifying a claim. It could have been worse.

“I know, I checked it over,” Donnie says, popping another jellybean, this one black licorice by the looks of it. “And while I normally let you just run with your gut, you always back up your shit. I’m worried this time.”

A compliment and a concern in one sentence. That’s a first. “What’re you worried about? There’s nothing that’ll get us a lawsuit in there.”

“That’s exactly it!” Donnie exclaims. “Elise, we won’t get sued, but we won’t get read either! This article . . . it’s boring as fuck. My God, a story about the Pope’s diet would have more sizzle than this! This is just . . . listen, if I wanted to read this type of fawning bullshit, I’d buy People!”

“What can I say, Donnie?” I ask, ignoring his dig. “This series is different. It’s good, I think. More in-depth and driving readers with a real insight into Keith. His music, his life, let them really get to know the man. I’ve included some interview snippets from some calls I made to his manager and some of the club owners from Boise and Nashville that he used to play in, to give the readers a sense of how much he’s grown.”

“Growth . . . now you sound like Reader’s Digest,” Donnie gripes. “Come on, Elise! We run on dirt, smut, and knowing who’s fucking who! Not how Keith Perkins learned to play guitar at the age of six and what might be next for him with this summer’s tour!”

I’m trying to keep my cool. I’m walking into deep waters now with Donnie, and while I’m not technically lying yet . . . I’m not being honest and frank either. “I’ve gone through everything in his background, online searches, criminal record, everything available. And when I talk to Keith, he seems to be real. He was pissed about the record company springing the all-access interviews on him initially, but he’s been forthcoming. I’m telling you, Donnie, there’s just nothing salacious. The man’s just an All-American sort of dude.”

I hope it’s enough, that he believes me and doesn’t pry any further. Donnie may have questionable morals when it comes to Francesca, but he’s a crack reporter and can smell a story long before anyone else does.

“Dammit, Elise. There’s something!” he yells, slamming his hand down on his desk and sending jellybeans rolling everywhere. “Nobody is this fucking whitebread. Nobody can become as famous as he is without having at least a fucking parking ticket in his background. There has to be something. I don’t want this to be a big waste of fucking time. Find me something, or I’ll get someone who can.”

“What?” I gasp, my face paling. “Donnie, this is my story—”

“I know it is! So do your damn job!” he yells, his face getting redder as his voice carries. I know the people out in the office can hear him reaming me out. “Even Pollyanna Maggie out there has more dirt in her life than you’ve written about Keith. Now, I’ll let you write part three the way you want, but end it with a teaser about some legit dirt for part four.” His voice drops dangerously. “And you’d better get it, one way or another. Am I clear?”

“Clear. I’ll find something.” I say as I nod, but my gut churns.

“Then get the fuck out of here and finish up part three. What are you going to do for the next interview?”

“I convinced him to get out of his house. I’m hoping that the change of scenery will get him to open up more. If I thought there was anything worth reporting on in the house, I’d have stayed, but he’s shown me every room . . . the only person who’d find it interesting might be the Style section.”

Slightly placated, Donnie starts scooping up his jellybeans and putting them back in his bowl. “Where are you doing the interview?”

“His land outside town,” I reply honestly. “Get to know his country boy roots. I’m hoping it’ll let me in past his image, getting back to who he used to be. You know what I mean?”

Donnie nods, his eyes pinching slyly. “Okay. Get a thread with the unvarnished Keith, and then tease that out. Even if it’s just innuendo, I want something, Elise. Now get the hell out of here. You owe me part three by the end of the day.”

“On it,” I reply, getting up. Going back to my desk, my head aches and my heart twists.

Dirt . . . well, I know dirt. I know some life-changing, bomb in the middle of the room sort of dirt. But I promised two people that I wouldn’t disclose it. And I won’t.

But what sort of dirt on Keith can I come up with that’ll be okay and still keep Donnie off my ass?

I’ve got a lot of work to do.