What the fuck just happened?

In the thirty minutes I’ve been home, I feel like that question keeps coming back into my head, like I’m stupid drunk or something and the world just isn’t making any damn sense.

Donnie wants to blackmail Keith. And according to what I heard from the slimy, jellybean scarfing son of a bitch, he’s done this before. Maybe lots of times. I always knew Donnie was an asshole, but every good editor has a strong streak of that in them. Can’t get to that job without it.

But there’s being an asshole . . . and there’s this. And while I’m so disgusted with Donnie that I’m not even thinking of going to work on Monday, I'm hurt most by Keith.

He blames me for this shitstorm, or at least for starting the snowball down the hill. And from a certain point of view, he’s right. But I've done nothing but help him hide Carsen since I found out about her, actively lying to Donnie and putting my job in jeopardy by not reporting it in the articles. Hell, I went to him with ideas for out and out lies to use that he could live with so that he could keep Carsen a secret!

It doesn’t matter. Even if he's mad at me, I'm going to help him. I have to. I love him and Carsen, and I'll do whatever it takes to help them. That’s what love’s supposed to be, doing the right thing and taking care of those you love, even if it hurts you.

So that means I’m going to step up and do anything. Except pay the money, obviously. I don't have that kind of cash. I never really even considered whether Keith did either.

His fame, his wealth hasn't been a factor in our relationship at all. I love him for the bossy, intense, protective way he loves me and Carsen, not because of some sordid angle he’s manipulating like Donnie insinuated.

I spend hours lying on the couch, not sleeping but just tossing and turning as I think, testing and discarding every idea my brain comes up with, my frustration growing as I think through the whole situation from every angle.

I flip-flop between anger, raging at the empty room around me, to crying in frustration, hot tears slipping down my face. It’s just not right, it’s not fair. Somewhere around midnight, I have an epiphany.

I need help, someone to bounce ideas off. And Keith doesn't want to talk to me right now. But right and fair . . . innocent ideas in a sadly dark world. I know someone brilliant who might be able to work some magic for me. Someone right, a little innocent, and whose sense of justice and fairness will make sure I might actually have a chance to conjure up righteous justice out of thin fucking air.

With crossed fingers, I call Maggie. She picks up after three rings, the background of her call telling me what’s up even before her falsely abrasive voice comes on.

"This better be good because it's the middle of the night and I’m at work."

"Maggie, I need your help. Can you come over?"

Maggie’s voice immediately changes, going back to the kind, open voice that I know and adore. "Elise, are you okay?"

"Yeah,” I reply, glad I didn’t take a left turn into Crazy World where Maggie’s a jaded bitch like she sounded at first. “I just need your brain. Can you come?"

Maggie sighs, and I know the answer. "Not for a while. Closing’s at two and then I have to clean up. Want to come to the club? It might actually help my cover, if you don’t mind. Otherwise, I won’t be able to get there until three thirty at the earliest.”

I look down at myself, already schlubbing in sweats and knowing my face is red and splotchy from the tears. What the hell, it’s not like anyone’d expect me to be going to see Maggie . . . not where she’s undercover. “Yeah, it’ll take me a bit to get presentable. But I’ll meet you there. I’ve never been to a strip club, Maggie. What should I wear?”

Maggie sounds happy, and she probably is. “Nothing flashy. You’re better off if you don’t take attention from the working girls. They’re . . . touchy. Just jeans, something casual and comfortable. Tell them you’re looking for Megan.”

I nod, then remember she can’t see me. “Okay, I’ll be there in a few.”

After I hang up, I take her advice and keep it simple, just jeans and a t-shirt, not dumpy but not flashy. My hair and face are a lost cause, though. Five minutes of scrubbing only makes my cheeks and eyes look like I’m tweaking out or something. I pull my hair into a poufy messy bun that takes advantage of a freshly fucked look and slick on little bit of lip gloss. Looking in the mirror, I know it’s barely passable, but fuck it. It’s all I’ve got in me right now, and I head down to catch a ride over to the club.

The Uber driver gives me an odd look when he pulls up, verifying the address. I smile. Guess he doesn’t drop off many single women to a female strip club at one in the morning.

The bouncer at the door looks like a monster, muscled and tattooed and looking more like an MMA fighter than a late-night doorman. His biceps are bulging against the crisp white button-down shirt he has on, his black jeans are slung low on narrow hips, and his boots look heavy enough to crack a skull with a solid kick. He’s intimidating. Every pore of his body exudes a dangerous coolness that lets you know up front that he could fuck you up and walk away without a scratch. Oddly, it reassures me. There’s no way shit goes down in this club without Mr. Chill here taking care of it. Maggie couldn’t be safer, and in re-evaluating him, I guess you could call him handsome in his own way. Kinda the way a lion is pretty . . . from afar, and when it’s not looking at you like dinner. I’m not sure how this guy is looking at me though. His eyes are hidden behind mirrored shades, probably for the intimidation factor.

He obviously notices me though, raising an eyebrow just enough that I can see it over the rim of his glasses as I approach. “You here hunting your man?” he rumbles in a voice that promises violence if someone pushes him too far. “We don’t want any old ladies causing problems.”

I shake my head, giving him the most reassuring smile I can muster right now. “No, just meeting a friend. She works here . . . Megan? Short, pretty, and sweet as pie?”

The smile he gives is so fleeting that if I wasn’t watching his face intently, I’d never know his mouth had even twitched a quarter-inch at the edges or that his chin dipped maybe a half-inch. “Meg’s here, all right. I’ll waive the cover for you since you’re her friend.”

I nod my thanks and step inside, uncertain about this but desperate for help. Inside, it’s dark and smells like a mixture of stale beer and floral perfume with an undercurrent of cigarette smoke that immediately scratches at the back of my throat. When Maggie told me she was working at a strip club, the first thought that came to my mind was sleazy, but the tasteful decorations and the women I can see are way too high-quality for that label. Maybe . . . erotic? I’d need my thesaurus at home to really get it right.

The music is thumping, the heavy bass pulsing through my chest as a stunning woman wearing black heels, lingerie that basically consists of a few skinny strings, and a seductive smile is twirling and working up and down a pole on stage. It’s an amazing display of strength and grace, and the acrobatics momentarily stun me, but when someone bumps me from behind, I remember to move and work my way toward an empty table off to the side.

There’s no way I’d want to be close to the action here, looking at the leering faces of the jackals surrounding the stage. It’s a shame too, because for all of the sexual arousal hanging in the air, the dancer’s routine is as beautiful and elegant as it is sexy.

Randomly, a thought pops in my head to check out a pole fitness class, but before it can solidify, Maggie struts up. She’s glittery still, but at least she’s wearing a top and clothes, although I don’t think I’ve ever imagined Mags in a black bustier top and miniskirt before. “Hey, honey! You made it, you must really need some help. Want me to grab you a beer, or do you need something a little stronger?”

I consider asking for a shot, but I know I need to keep my head straight to figure a way out of this. “Just a beer. Gotta keep my head straight. Anything good on tap?”

Maggie nods, adjusting her glasses. “Sure thing, let me grab one of the local brews and I’ll see if I can take my break in a few.”

“That’s fine. I know I’m intruding on your work, so whenever you have a minute is fine. At least there’s a show,” I reply, indicating the girl on stage, who’s currently hanging upside down with her legs so splayed she sort of looks like the letter T. I’m jealous. I don’t think I could get my legs that wide apart even if Keith were . . . nope, don’t need to go there right now.

Maggie grins and bounces off, and I’m struck by how even in this club with her tits popped up and her ass hanging out, Maggie comes across as cute and sweet. Sexiest Girl Scout candy striper in the whole world, and she’s working undercover in a strip club.

Maggie has an innocence about her even when I see her banging on her tray as she claps for a particularly difficult trick the woman on stage is performing. I follow her sightline and see the buxom brunette flashing her panty-covered pussy to the audience as she stands on one foot and raises the other leg high, splitting vertically in the air like a gymnast as she leans way far back. It’s almost a ballet-like position, minus the leotard and tutu. And then when she grabs the pole, flipping herself up onto it again, the audience goes wild, clapping and whistling.

Holy crap! I definitely need a pole fitness class if it can teach me how to do that.

Maggie brings me a beer, and I lean back, sipping it as another girl makes her way on stage.

“Hey, baby, you enjoying the show?” a guy asks, coming up. He’s a little tipsy but not drunk, and while he’s not hideous, he wouldn’t be my type even if I wasn’t seeing Keith.

“Sorry, just waiting for my girlfriend to take a break,” I reply, letting him draw his own conclusions. Thankfully, girlfriend has so many different meanings. The guy looks intrigued for a moment, and I wonder if he’s going to press his luck, and I cut my eyes toward the door for the bouncer just in case. The guy immediately chills out and shrugs in defeat when he sees the bouncer look this direction, and he takes a step back, tossing back the rest of his drink.

“Have a nice night,” he says simply before disappearing back toward the stage.

For the next hour, the scenery turns into a blur of sweat, stale smoke, glitter, and thumping music between two slowly-sipped beers. Maggie never does get a chance to take a break, but when the sound guy gets on and says that Tina Tempest is the last act and they need to clear out, the patrons comply quickly.

“I need to change and I’ll sit down with you,” Maggie says, looking tired but still concerned about me. “More privacy out here than in a back room.”

When Maggie comes out a few minutes later, clad in a tank top, baggy sweats, and Ugg boots, I can’t help but crack a big smile. She’s wiped all the makeup off her face and pulled her hair up into a cute off-center ponytail, looking more like an eighteen-year-old girl on any college campus in the US than a strip club waitress. Or more importantly, a reporter. All traces of her night in the strip club are wiped clean.

Well, except for the glitter sparkling in her cleavage. “You look great. How do you do that . . . sexy sweetheart to girl next door in two minutes flat?”

She looks pleased at my compliment and sits down, pulling her knees up to her chest and curling up like a tiny spitfire ball of cuteness. “Just how I was made, I guess. I’m totally not a femme fatale type for sure.”

“Speaking of femme fatales, you won’t believe what Francesca has been doing,” I growl, glad I’ve got the two beers in me or else I’d be throwing shit, I’m still so fucking angry.

“What?” Maggie asks, sensing my displeasure. “She didn’t . . . stab you in the back, did she?”

I laugh bitterly, nodding. “Like it’s nobody’s fucking business. She’s been following me, on Donnie’s orders! Me! Like I’m a target.”

“And?” Maggie asks, not getting upset yet, “What did she find?”

I stop, immediately defensive. “How do you know she found something?”

“Because you’ve been sitting in a strip club for over an hour waiting to talk to me, ergo, she found something,” Maggie explains matter-of-factly. “If she hadn’t, you’d have just told me the story and called her a stupid bitch on Monday. Am I right? So what did she find?”

“Well, I can’t exactly say everything she found,” I reply before taking a deep breath. Fuck it, right now I need to trust someone with some secrets, or else I’m going to be spinning my wheels and going nowhere. “But she figured out pretty quickly that Keith and I are dating.”

Maggie reaches out, putting a hand on my arm. “You two are . . . dating?”

I nod, pushing on. “There’s more, but that’s not my secret to tell and I promised I wouldn’t. Suffice it to say, Donnie made it sound like Keith is just fucking me to keep me quiet. But that’s not it. I love him, and he loves me.”

Maggie smiles, leaning back in her chair and giving a little fist pump to the stale sky. “That’s awesome, Elise! I mean, I hate you too—you got the hunkiest guy in country music and you held out on me . . . but I understand why you didn’t spill that around the coffee pot at the office. So, what’s the problem?”

“Donnie gave Keith an ultimatum,” I reply, loving Maggie totally in that instant as she cheers for me. “He said Keith either has to pay him three and a half million dollars to keep quiet or Donnie will publish a story with the secret Keith doesn’t want to get out and get his money that way. Donnie set it up pretty well. Apparently, he’s blackmailed other celebrities too so he’s got experience. Keith has until Monday night to decide.”

Maggie looks pissed, slamming her tiny little fist on the table and making my two beer glasses rattle. “Donnie is such a creep. I’m honestly not surprised he’s pulling something like this, nor that he’s good at it, considering how long he’s been in this business. He’s manipulative and a great strategist. But there’s always a weak point to every plan. We just have to find it and exploit it,” she declares, holding up first one finger and then another like she’s making a to-do list.

I sigh, hope lighting bright for a second before I crash back down. I look at the last dregs of beer in the nearest glass and realize it looks a lot like my life right now, a room temperature puddle of piss. “There’s no weak point. I’ve been thinking for hours now. The only way to keep Donnie quiet is to pay him off, and I don’t trust that he wouldn’t get the money and then publish the story anyway. We both know he’s fine with double-dipping considering that he slept around on his ex-wife with Francesca.”

Instead of joining me in my misery, I can see Maggie’s brain turning. I quiet down, watching the wheels spin as she talks silently to herself, until suddenly, her face breaks wide in a huge ear-to-ear smile. “I know what the weak point is, but you’re not gonna like it.”

“What? Anything, God. Help me!”

“The weak point is Donnie. He literally gives zero fucks about keeping his life private, flaunting things most people would hide—like sleeping with Francesca—so that he’s untouchable. And in doing so, he assumes most folks do actually give a shit and want to keep their secrets just that . . . secret. He targets people he thinks will do anything, pay anything, and he’s set his sights on Keith.”

I see where she’s going, and I nod, feeling a light at the end of the tunnel as she continues.

“Donnie’s entire plan hinges on that initial supposition that Keith will want to keep this quiet, and that he’ll do anything, and that will be enough to get the millions. I think he’ll likely take the money and publish too. That’s just the sort of snake he is. Probably not even give Francesca a decent cut of it either. He’ll just keep stringing her along until she’s too deep in to ever go anywhere else, then cut her free when he finds his next fresh-faced girl willing to sleep her way to the top.”

Maggie nods sadly, sparing a bit of sympathy for Francesca. I guess I can understand why. That, and Maggie’s the reincarnated spirit of Marsha Brady. “That’s right up his alley. So, based on that, the secret is coming out . . . whatever it is. Keith just needs to get in front of it. It’s the only way. Go on the morning talk show racket and apologize for the drug use and check into rehab . . .”

I give her a severe look, my inner feelings flaring up. “He’s not on drugs.”

Maggie smirks, knowing she’s been caught. “Had to try. Maybe apologize for the . . . red room of pain and explain that you’re into it too?”

I laugh, wondering if Maggie’s brain is really as innocent as she seems. “Nope, not it either. Really, I can’t say. But I know Keith isn’t going to want to publicize it. He’s worked his whole life to keep this secret.”

“Well, I have to say, I don’t think he’s going to have a choice about whether it gets out,” Maggie says, shrugging reluctantly. “But he can decide how it gets out.”

My jaw drops as something comes back to me. Donnie said the record company’s initial push to have Keith do the interviews with me was so that they could . . . control the narrative.

Quietly, I murmur the phrase to myself, like a magic incantation that can change the very fabric of the universe. “Control the narrative.”

“What?”

Maybe . . . maybe it can. Getting excited, I reach across the table and grab Maggie’s hand. “We have to control the narrative. Donnie’s power is in that he’s the only one with the information, but what if he wasn’t? Keith could do the morning show racket and tell it himself. Then Donnie won’t get the blackmail money and he won’t be able to publish it and get the exclusive breaking news. It takes away his power and lets Keith control the narrative! Control the narrative! You’re a fucking genius!”

Maggie laughs, cute and self-conscious now. “Well, sometimes yes and sometimes no. Just glad this seems to be a yes-time for your sake. So, you’re really not going to tell me the secret?”

“Nope, but I’m gonna need your help getting Keith on TV the day after tomorrow without telling the shows why and keeping the whole appearance Top Secret so Donnie doesn’t find out and try and jump out in front of the whole thing. Can you do that?”

“Yeah, I can make a call or two and make that happen for a top name like Keith,” Maggie says. “I know a few people down at the local station, and if it’s Keith, they can probably get him on the national circuit if we promise them a big enough prize. But shouldn’t his manager do that though?”

“Well, that’s my next problem. I have to get Keith on board with this plan because he’s not going to like it,” I reply, sighing a little. “He’s not going to like it at all. We kinda had a fight about the whole thing. He didn’t really blame me, exactly, but he was mad at himself for dating me because it’s led to this whole drama. He’s got some definite anger toward the media and paparazzi, and I’ve got this huge glaring neon sign on my forehead, blinking ‘REPORTER’ in big capital letters right now, and it’s got his shields up.”

“Well, this isn’t really your fault, exactly, but maybe it is time for you to do something a little different if you’re pursuing something a bit longer term with Keith,” Maggie counsels me. “Not saying you’re not good, Elise. I mean, you’ve taught me a few things in the time we’ve worked together, but a gossip reporter and a country music star don’t exactly sound like a match made in heaven. And we both know you’re too good for this job anyway. Maybe you really could parlay this series into something with one of the legit music industry magazines? Or do some investigative journalism that’s not so, I don’t know . . . gossipy? Not like you can go to an award ceremony after-party on Keith’s arm and be trusted if you’re publishing all the drunk hookups on Monday morning,” she says jokingly, but she’s on target.

I sigh, knowing Maggie’s right, but there are so many variables up in the air. “I know, and I’ll have to figure that out. But right now, I just want to figure out this thing with Keith. Thanks so much . . . Megan.”

I give her a little smile as I use her cover name, glad that our conversation has been private even in this club and trusting that she will help me. Giving the bouncer a nod of thanks as he ushers out a few overindulged guests, I leave, stepping into one of the waiting Ubers.

I’ve got a lot of shit to do, and not a lot of time to do it in. So the only question I have is . . . do I wait until sunrise to talk to Keith about this . . . or wake him up at three in the morning to deal with it?