Gemma Halliday: Scandal Sheet aka Hollywood Scandals

Once we hit the parking lot, we all dispersed to our respective vehicles. Cam’s a Jeep Wrangler with mud caked into the tires. Allie skipped to one of those new little VW bugs. Powder blue. Figures. Even her car was adorable.

I unlocked my helmet and threw a leg over my bike.

“No.”

I turned to find Cal at my side, shaking his head.

“Excuse me?”

“I can’t let you ride that.”

“Hold up-you can’t let me?”

“You’re completely exposed. Not to mention how easily someone could stage an accident on something that flimsy.”

“My bike is not flimsy.”

“It’s the smallest bike I’ve ever seen. What’s it made of, plastic?”

I clenched my teeth. “I’m petite. I need a petite bike.”

“Not today you don’t.”

“Look, you-”

“No, look you ,” he countered, taking a step forward. Suddenly his jaw clenched, his eyes going intent. His entire demeanor shifted into something hard and dangerous. I felt my breath back up in my throat, realizing just how good at his job he must be. “I was hired to keep you safe. Which I intend to do, whether you cooperate or not. You want to go to the courthouse? Fine. We do it my way.”

He gestured to his left, where a huge black Hummer sat at the curb. And not one of those new SUV-sized ones. This was an original tank.

“Seriously?” I asked. “A Hummer?”

“It’s safe.”

“It’s a tank. It probably guzzles more fuel than some small countries.”

He raised one dark eyebrow ever so slightly. “We could always go back inside?”

I looked across the parking lot at Allie, applying lip gloss as she pulled her Bug out into traffic. I clenched my teeth together. And swung my leg back over the bike, locking my helmet on to the handlebars again.

“Fine. But, you know what they say about big cars, right?” I asked as Cal opened his passenger side door for me.

“What’s that?”

“They’re compensating for something. The bigger the car, the smaller their…” I let my gaze fall to the crotch of his jeans. Then back up to give a long, meaningful look at the behemoth of a car he drove.

But instead of growling at me, the laughter returned to Rent-A-Goon’s eyes.

“Oh, yeah? And what do they say about girls who drive hot pink Hondas?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “I’ve never met anyone ballsy enough to tell me.”

The corner of his mouth quirked up. “Somehow, I believe that, Bender.”

Next to the sentencing, the Pines evidence trial was a downright snoozer. Cops had found the kiddie porn in Pines’s backseat, partially shoved under an old copy of Variety . The “partially” was the sticky word that had granted Pines’s defense attorneys a hearing. Just how much had been exposed? Enough that the police had seen it was young boys, or just a naked person? Did they have probable cause for investigating the car?

I had to hand it to Pines’s lawyer-the guy had a way of asking the same question so many different ways that the arresting officer began to doubt his own story. As the afternoon dragged on, he went from, “Yes, sir,” to, “I really can’t recall now.” I feared just how fuzzy his memory might get by the time the actual trial started.

In the end, the magazines were allowed into evidence. Not really a shocker. We all knew there was no way Pines was getting off that easily.

As soon as the gavel fell, I stood and stretched my legs. Four hours on a hard, wooden chair had caused my right foot to fall asleep. I stomped on it as I made my way from the courtroom with the rest of the news hounds.

“That was so freaking cool!”

I turned to find Allie at my side, eyes shining. Throughout the entire boring proceeding, she’d been scribbling in a pink floral notebook like a demon.

“Cool? We’re lucky we didn’t go into a coma.”

“But the way they got down to every little detail. Didn’t you find that fascinating?”

Was she for real?

“Sure. Fascinating. Like paint drying.”

We pushed our way outside, blinking back the assaulting sunshine. I squinted and noticed Cal’s Hummer right away. He was semilegally parked at the curb, leaning against the passenger side, his eyes covered in dark sunglasses that reflected the glass courthouse building back at me in blinding clarity. He looked like a hitman. Or The Rock. Either way, the pedestrians on the sidewalk were giving him a wide berth.

Allie pulled a pair of designer sunglasses from her bag and slid them onto her nose, turning to me. “So, Felix told me this was originally your story.”

“It is my story,” I agreed, emphasizing the present tense.

“Right. And I don’t want to step on your toes or anything.”

“Thank you.” I think that was the first smart thing she’d said.

“So, when I type up our notes tonight, I’ll put your name first on the byline, ‘kay?”

I felt my eyes narrow. “What do you mean you’re typing up our notes?”

“You know, the ones we took during the hearing just now?”

“That was a no-brainer. Evidence in. I didn’t take any notes.”

She cocked her head to one side, her blonde hair cascading over her right shoulder like a shampoo commercial. “Huh. Well, then I guess I’ll be typing up my notes. See you tomorrow, Bender.”

For a second, I swore a glimmer of triumph sparked her eyes, and I suddenly found myself wondering if maybe the blonde wasn’t as dumb as I’d originally thought.

Before I could protest, she’d turned on her kitten heels and was sashaying to her tiny little bug.

I clenched my jaw. So help me, if I wasn’t being watched by a dozen security cameras right now…

“Ready to go?”

I turned to find Cal behind me, hands in his pockets.

“More than ready.”

Because I had a sinking feeling that if I didn’t get my version of the hearing in to Felix tonight, there was a strong chance Blondie might conveniently forget my name on that byline.

By the time Cal dropped me back off at my bike and insisted on following me home, it was dark and I was starving. Luckily, Aunt Sue had actually remembered the lasagna recipe. Unluckily, she’d forgotten to take it out of the oven. I pushed through the front door and into a thick cloud of marinara-flavored smoke. Coughing, I staggered through the kitchen, removed the offending casserole-which resembled a charred brick now-and opened up all the windows.

“Peanut, that you?” Aunt Sue called from the living room. I could hear the strains of The Price Is Right on the Game Show Network in the background.

“It’s me. How long has this lasagna been in the oven?”

“I put it in just after Deal or No Deal .”

Five hours. No wonder the place reeked.

“I think we might be having takeout tonight,” I shot back.

“Oh, let’s have Chinese,” Aunt Sue agreed happily, shuffling into the kitchen. “Or maybe Indian. You know how I love curry.”

“I do know.” I used a spatula to try to wedge the noodle brick out of the pan. No luck.

“Oh, or Italian! That’s my favorite.”

“I know.”

“I make a mean lasagna,” Aunt Sue said, a faraway look in her eyes.

I sighed. “I know.”

I gave up on the spatula and stuck the whole thing in the trash. I’d buy a new pan tomorrow.

“What’s that awful smell?”

I turned to find Hattie Carmichael standing in the front doorway, wrinkling her nose.

“We had a little cooking mishap,” I said, pulling the number for the Peking Palace off the refrigerator and dialing the phone.

“I made lasagna,” Aunt Sue said.

“Ugh, it smells like you overcooked it,” Mrs. Carmichael said.