Beg for Me(2)

By: Natalie Anderson


“Then I’ll be there.”





Chapter Two



#CareerFail





At 6:37 p.m. the email and its enormous attachment arrived in Min Jones’ inbox. Distracted by her desire for another Ritz cracker—dinner of champions—Min clicked open the file without thinking first. One major coughing fit and many mouthfuls of water later, she wiped her eyes to focus properly on the photo taking up most of her computer screen. Larger than life, squirm-on-your-seat handsome, Logan Hughes was a walking work of art. Former competitive ski champ, now active-wear company owner, he was in this photo to advertise some new kind of shell layer—aka jacket—for overly adventurous mountaineering types.

Min didn’t notice the jacket and doubted any one else would either, certainly no chick lucky enough to see the pic. Min didn’t notice anything other than the man’s eyes, because even in a photo, they were transfixing.

Ice blue, they had that searching quality—the epitome of ‘piercing’. Any and every female on the receiving end of that look would want him to ‘pierce’ her. Pure sexual promise, one look into those blues and you knew he’d be wickedly good.

Of course, the entire online world already knew for a fact that he was ‘good’ thanks to the sex clip that had been circulating these last couple months. More viral than a vomit bug on a cruise ship, it had been viewed millions of times. Logan Hughes with all his glorious moves frolicking with two nubile models who’d filmed him and themselves, then uploaded it to launch their celebrity status into orbit.

The official line was that Logan hadn’t known they were recording the action, though how he hadn’t, she didn’t know. But certainly for the immediate period after it hit cyberspace, the guy went to ground. But he didn’t sue, didn’t try to work some money-making deal out of it. He didn’t even comment. But then he put his campaign together and came out of the woodwork. Head high and deny, deny, deny.

Time to get professional Min.

Because she was part of his campaign. In fact she was central to it. So she’d ignore the way his dark eyebrows emphasized the liquid brightness of his eyes and gave him that almost other worldly look. Like the guy was some kind of mythical, paranormal creature? Ha. He was rooted in earthly pleasures, every inch a worldly man and exactly the kind of man she’d never go near.

She saved the picture to her ‘Logan’ file, then opened up her social media program. Min Jones—social media manager to the stars. Sounded so glam, right?

In truth, she was in her miniscule apartment in Brooklyn, wearing her comfy jeans, retro Scooby Doo tee and big ugly, slippers.

But she could eat what she wanted, when she wanted, work as late as she liked and not have to speak to anyone. She was available 24/7 for planning, presentation, problem solving, all by text and email. Because it wasn’t just ‘accounts’ she was managing, but image and reputation, unquantifiable but vitally valuable.

She was building Logan Hughes’ rep back up brick by brick.

Though in reality that sex clip had done him no damage whatsoever. If anything it’d enhanced his reputation. He’d gotten a zillion followers the moment he’d gone live on Twitter—only three weeks ago. Amazing what notoriety would do for a man.

She’d not looked it up. Sure, she’d been tempted. But she had this irrational fear of cops coming after her if she downloaded porn onto her computer. Maybe it was a hangover from college days and all those ‘internet use’ policy forms she’d had to sign. She was still plagued by the nightmare scenario of having her computer confiscated and of being publicly humiliated. She’d been humiliated before and it wasn’t happening again. Min Jones didn’t want any kind of attention on her whatsoever.

Though yes, she’d imagined what the sex clip might be like. Any image of Logan Hughes had her wondering whether he’d be as hot naked or whether he’d be a disappointment when fully bared. In this picture, a Polaroid from today’s fashion shoot, his jet black hair was slightly long but it didn’t soften his sharp edges. His cheekbones were like sheer skate-ramps for dare-devils only, his jaw steely. He looked better than Hollywood’s finest. But the ‘snap’ had been tweaked, right? No doubt they’d applied some Instagram filter or equivalent. They airbrushed the female models, they’d do the males too. He wouldn’t be that perfect in real life. No one could be.

She’d not met him. She’d quickly learned some celebrities were too busy to meet their minions face to face, which totally suited her because she didn’t want to get nervous and end up stumbling over her sentences. She dealt with their handlers, mainly through email, texts and messages. Thus far it had worked. The fact she loaded Logan’s tweets and Facebook comments—as if he were the one writing—was irrelevant. She didn’t need to meet him to be able to ‘be’ him.