Read Online Games Divas Play (A Diva Mystery Novel) by Angela Burt-Murray - Free Book Online
Authors: Angela Burt-Murray
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iPhones buzzed with another incoming message from Che.
Go t video!!!
I clicked on Che’s message, and the short video clip opened on my screen.
Shit . . .
Marcus King was hard to miss. And with a $150 million contract with the New York Gladiators, he had a target on his back for every reporter and every wannabe paparazzi with a cell phone camera. The clip was grainy and unsteady, but I could hear Che’s persistent voice yelling in the background, “Marcus King, o ver here!”
When he saw Che’s camera aimed at his grill, he threw up his hand to block his face as he walked out of a Manhattan hotel lobby holding a woman’s hand. The woman, dressed in a short, tight turquoise Hervé Léger dress, quickly pulled the dark glasses off the top of her long dark hair, slipped them on, and then dropped his hand. But it was too late. The video ended as Marcus rushed by Che and jumped into a waiting car. The woman immediately turned and ran back into the hotel.
It was definitely Marcus in the video. And it was definitely Laila James, the Golden Goddess, with him.
“Damn . . . How dumb do you have to be to try to leave a hotel with your ho in the middle of Manhattan in broad daylight?” MJ asked as he shook his head.
I knew Che was waiting for my response before she posted her latest scoop to the DivaDish website. It was sure to get a lot of traffic and put our fledgling site o n the map.
But I wasn’t sure what to do with this juicy exclusive because, after all, it would kill my girl Vanessa, and she was the one who helped me get thi s new job.
Vanessa had hooked up an e-mail introduction to her soror DeAnna George, the president of PrimeTime Media’s publishing unit, just as she had promised. Desperate for a new job and anxious to get the hell out of Los Angeles and as far away from Eric as possible, I quickly drafted a twenty-page proposal for DeAnna, outlining my vision for the magazine and website. Shortly after receiving my proposal, DeAnna, who, as fate would have it, was in LA to meet with advertising clients, arranged to meet for lunch at her suite in the Beverly Hi lls Hotel.
It was apparent immediately that DeAnna George was wicked smart, had an edgy sense of humor, and played to win. One of the only female presidents at PrimeTime Media Group, a New York–based conglomerate of publishing, social media, and TV networks, she hadn’t gotten to the top by playing nicely with others and sharing her toys. Average height and well toned, she had a light brown complexion and a razor-sharp, chin-length jet-black bob with a widow’s peak. I took her age to be a well-preserved fiftyish. A Google search had yielded several business accolades and a few nasty stories about her underhanded office politics and quick temper, so I’d need to push for an ironclad contract to protect myself if she offered me the job. I walked her through my proposal, laying out my vision for the weekly magazine and daily website, which seemed to im press her.
“I want the DivaDish brand to be the must-read for women of color both in print and online, and I think you’re just the woman to take the brand to the number one position,” she said with a hard glint in her dark eyes as she slid a black folder across the table to me. When I opened the folder, I was happy to see an employment contract. The salary, while in the mid six figures, was a little lower than I would have liked for this type of position, but when I tried to address that, she quickly shu t me down.
“Let me be clear, Nia. All PrimeTime Media contracts are nonnegotiable,” DeAnna said. “Our human resources department has done all the necessary research on the marketplace, competition, and, more importantly, they have done the research on you. So, since you were fired from your last position and Kris Kensington seems to be doing her best to sully what’s left of your reputation, this offer seems more t han fair.”
Ouch , girlfriend did not play. I had to swallow
Go t video!!!
I clicked on Che’s message, and the short video clip opened on my screen.
Shit . . .
Marcus King was hard to miss. And with a $150 million contract with the New York Gladiators, he had a target on his back for every reporter and every wannabe paparazzi with a cell phone camera. The clip was grainy and unsteady, but I could hear Che’s persistent voice yelling in the background, “Marcus King, o ver here!”
When he saw Che’s camera aimed at his grill, he threw up his hand to block his face as he walked out of a Manhattan hotel lobby holding a woman’s hand. The woman, dressed in a short, tight turquoise Hervé Léger dress, quickly pulled the dark glasses off the top of her long dark hair, slipped them on, and then dropped his hand. But it was too late. The video ended as Marcus rushed by Che and jumped into a waiting car. The woman immediately turned and ran back into the hotel.
It was definitely Marcus in the video. And it was definitely Laila James, the Golden Goddess, with him.
“Damn . . . How dumb do you have to be to try to leave a hotel with your ho in the middle of Manhattan in broad daylight?” MJ asked as he shook his head.
I knew Che was waiting for my response before she posted her latest scoop to the DivaDish website. It was sure to get a lot of traffic and put our fledgling site o n the map.
But I wasn’t sure what to do with this juicy exclusive because, after all, it would kill my girl Vanessa, and she was the one who helped me get thi s new job.
Vanessa had hooked up an e-mail introduction to her soror DeAnna George, the president of PrimeTime Media’s publishing unit, just as she had promised. Desperate for a new job and anxious to get the hell out of Los Angeles and as far away from Eric as possible, I quickly drafted a twenty-page proposal for DeAnna, outlining my vision for the magazine and website. Shortly after receiving my proposal, DeAnna, who, as fate would have it, was in LA to meet with advertising clients, arranged to meet for lunch at her suite in the Beverly Hi lls Hotel.
It was apparent immediately that DeAnna George was wicked smart, had an edgy sense of humor, and played to win. One of the only female presidents at PrimeTime Media Group, a New York–based conglomerate of publishing, social media, and TV networks, she hadn’t gotten to the top by playing nicely with others and sharing her toys. Average height and well toned, she had a light brown complexion and a razor-sharp, chin-length jet-black bob with a widow’s peak. I took her age to be a well-preserved fiftyish. A Google search had yielded several business accolades and a few nasty stories about her underhanded office politics and quick temper, so I’d need to push for an ironclad contract to protect myself if she offered me the job. I walked her through my proposal, laying out my vision for the weekly magazine and daily website, which seemed to im press her.
“I want the DivaDish brand to be the must-read for women of color both in print and online, and I think you’re just the woman to take the brand to the number one position,” she said with a hard glint in her dark eyes as she slid a black folder across the table to me. When I opened the folder, I was happy to see an employment contract. The salary, while in the mid six figures, was a little lower than I would have liked for this type of position, but when I tried to address that, she quickly shu t me down.
“Let me be clear, Nia. All PrimeTime Media contracts are nonnegotiable,” DeAnna said. “Our human resources department has done all the necessary research on the marketplace, competition, and, more importantly, they have done the research on you. So, since you were fired from your last position and Kris Kensington seems to be doing her best to sully what’s left of your reputation, this offer seems more t han fair.”
Ouch , girlfriend did not play. I had to swallow
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