10
Chapter 1
Demetri Morretti yanked open the door of the sleek, ultra-modern WJN-TV building and stalked inside the bright, bustling lobby. The station was abuzz with activity, the mood was cheerful, and everywhere Demetri turned were young, well-dressed people. Some were drinking coffee in the waiting area, others were yakking into their cell phones, and a few were snapping pictures in front of the life-size bronze statue.
Keeping his head down, and his pace brisk, he strode past the reception desk like a man on a mission. And he was. He’d driven across town to issue a warning to Angela Kelly, the female broadcaster with the lying lips, and wasn’t going to let anything stop him. His left shoulder was killing him, throbbing in pain from his neck to his elbow, but he kept his smile in place as he continued through the sun-drenched lobby.
Demetri was about to breeze past the security desk but saw the robust-looking security guard eyeing him and thought better of it.
As he approached the circular desk, he caught sight of the gigantic oak clock. Demetri was surprised to see that it was already eleven-thirty. He was supposed to be meeting his team of his agent, his manager and his no-nonsense publicist for lunch at their favorite uptown pub. But when he remembered last night’s episode of Eye on Chicago, Demetri decided nothing was more important than confronting the broadcaster who’d slaughtered his name on national television. This was the second time Angela Kelly had taken a cheap shot at him, and he was sick of being the butt of her jokes. This was a detour he had to make— one his manager couldn’t talk him out of no matter how hard he’d tried.
“Hey, man, what’s up?” Demetri said, greeting the guard with a flick of his head. “I’m here to see Ms. Angela Kelly.”
“Now’s not a good time.”
“This won’t take long. I just need a few minutes.”
“Do you have an appointment?”
Demetri shook his head. “No, but—”
“But nothing.” The guard waved him off with his beefy hand. “Come back at the end of the day. I might be able to squeeze you in then.”
“I can’t. I’m busy.”
“Doing what? Panhandling?”
Taken aback by his comment, Demetri glanced down and inspected his attire. He’d left the house without shaving and wore dark, stubbly hair on his chin, but he didn’t look that bad, did he? He’d showered and wore his new signature Gucci cologne, and his black Nike warm-up suit didn’t have a wrinkle in sight. I look good, he decided, squaring his shoulders. This dude needs to have his eyes checked.
“You cats from the Ninth Street homeless shelter are driving me nuts,” the guard complained. “You’re always coming in here begging to see Ms. Kelly just because she volunteers down at the center, but enough is enough. She’s too nice to tell you bums to get lost, but I’m not, so get lost!”
Demetri raised his eyebrows for two reasons. One because the security guard thought he was down on his luck, and two because the man spoke about Angela Kelly in glowing terms, as if she were a saint. Demetri found it hard to believe that the mean-spirited newscaster volunteered with the homeless. It had to be a front. Something she did to look good, to boost the ratings of her TV show. Demetri considered leaving, and tracking her down at the shelter up the block, but quickly decided against it. He was going to talk to Angela Kelly today, and the gruff security guard with the unibrow was going to lead him straight to her.
“I’d appreciate if you could help me out,” Demetri said, glancing around the lobby for any signs of the enemy. “It’s important that I talk to Ms. Kelly before she goes on the air.”
“Are you deaf? I said to come back later.” Glowering, he bared his crooked, coffee-stained teeth. “Scram before I toss you out myself.”
Demetri took off his dark aviator sunglasses and flashed his trademark grin. The one that had landed him a seven-figure deal with Sony, Crest toothpaste and a dozen other multimillion-dollar companies. “Now, is that any way to talk to the Athlete of the Year?”
The guard’s eyes flew out of his head. “Holy crap! You’re Demetri Morretti!”
Leaning forward, Demetri pressed a finger to his lips and spoke in a conspiratorial whisper. “Keep it down, man. I don’t want anyone to know it’s me.”
The guard raced around his desk, cap in hand, a giddy expression on his wide face. “I’ve been a fan ever since you signed with the Chicago Royals, and I haven’t missed a home game since!”
Demetri nodded. “Thanks, man. I really appreciate the support.”
“My friends are going to trip when I tell them I met you! We watch your games every week and even drove a thousand miles to see you play in...”
Demetri stood patiently, waiting for the guard to quit rambling about last year’s All-Star Game. Unfortunately, this happened several times a day. And although he was out for the rest of the season due to his bum shoulder, there were fans out there who still treated him like a champion. Everyone else had turned on him, and the last thing Demetri needed was more bad press. That was the main reason he’d come to tell Angela Kelly to back off and stop the station from airing the last installment of her Athletes Behaving Badly series.
“Can I have your autograph?” the guard asked, snatching a piece of paper off the desk and
