- Home
- Jamie Collins
Hot Mic!
Hot Mic! Read online
HOT MIC!
Copyright © 2018 by Jamie Collins
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Interior Format by The Killion Group
www.thekilliongroupinc.com
Sign up for the author’s New Releases mailing list and get a FREE copy of the novelette, Sign On! (The Casting of the Ladies of The Gab - Secrets and Stilettos Prequel).
Go to
https://www.jamiecollinsauthor.com/free-book-offer
for a FREE copy of Sign On!
Table of Contents
Books by Jamie Collins
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
About the Author
Books by Jamie Collins
Dedication
To my dear friend Sue P.
You are always in my heart. ~ Jamie
Books by
Jamie Collins
Prologue
Global Studios - New York City
August 21, 2015
Jon Novotny, Hannah’s trusted producer and colleague circumvented Marney Valentine with a well-timed phone call just as she stepped out of a cab in front of Global Network’s executive offices and checked her phone for the hundredth time. There were thirty minutes remaining until the signing of the biggest deal of her client’s career to date yet, Hannah was nowhere in sight.
“We’ve run into a bit of a situation,” Jon said from the speaker of Marney’s smartphone, which was pressed against her multi-pierced earlobe as she headed into the massive lobby and toward the bank of shiny art deco elevators.
“What kind of a situation?” Marney’s voice was agitated and about three pitches too high.
“Hannah is going to be delayed—significantly delayed.” Jon was cutting in and out and there was commotion that sounded like a battalion on the other end of the line.
“What exactly are you saying, Jon?” The tightness in Marney’s chest was now threatening a full-on panic attack.
“I have called Hannah’s lawyer and he will be sitting in for her at the signing. I need for you to arrange for Hannah to conference in. Can you do that, Marney?”
“What!” Marney was incredulous. She had just flown in from a hellish layover in Houston on her way back from a three-day bachelorette party on Padre Island with her college gal-pals, and was not in the mood for games, and least of all, for her star client to be MIA. “I suppose I can do that, but is Hannah okay, Jon? Where in the world is she?”
Just then, two plainclothes police officers arrived out of nowhere, flanking her on either side. A third officer positioned himself in front of the revolving glass doors, and thrust a badge in her face.
“Miss Valentine? You are Dr. Hannah Courtland-Murphy’s agent, are you not? We’d like to ask you a few questions.”
Chapter 1
Cleveland, Ohio
June 20, 2015
Peter stood there starched, silent, and perfect. The initials embossed on his sterling silver cuff links gleamed at the folds of his custom-tailored shirtsleeves. His exquisite silk tie matched his cool blue eyes, and an unusually unstable hand fought to steady a glass of Glenlivet. Pensiveness registered on his face as he considered his wife’s words; her back regarding him with cool indifference as she adjusted the hairpins.
“We’ll just get through it, okay? It’s only a few hours.”
He nodded. The movement caused the ice to stir even more. It was agreed, then. One last hoorah, and then the charade would cease. No longer would there be a need to pretend. Not anymore. It was what she wanted. What they both wanted, right?
She fastened the pearls, expertly threading the catch behind her neck, like she had done a hundred times before. He caught a glimpse of her décolleté in the mirror. The sight of this simple act reduced him to shame, and he quickly looked away.
They were the pearls that Hannah had worn on their wedding day, that she had borrowed from her mother. Regretfully, the shame overshadowed his sadness that Charlotte Courtland was far too ill to attend the party. Ironically, he would have been spared his mother-in-law’s scorn even if she could have come, due to her condition. He had known even back when he married Hannah who he was, and that it was patently wrong to have buried the truth within the sanctity of holy vows.
He was sorry. Sorry beyond words and shrunken by the weight of the whole situation so poignantly that his heart ached in one thousand ways when she turned to him and smiled, in spite of it all.
Hannah—his ever-dutiful wife. Blameless. A woman whom Peter knew greater men than he would give their very souls to adore. He did not need an audience of eight point five million people to tell him so.
“Let’s not be late,” she said, reaching for her wrap, and then taking her husband’s arm. The ride to the reception was quiet. It was better that way. It would take every ounce of strength to keep up appearances, even in the jollity of celebration.
The crowd that began filling the ballroom of the Manchester hours prior had begun spilling out onto the terrace, where additional bars and buffet tables had been stationed. The media held vigil just outside the hotel’s massive lobby for hours prior to the first guests’ arrival. A media helicopter hovered overhead.
The feel was that of a Hollywood premiere night. It was the largest spectacle the Manchester had hosted in years, where hundreds of adoring fans who felt more like old and trusted friends, had gathered to cheer their beloved Hannah—true crusader of the everyday hero.
The limo pulled as close to the curb as the driver was able. Security had roped off a clear path from which to escort Hannah and Peter from the car to the ballroom. As they stepped onto lush, red carpet, a sea of flashbulbs exploded from all angles.
The news burned within Hannah to be revealed. It was good, all right. Perfect timing, in fact. Her publicity team said so, and she agreed. She had been advised to wait until tonight, though, to make the big announcement. All would be revealed. Needless to say, her head was spinning.
Why didn’t Peter think to give her the same courtesy for the past thirty-eight years? she wondered. His timing was unpropitious, as usual. A boisterous applause greeted them as the couple crossed the ornate threshold to the Grand Ballroom, and Hannah’s heart leapt—it was all for her!
The orchestra swelled first with spirited fanfare, and then broke into an unabashedly sultry rendition of “Happy Birthday.” Balloons and multicolored confetti flakes floated from the ceiling, filling the enormous room with color.
Hundreds of smiling faces shone adoringly in her direction, whooping and hollering accolades as she made her way through the crowd.
It was quite like a dream. Everyone was present: Friends, family, colleagues. Even many of her long-time listeners from every walk of life. These people were her life, and she loved them dearly. Each and every one of them.
“We love you, Hannah!”
“Dr. Hannah—over here!”
Marney Valentine stepped out from behind a cameraman, who was shining a bright yellow light at them, ready to record the moment. The two women embraced gingerly, careful of the beaded dresses, dangling earrings, and lethal lipstick, kissing instead, the perfumed air beside each cheek.
Where Hannah was, Marney ever followed. That was fact.
Marney was Hannah’s unfailing, capable agent with a pixie face and quirky, shockingly orange hair, which fell in a neat ultra-short-cropped bob that resembled a neon helmet. Dramatic feline eyes rimmed with charcoal liner and chic tigerprint spectacles made her look more like a cartoon caricature of herself than herself. Marney’s peculiar look was touted avant-garde by those in the know, but to Hannah, she was anything but a cartoon; she was a survivor—a product of childhood family dysfunction and a faltering self-esteem who lived a basement-level existence in designer clothes.
Marney had been with Hannah since 2006, before her show went national, when she was languishing in obscurity before the syndication contract, the public appearances, the book signings—and now this once-in-a-lifetime career offer. There was such a thing as loyalty, and Marney well knew the value of it. All the better that it would also serve to advance her own career aspirations. After all, she was thirty-nine years old and not getting any younger.
“Isn’t it fab?” Marney shouted over the noise, curling her lips and scrunching her nose in just the very way that always made Peter cringe. It was no secret that he flat-out hated her.
Marney grabbed two glasses of champagne from a passing waiter and handed one to Hannah. “C’mon! There’s someone I want you to meet.”
It was Peter’s cue to leave. Disappear. Vaporize. The great cardiac surgeon, Dr. Peter Murphy—no, make that Mr. Hannah Courtland-Murphy, was released. Free to go wherever he pleased, his services no longer required. They would take things from here. Hannah’s “people” could make careers out of conversations, networking twenty-four/seven. Never tiring. Especially with social affairs like this. These were business events in disguise, even if it was Hannah’s sixtieth birthday celebration.
Marney crowded in. “Reuben, may I present Dr. Hannah—Hannah, this is Reuben Dickerson from Ricon Broadcasting, in Toronto.”
Hannah and Reuben shook hands. She feigned forgetfulness when he suggested that they might have met once before, earlier in her career, in Cincinnati at a charity event. He was loath to give her the time of day back then, let alone actually listen to her demo tape. She never forgot a face, especially one as distinctively unattractive as his.
What was it he had told her back then? Oh, yes. “Stick to housewifery, honey. It’s more suited to your penchant for nagging rages, which does more to assault the listeners than counsel them.”
“I’m not sure, perhaps our paths did cross then. It’s quite possible.” Hannah said.
His smile instantly fell. He caught on and chuckled to himself, allowing her memory to serve as fact. “I’m sure you’re right, because if it was you back then, I’m positive that I would have been so taken with your infinite charm and talent that I would have signed you up right there on the spot!”
They all laughed at the irony, and Reuben kicked back his cocktail with glee. There was no chance of him making that mistake again. He was there to see to it that Hannah’s decision to sign on with his Canadian network was ironclad. He had the contract agreements fifteen floors away, tucked securely in his attaché back up in his hotel room, where a hot little number from the escort service was waiting for him, dressed in scads of black leather and drenching the bed sheets with whipped cream and sticky cherries as they spoke. After the introductions, he would be out of there.
“Then we’re all set for 9:00 tomorrow morning?” Reuben said, slapping his pork rind hands together and rubbing them nervously. He appeared to have had enough of Hannah’s love-fest and was anxious to get on to one of his own.
“Better make it ten o’clock,” Marney said, whisking Hannah off by the arm. “Tonight’s party is slated to go all night long, and Hannah does need her rest!”
He waved like a dumb baboon as the two women walked off.
Hannah smiled to herself. Little did Dickerson know that she had no intention of signing anything he had to offer. She was just using Ricon’s offer to counter a gargantuan bid to sweeten contract negotiations for the re-signing of The Dr. Hannah Show for another five years with Venture Media.
It had been Marney’s idea to let Reuben find out like everyone else—at the party that night, when the deal would be announced publicly that Hannah would remain queen of the number one syndicated talk show circuit about to stream nationally on satellite radio. And, as if that weren’t enough, fans of the famed psychologist would also learn that they would soon be able to see their favorite radio shrink on TV, as co-anchor and resident problem-solver of the new Global Network’s all-women talk show, The Gab, an enormous coup d’état in Hannah’s skyrocketing career.
Disappointing Reuben Dickerson would be a well-earned pleasure. Hannah felt deeply satisfied at the prospect of being able to stick it to at least one naysayer who had wronged her. Unfortunately, it was the one who mattered least. It was not in Hannah’s nature to take pleasure in vengeance, but she had to admit that tonight, it felt good to be taking the spoils of her labors and to be moving on.
The next morning, she finally signed the divorce papers that would end her thirty-eight-year marriage to Peter. All that was left, was for him to sign as well.
Chapter 2
New York City, NY
(One Week Earlier)
The radio station was dark, except for the steady glow of amber and white lights emanating from the control room. Adjacent to the studio was a tall glass partition and the ever-present ON-AIR backlit warning light high above the door that connected the two worlds. The only soul present besides the late-night producer was Jeremiah Gaffney, the overnight auditor who was expounding on the virtues of mutual funds and T-bonds to a graveyard-shift engineer.
Hannah waved at them as she passed the plate glass window. It was peaceful. Just the way she liked it. She enjoyed arriving hours before sunrise at four a.m. to prep for her two-hour show. She relished the pre-dawn calm to sip strong brewed coffee and to catc
h up on reading trade articles, letters from listeners, and not least of all, weekly releases on the rating status of the The Dr. Hannah Show.
The halls were empty; the printers silent. There was nothing to distract her except for her own unsettled thoughts. It had been three months since Peter had completely moved out, and she still thought about him every day. She could not help it.
“You spend nearly twenty-three years with the same man you’ve called your husband and you forget how to be anything else other than a wife,” a listener had lamented just last week on her show. So true, Hannah thought, but managed to utter a stern directive instead.
“Then it’s time to get to work on the next twenty-three!”
It was all so simple in the framework of two-minute phone conversations. Real life—now, that was an entirely different story.
Living life as a free and single woman terrified Hannah. She had been Peter’s wife for so long that with his leaving went a significant part of her persona. Even her children, whom she adored more than anything in the world, could not replace the void he had left. Her boys were grown up and gone, but Olivia, her youngest, at just fifteen years old, still needed her. Nothing was going to change the reality that things would be different. Not fame. Not money. Nothing. She would have to ride it out. Advice that she—better than anyone—knew that while easy to dispense, was enormously hard to follow. The most significant work of Hannah’s life was about to begin. The sooner that Peter signed on the dotted line, the better.
Dr. Hannah’s syndicated hour-long show had aired for only three weeks in 2006 before the first spring book would indicate success or failure. The trends confirmed a positive positioning for The Dr. Hannah Show right out of the gate, which placed her squarely at the helm of the top ten standings for early-morning talk programming now nine years running. She eyed the figures and smiled. The Dr. Hannah Show was currently the company’s strongest draw in syndication, ranking number one among women listeners aged 35-64, and number three for women 25-54, which were always prime demographic groups that made advertisers fat and happy. At least something was continuing to go her way.