Red Carpet Redemption
Autore
Yahrah St. John
Letto da
16,9K
Capitoli
19
Prologue
“We have to clean up your image, Dane,” his publicist, Whitney Hicks, informed him while they sat in his trailer in Mexico, going over Dane’s public appearances for late July. It was blazing hot and he’d come in to get out of the heat.
“It’s not my fault,” Dane Stewart responded, leaning back on the sofa and propping his legs on the sofa arm. “I had no idea Lia Montgomery was taken. I pride myself on having one relationship at a time and being a one-woman man.”
“Who according to tabloids can’t stay with one woman.”
Dane shrugged his broad shoulders. “Can I help it if a woman can’t manage to hold my attention?”
“You’re going to have to learn,” Jason Underwood replied. Jason had been his manager and agent for years. He was tall, lean and always in a suit. “Negative publicity could damage your image as America’s Sexiest Man Alive.”
“I beg to differ. I think it shows what a hot commodity I am,” Dane said with a smirk. He was thirty years old and in his prime.
“Thanks to your shenanigans, the studio wants you to do some damage control. They don’t want this kind of publicity attached to what essentially is your best acting work. You could get a best actor nomination for your latest film. Think of how this would catapult you into the stratosphere.”
It had taken Dane years of callbacks and tending bar to be in the position he was in now. He didn’t have to act in the big budget action flicks or romantic comedies anymore. Instead, his success in Hollywood had finally allowed him to choose a passion project like the film he’d just wrapped. Dane was proud of the work he’d done and didn’t appreciate the press making him out to be some Neanderthal who couldn’t keep it in his pants.
“Although I think this is all a load of hogwash,” Dane responded, “I agree now isn’t the most convenient time for this to blow up. I want my work to define me, not what I do behind closed doors.”
“Good. Then you’ll agree to the publicity I have scheduled?” Whitney inquired.
Dane trained his eyes on her. “Depends on what it is.”
“You’ll like this one.” Whitney reached for the remote to turn on the television and start a recording.
Dane watched as a local newscaster talked about a young boy, six-year-old Jayden Turner, who was in need of a bone marrow transplant. The camera panned to the cute boy with a mop of curly hair and dark brown eyes. The doctor talked about Jayden’s acute lymphocytic leukemia in which the bone marrow made too many white blood cells. He went on to say the best form of treatment was a bone marrow transplant. Then the camera zoomed in on Jayden’s mother, Iris Turner, a tall, slender woman with a beautiful smile.
Iris pleaded with the public to register to have their bone marrow screened. Dane immediately sat upright and listened to her impassioned plea. He admired her quiet strength. There was a tranquility to her he was drawn to, even though she wasn’t a dazzling beauty like many of the models and actresses he usually dated.
“Let me guess. You want me to be screened?” Dane asked over the hum of the television.
Whitney beamed. “Great minds think alike.” She walked toward him and he scooted aside, making room for her. “This is exactly the kind of positive press you need.”
“I won’t make a mockery of what that mother is going through,” Dane stated vehemently.
“And we’re not asking you to,” Jason chimed in. “Just a photo op after the screening. Your involvement will be a huge help raising awareness for Jayden’s cause.”
Dane inhaled deeply, staring at the screen. The mother was staring back at him and he could see how desperate she was for a chance to save her son’s life. “I’ll do it.”
Whitney grinned. “I’m glad that didn’t take too much convincing. Now here are my other ideas.”
Dane listened as Whitney rattled off several other appearances, including late-night television, a morning talk show and a stop at the local food bank, but all he could see was the haunting eyes of Iris Turner. Dane hoped his presence at the hospital wouldn’t disrupt her and Jayden’s life.
