Games Divas Play (A Diva Mystery Novel) Read Free Page A

Queen Bey who-what-where-when news alerts he felt compelled to share with me and anyone walking past his Beyoncé-plastered cubicle and on his popular personal blog Beyoncelicious247. And since he was the only other black employee at the Hollywood Scoop! Plantation, as we jokingly referred to our day jobs, I knew boyfriend always ha d my back.
    I was just sorry that today I didn’t have his.
    “Ms. Bullock, we were told to escort you and Mr. Jackson from the building. Please step into your office and quickly collect your things. You have ten minutes,” the guard said curtly as he stepped aside and gestured with his fat arm into t he office.
    “Ten minutes? I can’t even load my contacts and files from my computer in that time,” I replied. And goodness knows MJ couldn’t take down all his beloved Beyoncé memorabilia and deflate the life-size blow-up doll of the singer that I got him for his last birthday in that little bit of tim e, either.
    “Ms. Bullock, I must inform you that your contacts, company files, and computer are all property of Hollywood Scoop Media, so you are only allowed to take the items that are clearly visible on top of your desk, personal items in your desk drawers, but absolutely nothing off your computer’s ha rd drive.”
    This joker must be crazy. I had spent years busting my butt to build a database of the most coveted e-mail addresses, cell phone numbers, birthdays, rehab hideouts, doctors, lawyers, bail bondsmen, and personal notes that crisscrossed all levels of Hollywood’s who’s who labyrinth. It was my lifeline. Without it, I couldn’t do anything as a journalist, and it would be next to impossible to re-create. MJ’s Spidey senses must have started tingling, because he seemed to know exactly what his girl needed at that moment: a diversion.
    “First of all, mall cop . . . ,” MJ said loudly, staring down the offending guard while grabbing his best friend, Bey. He knocked his box of belongings on the ground in the process, causing them to spill out all over the floor of his cubicle. “Who in the Blue Ivy hell are you calling Mr. Jackson? Mr. Jackson is my daddy, and as far as I can tell, he ain’t the one getti ng fired!”
    Now, if there is one thing straight men don’t know how to deal with, it’s an angry gay man clutching a blow-up Beyoncé doll. And these two were completely flummoxed. As MJ launched into a full-on tirade about his rights being trampled on and how he was going to launch a complaint with the National Association of Black Journalists and the EEOFG—the fake Equal Employment Office for Fabulous Gays that he threatened to call on me at least twice a week for some perceived slight—the two guards tried to placate him and help him pack up his things, so I slipped into my office and closed the door. Sitting down at my computer, I quickly plugged a flash drive into my Mac and began dragging files over to the d rive icon.
    “Come on . . . ,” I said to the computer, tapping my foot nervously. I then accessed MJ’s computer through the network and began copying his file s as well.
    “Don’t you touch Beyoncé! Don’t nobody know where your hands have been, mall cop,” I could hear MJ screech haughtily. I laughed and shook my head as I imagined the guards trying to help MJ pack but not realizing they were taking their own lives into their hands by manhandling Sas ha Fierce.
    As the final files loaded onto the flash drive, I rummaged through my desk, throwing folders into the box. Then I grabbed my journalism awards from the top shelf of my bookcase and added them to the box, covering the folders. I heard one of the guards turn the knob to the door of my office, so I turned and quickly snatched the flash drive out of the computer and slipped it into my fro nt pocket.
    “Are you ready, Ms. Bullock?” Stan asked, exasperation in his barit one voice.
    “Absolutely,” I said, grabbing the box of my belongings and marching past him with my head held