Late Night with Andres Read Free Page B

I’m not owning all the things. She’s evil on this earth and needs to be silenced.”
    “I understand. Maybe if you tell me what this woman’s name is I can get her on the phone.” Detective Brun sounded very calm.
    “She’s supposed to be here—in this building, tonight. Milla Kierce. The woman who uses words like knives to cut me from the things I own. I want Milla Kierce at my mercy.”
    Milla sat right where she stood because her knees gave out. Oh shit.

Chapter 5
    His Moment
    T HERE W ERE F EW T HINGS Andres tolerated. Being the host of his inane late night show was one of them. He stretched his old legs in the back of the Hummer limousine. There’d been a time when he was the news. His aristocratic mannerisms and slight accent had been the trademark of expert journalism back when women were great at getting coffee and giving blow jobs and not having an opinion. He could smoke where he ate, fuck where he worked, and drink when he drove.
    Then the goddamn Internet had usurped all his ratings like a gluttonous bitch. People had stopped tuning in for his glorious hour as the top-rated anchor in the business. Now they just clicked and got their news in little snaps on their computers or phones. No heartfelt delivery or hard-hitting questions necessary. Andres was on his fourth wife. She was ridiculously young. Really, he didn’t even have the stamina for her. She liked money and sucked hard to earn her keep.
    When the meeting had come, the thinning of the herd, the trimming of the fat at MVP TV, Andres never saw his own career coming to an end—until some pompous little bastard had read off his name and handed him a generic-looking packet on severance pay. Andres had thought he was golden. Luckily his years in the business had taught him well. He always had a backup plan. He threw the packet back at the bastard and called a meeting with the studio bigwigs from his cell. A few well-chosen words and Andres had a crew of some of the richest men in television sitting in his office.
    After airing clips from surveillance videos featuring each and every one of them, he was assured he would always have a job. Just to be a dick, Andres had demanded the move to the Late Night television show. A popular ginger-haired comedian was ousted so Andres could pack up his hard hair and sit behind a desk. His pay was tripled for far less work. And it was all okay. At his age, to have a job at all was probably stupid. He should be in Boca getting a tan. But Andres craved more. He wanted the attention back. He wanted to teach all the reality-TV-watching assholes what true journalism looked like, show them how it felt to be on the very edge of their seats, watching Andres’ lips as he announced news important enough for history books.
    Asking questions of actresses and the occasional politician just wasn’t cutting it. His real dream now was to go out with style—to go out with a gut-wrenching, spine-tingling news story that would have the entire nation on edge for hours. Or even days. As the Hummer pulled up to the curb, Andres got out before the chauffer could make it to his door. His three assistants waited for him at the entrance of the building. They each held a different beverage because Andres liked to have a choice. Today he took a black coffee from Peter without thanks. As he and his entourage traveled to his office, he was fed details about tonight’s guests: a spunky blogger with a sharp tongue and a rock star. Typical day. Nothing to write home about. The guests were waiting in the next building over, along with the set for his show.
    When Victoria ran breathlessly into the prep meeting, Andres looked up from his interview questions with a sneer. He hated being interrupted.
    “There’s a gunman shooting up the studio!” she panted. Andres stood and swallowed his smile. He snapped at Peter, who quickly cleared the others from Andres’ spacious office.
    “Boss. We gonna tap into the surveillance?”
    Andres didn’t