Page 3 of Hired By My Rich Baby Daddy

“Do you understand what just happened out there? You basically confirmed, on camera, in front of twenty thousand people—and God knows how many millions watching online—that you slept with a married woman.”

I chuckled as a woman with a fat ass and a miniskirt that might as well have been a pair of damn panties walked over and handed me a towel. I licked my lips at her, and she blushed.

“Thank you, baby,” I said, wiping the sweat from my face and neck.

She handed me an ice pack before walking off just as quickly as she’d come.

“Damn,” I muttered under my breath as Derez continued going off.

“Hello! Am I talking to myself, Ozy?”

I sighed, leaned back in my chair, got comfortable, and finally looked over at him.

“Chill the fuck out, bruh. I ain’t confirm shit. I made a joke.”

“That isn’t how the internet is going to see it, and you know that,” he snapped, dragging a hand down his face. “This is exactly the kind of shit the label’s been trying to steer clear of. You’ll be a damn trending topic by the time tonight’s over. This is exactly what we’ve been trying to fix.”

The door opened, and Ginger Marée walked in.

She was the woman the label paired me with to help get her name out there while cleaning up my image on some one-band, one-sound type bullshit.

She was a talented pop singer on the rise. Young, fine as hell, pretty teeth that I was a sucka for, an ass fat enough to grab, light skin, and a mole over her lip. She barely ever wore makeup, and honestly, that no-makeup look was a turn-on. Then, she could dance her ass off. Hell, she’d put Ciara to shame.

But I wasn’t a one-woman man, and I damn sure didn’t enjoy pretending to be one. That shit was corny as fuck. Especially since I didn’t have any kids. I really just wanted to do me, but my reputation wasn’t exactly squeaky-clean right now, so I played my part…on my own fucking terms.

Ginger stood in the doorway for a second with her arms crossed, looking at me with an expression I couldn’t quite read. She had on a designer fit from head to toe, her signature ginger hair pressed bone-straight, red lips, and a designer bag hanging from her shoulder.

She looked annoyed, and I couldn’t have cared less.

I ain’t wanna be around her stuck-up ass either. The only perk to this little arrangement was that she’d let me hit whenever, but romantically?

We ain’t have shit in common.

“Can we get this over with?” she asked.

Derez looked over at her, then back at me.

“Y’all need to go live in thirty minutes, and that’s not up for debate. I need the two of you smiling and laughing. Show the world this is a nonissue, that you’re fine, and that you two are solid. I don’t care what just happened out there. Right now, damage control is priority number one. I mean it, Ozy. Tomorrow, we announce the winners of theWeekend with Ozycontest. I need that rollout to be flawless, so?—”

I threw my hands up in mock surrender and laughed.

“I’m chillin’ bruh, for real. Why you always acting so fucking uptight and shit?”

I snapped my fingers at the girl who’d brought me the towel and ice pack.

“Aye. Show Derez a good time. Make that nigga mellow the fuck out.”

She smiled wide.

“Of course.”

Derez shot me a look as she grabbed his hand and led him toward one of the rooms in the back.

I looked away and over at Ginger, who’d made herself comfortable on the couch and was busy pecking away at her phone.

“Damn. You could’ve at least spoken with yo’ rude ass.”

She kissed her teeth before finally looking up at me.