“I thought we would celebrate your return and I ordered us some food. I haven’t eaten all day and I needed something to hold me over.”
It’s just like old times and I can’t help but give her a big grin. We spend the next thirty minutes talking about what happened to me. I keep to the basics—where I lived and what I did while I was in New York City, avoiding any other details since a gag order prevents me from discussing the case. We consume two bottles of wine in no time and when she prompts me to finish off the last of the sushi, I do. The waiter had approached us a few times to see if we were ready to order dinner, but Christine dismissed him each time with a simple wave of her hand. Finally, she beckons him to our table and I think she’s ready. Not only am I starving, but ordering also puts me one step closer to ending this night. However, when he approaches she only orders another bottle of wine. I don’t say anything. She’s running the show and she knows it. I’m used to this. Every after hours meeting I ever had with her was always on her timetable and always involved at least one bottle of wine.
“Sir, are you ready to order?” the waiter asks, after pouring the new bottle of wine. I glance across the table directing the question to her.
“Give us thirty minutes of uninterrupted time, please. We have business to discuss.”
After one more glass, I am seriously buzzed and I haven’t even gotten to the reason I called her. Wanting to get it out there, I interrupt her chatter as she tells me about management structure changes and circulation issues at the paper. I clear my throat, hoping to sound a little more professional than I feel at this moment. “Christine, I asked to meet with you because I really need a job and I was wondering if you could help me out.”
Suddenly the restaurant seems very quiet. She takes another sip of her wine. “Oh.”
“Yes, I’d love my old job back.”
She stretches out her arms and swirls the liquid in the glass she’s holding while making a face as if in deep thought. She really does enjoy putting on a show. When she sets her glass down and leans forward slightly, I avert my eyes to avoid seeing the tops of her breasts. But when her cool hand covers mine, I can’t stop myself from flinching. Her fingers stroke my skin, soft, slow. This whole charade literally makes my skin crawl. Some might call it sexual harassment. Me, I see it like it is—an older woman looking for attention. I was always good at giving her just enough. But tonight, walking the line seems more difficult.
“We might be able to work something out,” she says.
I look anywhere but at her. “Work something out how?”
She clears her throat. “Listen Ben I’m not going to beat around the bush. I want the article you wrote before everything happened.”
I guess the cougar wants my piece, not me. Although I’m not sure I should be shocked by this turn of events. After a beat, I answer. “Come on, Christine. You know I killed that story a long time ago.”
“Yes, I do. But you wrote it with intentions to publish. Didn’t you?”
I raise my brows. “Of course I did. Why do you want it now?”
“Do you really need to ask? It’s breaking news. Front-page news, even. It was the catalyst behind everything that has happened.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Ben. No more games. You and I both know what happened. I’ve been around this business too long.”
“Well, I don’t have it.” The muscles in my jaw tighten. All I want is to put that part of my life behind me and move forward. “That story is old news. You know I’m good at my job. I can help increase the paper’s circulation. You know I can.”
Her stare is relentless.