He doesn’t even look up as he mutters, “Get out.”
“Derek, I have something I want to –”
“No.”
“But I –”
Now he looks up, and his expression isn’t happy. He points to the papers I’m holding “Is that your completed feature on Mister Romance?”
“No, but –”
“Then get the fuck out. I’m not interested.”
I clench my jaw to stop the bitch goddess inside of me from picking up the pretty chrome chair and smacking him in the face with it. Instead, I slap the articles on his desk so forcefully, he jumps.
“I wrote these last night,” I say. “Read them. They’re good.” He scowls before picking them up and scanning through the pages. “If you finish them and don’t think I deserve a chair on the features desk, then –”
He throws them back across his desk to me. “They’re shit. Not only have they already been reported by at least three major news outlets, but they’ve been covered better and expressed more eloquently. What the fuck are you playing at, Tate? Where’s the Mister Romance piece?”
“It’s proving more challenging than I thought.”
“So, what? You’re giving up? How can you call yourself a journalist?”
“Derek, you don’t understand.”
He slaps his hand on the desk. “No, I fucking don’t! You begged me for this story. You guaranteed me you could get it and that it would be an exclusive scandal-bomb that would blow the underwear off my advertisers. Then you tucked a thousand bucks into your bra for fucking ‘expenses’, and what? Completely failed to deliver? Not on my watch, Tate. Your bullshit doesn’t play with me. Either you walk out of here to finish that story, or your keep walking to the unemployment line. Which will it be?”
God, I’m so tempted to just tell him to shove his job up his miserable ass and start afresh, but I don’t have enough money to cope with being out of work, even for a week. So I swallow my pride, and my fears about Max, and accept my fate. Still, I promise myself that someday, somehow, I’m going to pay Derek back for being such an almighty asshole.
“I’ll get the story,” I mutter and take back my articles.
“I should fucking think so.” Derek picks up his tablet and jabs at it. “This company is in enough goddamn trouble without you screwing up our most promising scoop in years. And don’t you dare think you’re not going to give me names. I mean you’re not stupid enough to cut a deal promising him you’ll protect his clients, right?”
Oh, shit.
“He’s reluctant to name them, unless I can protect their identity.”
“Then you do the same as I do when I deal with my ex-wife you – tell them whatever’s necessary to get your way then do whatever you want.”
He’s divorced? What a shocker.
“And if I’m not comfortable doing that?”
“Then you don’t have a story. Or a job.”
“Derek, what happened to journalistic integrity? The right to protect our sources?”
He throws his tablet onto his desk and leans back in his chair. “For Christ’s sake, Tate, we live in a society where ethical journalism is going the way of the dinosaurs. These days, any asshole with an internet connection and an opinion can become a ‘journalist’. People don’t give a shit about integrity. Every major news corp. in the country is struggling, because people only want to read stuff that either doesn’t challenge their current belief system or makes them feel superior to others. Do you think we’re going to gain any readers by tiptoeing around the precious celebrities involved in this scam? Fuck, no. And even if you play Mother Teresa and keep the whole thing anonymous, some asshole at a competing agency will dig up the truth anyway, and then they’ll get the scoop. So, if you’re going to do this, it’s all or nothing. Am I making myself clear?”
I grit my teeth and nod. “Yes. Crystal clear.”
“Good. Then tell me something that will make me think I didn’t make a mistake in trusting you. Do you have anything new to tell me at all?”
I’m really not in the mood for this conversation, but what choice do I have?
“I went on a date with him last night,” I say, gripping the back of the chair in front of me. “A fake date, of course. Rock star fantasy.”
He sits forward. “And?”
“And ...” I swallow. “I suspect he may be drugging his clients.”
Derek goes totally still. “Are you screwing with me right now?” When I shake my head, he says, “He rapes them?”
“I don’t think so. It’s more about relaxing them. Making them feel ... uh ... good.” I clear my throat. “Aroused.”
He chews the inside of his cheek. “Still a crime if he’s doing it without permission. Do you have proof?”
“No. I’ll get the results of my blood test this evening.”
Derek stares at me, and I can feel his excitement growing.
“You’d better hope that test comes back positive, because this is what’s known as a bombshell, Tate. It could blow this whole thing wide open. Lover boy is not only a petty conman, but also a criminal? Nothing would make me happier.”
Sometimes, I really hate the vampiric nature of mass media. “Can I go?”
He nods. “Yeah, yeah. Sure. Let me know when you hear from the lab.”
Deep breathing helps me remove myself from his office without shoving the paper I’m holding down his throat. When I get back to my desk I crumple up my articles, toss them into the trash, and slump into my chair where I rest my head in my hands.
Well played, Monday. Well goddamn played.
I grab my phone and text Asha.
<I hope you’re not tired from bass-player shenanigans, because we’re going out tonight. No excuses.>
After everything that’s happened, I need to refresh and reboot, and that means finding myself a male-shaped palette cleanser to remove the taste of conman from my body and mind. By tomorrow morning, I want to have had enough sex with anyone who’s not Max Riley, I can’t walk straight.
*
The music blares from the jukebox as I dance my ass off and work what God gave me. There are several candidates here tonight auditioning for the role of ‘man I’ll be riding later’, but I’m leaning toward the Wall Street douche in the pin-striped suit who’s already asked me about the color of my underwear. Sure, he’s blonder than any man should be, and clearly plucks his eyebrows, but the main reason I like him is because if Max was on one side of the hotness see-saw, this guy would be his perfect opposite. Not too attractive. Not too bright. Not too sexy. In other words, perfectly mediocre. Exactly how I usually like my men.
Asha says most of the guys I sleep with are like Fast and the Furious movies – they’re fun for a couple of hours, but hard to remember the next day.