Dirty Headlines Page 16

  “Disagree, but you’re already here, so you might as well spit it out.”

  “First of all, did you know Brianna is waiting for you outside?” I threw a thumb behind my shoulder, cocking an eyebrow.

  “I did, and she can knock.”

  “She’s scared of you.”

  “You’d be wise to be the same,” he whiplashed, still not looking up to meet my gaze. “Are you here to talk about Brianna, Miss Humphry?”

  Damn him. He sounded like Harvey Specter on speed. Only crueler. And ten times handsomer. If Célian met chivalry in a dark alley, he would beat it to death, then find its sister, generosity, and kill her too.

  “I came here to tell you I found out, and I’m pissed.”

  “Explain, and save me the ambiguity.”

  “Are you too precious for eye contact anymore? Is that now saved for the moments I’m writhing under you and you want to see me vulnerable?”

  I couldn’t believe the words had left my mouth. Shakily, too. I glanced back. Brianna wasn’t in the hallway anymore. Phew.

  Célian dragged his gaze up slowly, his cobalt blue eyes extra frosty on this warm day.

  “Do. What?” He highlighted every word.

  “I know you paid my father’s medical bill. All of it. You’re not my sugar daddy, Célian. I appreciate your good intentions, but I don’t need help. I’m not a damsel in distress. I don’t need anyone to save me.”

  I don’t want you to pity me. I don’t want you to look at me as anything less than an equal. And I don’t want you to be engaged. In fact, I especially don’t want you to be engaged and pay for my things. It makes me feel like the other woman.

  Those were all the things I wanted to say but knew I never would. It wasn’t anyone’s fault but mine that I’d agreed to be put in this position, or that I still craved him like a junkie, even though he was a drug that could kill me.

  He leaned back in his seat, his index fingers tapping.

  “Do you have any way to prove it was me?” he asked.

  Was he kidding me? There were no other suspects. The money hadn’t simply fallen from a tree straight into the wide, black hole called my debt.

  “Are you really going to play that card?” I folded my arms over my chest.

  He shrugged. “Not many cards I can play. I’ll take what I can get.”

  I laughed, despite still being furious. He was goofy and charming when he wanted to be. Unfortunately, most times he was content with being a jerk.

  “Now I feel like I owe you, and I hate it.”

  “Don’t. I didn’t pay your medical and student debt because I’m fucking you. I paid them to unfuck you.”

  “You paid my student loan, too?” My eyes were ready to pop out of their sockets and roll on the floor. I still stood by his open door, trying hard not to have a mental breakdown. It was flattering, but also infuriating, this assuming I needed him to save the day, that he had the power to make my problems go away like some kinky fairy godfather.

  He looked down, flipping another page of the newspaper in front of him. “You were riding a full scholarship and living at home. It was hardly a substantial amount.”

  “For you,” I gritted. “Not a substantial amount for you.”

  “Tuck your pride back in, sweetheart. You’re coming off as a little ungrateful, and it’s unflattering.”

  “Screw you, Célian.”

  “Please tell me that’s an invitation.”

  “I hate you!” I yelled in his face, stomping—actually stomping, me, a grown woman. He looked up and raked his eyes over my body quietly. Our gazes halted on my Chucks. Red. Anger, passion, war.

  “Do you, now?”

  He had no business butting into my life more than I had allowed him to, more than I had willingly shared with him. I didn’t share this with anyone. There was a reason why I’d never told him about my debt or my family life. Not even about Dad.

  Dad.

  My blood froze in my veins. No. There was no way. Still, I needed to ask, just to make sure.

  “Do you…do you know about my father’s situation?”

  He got up from his chair, grabbing his pea coat and sliding into it.

  “I need another cup of coffee for this conversation. Walk with me, Chucks.”

  I followed behind him. His broad shoulders were big enough to carry the entire world. He gestured for me to get into the elevator before him, and the minute the doors closed behind us, I turned to him.

  “You know about my dad, don’t you?”

  I didn’t know why it upset me so much. Sure, Célian was rich, successful, and prevailing, but in my eyes, we were still on the same level, as crazy as it sounded.

  He now offered me his sympathy, but I rejected it, wanting to toss it back in his face. I wasn’t ashamed of my father’s illness. I just wished it was for me to decide when and where I told people about it—if I told them about it.

  “I do,” he said tonelessly.

  “Please don’t tell me…” I cupped my mouth. Not that it would have made any difference. My father was going to proceed with the experimental treatment, even if I had to donate a functioning lung to make it happen. But I didn’t want it to be true. Didn’t want to know that that’s what we were, Célian and I: a rookie Brooklyn reporter with a nice pair of tits and a sugar daddy boss who was about to get married to someone else and had guilt-bought his way to her affection.

  I was officially the mistress, silenced by shiny, pretty things—by money and a healthcare program, and a good, steady job. A role I’d never agreed to take.

  The power imbalance was now personal, and degrading, and real. I was indebted to a man I was sleeping with, no matter how we tried to spin it. A man who was taking more and more space in my life, conquering lands in my heart without claiming them. Without civilizing them. Without nurturing them.

  The elevator slid open, and I walked out first. I was desperate to put some distance between us so he wouldn’t see how flustered I was, how embarrassment colored my cheeks, how I felt my whole body turning pink.

  I heard him groaning behind me. I looked down and realized I was wearing a conservative, pearl-colored sheath dress that was snug around my waistline, and probably highlighted my butt.

  “Like what you see?” I gritted sarcastically.

  “It would look better with my hand marks all over it. Are you going to stop running?”

  “Are you going to explain yourself?” I pushed the door to the building open, and we were on the busy sidewalk, facing each other and blocking the downtown human traffic by standing there like two statues.

  He ran his big palm over his face, and for the first time since I’d met him, looked somewhat affected. I shouldn’t have felt so triumphant for being the one who’d put agitation there, but I was.

  “It’s not like that.”

  “Then tell me what’s it like.”

  “I didn’t pay it because I wanted you happy or content or on your fucking knees.”

  “Really? Did you know Jessica’s mother has Alzheimer’s? Did you help her out? And what about Brianna, your PA? Did you pay her student loan debt? Oh, let me guess—Elijah, who you actually talk to pretty often, also didn’t get a fat bonus this year so he could help his parents with their remortgaged house.”

  “How do you know all these things?” He frowned.

  “They’re my colleagues, my new friends, and I talk to them.” I flung my arms in the air. “Maybe you should do that sometime. Actually make an effort. Be nice.”

  His jaw tensed and locked in anger, and I figured I had two choices: either get out of there or slap him across the face, a treatment he’d earned fair and square. I chose the option that wouldn’t land me in hot water with HR. I turned around and crossed the street toward the Duane Reade on the other side of the road. The light was green, but New York drivers were being…well, New York drivers. A purple taxi came to a halt, screeching three inches away from me and sputtering a cloud of black smoke. The scent of burned rubbe
r filled my nostrils, and before I knew what was happening, I was on the ground.

  Shielded by Célian’s body.

  All of him.

  On top of me.

  On the hot, stony crosswalk.

  I squirmed against his hard body, balling my fists and hitting his chest on instinct. I was angry. So angry. Beyond reason, belief, and logic. Another girl might feel elated to be saved—both by a man’s money and his own body. But it wasn’t just my debt, or Dad and Célian lying to me. It was the fact that I had begun to truly care for him, knowing I could never have him. Not really.

  “The heart is a lonely hunter, Jude.”

  No, no, it’s not, Mom. It’s the prey, and Célian is digging his claws deep into it.

  “Get off of me,” I seethed.

  His nostrils flared, but he did as I said, offering me his hand after gliding back onto his feet. I took it, still disoriented from being thrown to the ground—by him. People gathered around us on the sidewalk, watching. Célian sent a punch to the taxi’s hood, denting it in the shape of his fist.

  I yelped. From this angle, it looked like he might have broken every bone in his hand, but if it hurt, he didn’t let it show. His face was back to being scarily blank and emotionless.

  “Hey, man! What the hell!” The taxi driver stuck his head out his window, waving an angry fist in our direction.

  “Hell is what I’m about to unleash on your ass. You had a red light and almost ran over my employee, so I pimped your ride. If you have a problem with it, you’re welcome to take it up with the team of fucking lawyers who occupy an entire floor in my building.”

  The driver said nothing, tucking his head back into his taxi and cursing under his breath.

  Célian looked like he was about to explode, and I had to pull him into an alleyway between two buildings and plaster him against the wall, squeezing his shoulders. His breathing was hard and slow, like the mere act hurt him.

  “Are you okay?” I asked.

  He inhaled deeply through his nose, then shook his head. “Are you?”

  “Yes. He didn’t hit me, Célian.”

  The taxi wouldn’t have run me over even without his help. I knew Célian had just had a knee-jerk reaction after what he’d been through with Camille, and I felt horrible for my lack of sensitivity. The light was green, so I’d just gone for it.

  “Do yourself a favor and look left and right before you cross the fucking street,” he hissed in annoyance, suddenly looking embarrassed and disturbed.

  His armor clattered to the ground, and I saw him for what he was: raw and incredibly tormented over what had happened to his sister, broken by his relationships with his father and fiancée, lost in a sea of people who admired and looked up to him, but were always too scared to show him real love.

  “You wanted to save my life.” I cupped his cheek, not knowing if I should, but not caring much, either.

  He put his hand over mine and scanned me from under his thick lashes, his throat bobbing with a swallow. His pulse slowed under his tailored suit, and we were now breathing in sync. It was reckless to touch him anywhere but behind closed doors, but I couldn’t help it. His eyes were crushed ice—beautiful, blue, and tarnished.

  He clasped my chin between his fingers and brought my mouth to his. “Don’t flatter yourself, sweetheart.”

  He cupped my breast over the fabric of my dress and squeezed, tonguing me ruthlessly without warning. My mouth fell open and accepted the invasion. I wrapped my arms around his neck, grinding myself against him and knowing this was not enough, not even close to it. I wanted to get rid of our clothes, our underwear, our inhibitions. I wanted to strip down to the very last item on my body, then tell him all my secrets with every thrust and kiss and bite.

  And I wanted to do those things not because he’d saved me—twice—but on the contrary, because for the first time since I’d met him, I recognized that he needed to be saved. From himself.

  He disconnected from me, holding my jaw between his fingers and staring me down with his usual air of privilege, thick and heavy, clouded by lust.

  “Eight o’clock. A cab will be waiting downstairs. You will wear the same dress, and no bra or panties. You will be mine for the evening. You will not talk back to me, just let me fuck you the way I want to—not because I paid for your shit, but because we both need a distraction. For every sass you give me, I will slap your pussy. For every no I hear, I will deny you an orgasm. Am I clear?”

  I nodded, dropping my eyes to my shoes. I loved this part. Being his in a deprived, sick, and tortured way.

  “Good. Now go get me a fucking lead.”

  She did.

  She got me the mother of all leads.

  “The Vice President, Brendan Creston, did what?” Kate sprayed her coffee all over her iPad in the conference room.

  Judith Humphry was an ambitious little Chucks. She managed the workload of two people. Whenever anyone had a contact or a lead they didn’t want to chase—whether they were too lazy, too busy, or simply unsure if it would result in a dead end—they threw it her way.

  “Brendan Creston leaked these compromising emails.” Jude nodded, typing away on her laptop. “Now people are saying the President knew, and they were meant to be leaked. If it’s true, it’s a game changer.”

  “How do we find out?” Elijah scratched his head.

  “Grill the spokesperson.” Jude’s eyes shone.

  I saw the way Elijah looked at her, and I didn’t like it. It was the same way I did, like a jackpot he was eager to hit—hot, smart, ambitious, and compassionate.

  “Jude, you’re a natural.” Kate drumrolled on the desk.

  Jessica squealed next to Phoenix, and another male reporter next to Jude low-fived her. Everybody was rooting for the new kid.

  And I was the one screwing her—both over and her pussy.

  “All right, let’s not cream our pants because Judith can read text messages and follow simple leads.” I waved everyone back to work.

  Four hours later, we wrapped up one of the most outrageous news shows we’d ever produced, with James Townley’s name blowing up on Twitter like he had a sex tape featuring three NFL stars and a circus clown.

  Everyone was talking about #LeakGate.

  Coincidentally, the top floor of LBC had never been quieter.

  I knew Mathias had brought Jude to my newsroom to stir shit, and in a sick twist of fate, not only had she turned out to be immune to his nouveau riche charm, but she also left mouthwatering news at my office doorstep every single day like a loyal feline.

  Granted, knowing my father, I was positive he had more tricks up his sleeve to try to shit all over my progress at LBC.

  When I got back home, I scheduled a cab for Judith. Normally, I didn’t liaise with people, but I couldn’t exactly ask my PA to send my reporter back to my building. I still had time to burn, so I went down to the building’s gym, punched a bag, sat in the steam room, and then had a shower. I slid into a pair of dark jeans and a white V-neck shirt and decided I didn’t want Jude to be hungry, cranky, or distracted when I defiled her face and ass, so I figured it would be in my interest to feed her before I had my way.

  That was my line of thought as I poured out onto my well-lit street.

  Chinese? Didn’t feel like GMO breath all over my cock and sheets. Indian? Potential nut allergies. Greek? You could never go wrong with Mediterranean food, but Lily used to complain that the place took a fucking year to deliver. I briefly entertained the idea of texting Jude and asking, but ruled that out immediately. Last thing I needed was for her to think it was a date.

  Instead, I walked the extra ten minutes to the nearest Italian place and ordered every pasta dish on the menu. I’d seen her eating it last night, in what certainly wasn’t one of my finer moments, so she must not be one of those no-gluten, no-flour, no-carbs, no-joy type of girls. Never mind that I was privy to this information because, apparently, I could add stalking to my list of traits.

  By the wa
y, picking food for Lily was akin to performing heart surgery on a jellyfish.

  When I rounded to my street carrying the bags of food, Judith was already standing at the building’s entrance, tapping her foot and nodding to whatever she was listening to on her phone.

  What are you listening to, Chucks?

  I wiggled my wrist and glanced at my Rolex. Thirty minutes. It had taken me thirty fucking minutes to get food, during which time she’d been waiting outside the building door. I didn’t have to wonder why she hadn’t called. My phone was set to silent. Newspeople check their phones once a minute, so tolerating the added ping of every message and email was pure masochism.

  The minute Judith spotted me, she shook her head and turned the other direction, walking away from me. “You’re a pig.”

  Then I hope you like bacon, because I’m on the menu tonight, Chucks.

  I didn’t bother defending myself. I was many things, but not a liar. Besides, she was even more gorgeous when she was mad—with her swollen pink lips and dark blond eyelashes and compact everything. She was halfway down my block when she turned around and waltzed back to me, like she’d remembered something. Her frown melted into a look of astonishment.

  I stopped in front of her, my palms facing out, the white plastic bags hanging from my fingers dripping olive oil.

  “What’s in the boxes?” She jutted her chin to the takeout.

  “Body parts.”

  “Always a charmer.”

  “Can you ask that again, but dramatically, a la Brad Pitt in Seven?”

  I expected her to roll her eyes at me like Lily did every time I teased her for being overdramatic. Instead, Jude turned around, giving me her back, then spun theatrically.

  “What’s in the boxes!” She pretended to point a gun at me, and for the first time in years—yes, years—I actually laughed. Full-blown fucking cackled. It felt weird on my face, in my chest, in my lungs.

  “Italian.”

  “Blech. Anticlimactic.” But her smile didn’t waver.