Dirty Headlines Page 4

“No.”

  Damn. “Am I excused?”

  He took a step back. “I hope to see very little of you, Miss Spears.”

  “Duly noted, Mr. Timberlake.”

  I slapped my forehead the entire way back to my cubicle, thinking things couldn’t possibly get any worse. The future owner of LBC looked royally vindictive, regally pissed, and majestically explosive. Because of me. I knew he was going to avoid me at all costs. And it embarrassed me that I was saddened by that, because his scent, voice, and the insanely inappropriate things leaving his mouth fascinated me no less than they infuriated me.

  When I got back to my cubicle, my first instinct was to drown myself in perfume samples. But as soon as I walked in, I realized I had some explaining to do. Grayson and Ava sat side-to-side, cross-legged, staring at me like I was a National Geographic special. All they needed was popcorn.

  Grayson jerked his thumb in the elevator’s direction. “Explain.”

  “There’s nothing—”

  Ava butted in. “Mr. Laurent Jr., AKA the news director slash executive producer of the prime-time news show and Lord Assholemort, never offers people eye contact, let alone talks to them.”

  He doesn’t, now? Shocker.

  “You better start singing like it’s American Idol and I’m Simon Cowell, girl.” Grayson snapped his fingers, wiggling his ass in his seat. “I want to know the how, when, where, and how long. Especially the long part. Inches and all.”

  I guess I deserved this. Célian had no business seeking me out and having a private conversation with me on my first day. Besides, these were shaping up to be the only friendly faces in all sixty floors.

  I stared down, my toes squirming in my shoes. “You’re making a big deal out of nothing. We’ve met before. Briefly. At a…social function.” What’s more social than sucking each other’s privates? “I think we were just surprised to see each other is all.”

  The way the lie slid effortlessly from my lips scared me. First stealing his wallet, and now this. Célian Laurent sure brought the worst out of me.

  “So you’re saying you don’t know each other.” Ava tilted her chin down, inspecting me like I was a Russian spy.

  “I’m not even sure what his first name is.” This was actually true.

  “It’s Célian. Now, question—did you listen to anything he said in that meeting?” Grayson raised an eyebrow.

  “I…” I searched for words.

  Normally, I was far more eloquent. Debate had been my favorite subject at school. I’d gone head to head with my articulate, overtly opinionated, politician-wannabe classmates at Columbia—sons of lawyers and daughters of judges. But just like any woman determined to be taken seriously, I had an Achilles heel. Being caught getting freaky with the boss and salivating all over him was going to make my career freefall like a shooting star.

  “Let me help you with that.” Grayson waved his hand. “Mr. Laurent said they’re slicing the budget of Couture by at least ten percent, which may not seem like much, but our blog is virtually running on fumes as it is. I thought this was the extent of it. I was wrong.”

  “I’m not sure I’m following.” I frowned.

  Grayson leaned forward, catching my gaze. “I’m going to ask again—how do you know the Laurents?”

  “Why?” I felt my heart thudding against my chest. Now we were talking in plural?

  “I just got this email.” He turned his monitor around so the three of us could huddle in front of it and take a look.

  From: Mathias Laurent, President, LBC

  To: Grayson Covey, Editor, Couture Online Magazine

  Dear Mr. Covey,

  As per our earlier discussion and in line with the recent cuts made at Couture, we shall be needing further assistance in the news department.

  We will be transferring one of your employees to the newsroom starting tomorrow at nine a.m. Seeing as you and Miss Jones have worked together closely for the past two years, the person reporting to the newsroom will be Miss Humphry.

  Regards,

  M. Laurent.

  President, LBC

  “What’s going on?” I swiveled Grayson’s chair, grabbing his shoulders.

  I was mildly elated and a whole lot frightened. Working in a newsroom had been my dream for as long as I could remember, but working under Célian was sure to be a nightmare. My feelings were at war, fighting and tugging between joy and abject horror.

  “I have no idea. Mr. Laurent Senior has never addressed me in person. I wasn’t even sure he knew my name.” Grayson rubbed his forehead, looking disoriented.

  “You think it’s got something to do with Célian?” Ava asked.

  Célian was about as readable as a blank sheet. He was a mystery wrapped in an enigma. He’d seemed pissed at me, sure, and he’d been clear he didn’t want to see me again.

  “Doubt it. As I said before, we don’t know each other,” I parroted myself.

  Grayson darted up to rub my back. “It’s okay. You’ll be fine. Célian made a name for himself as the cruelest man in the business, which is why we’ve actually been leaving CNN and Fox News to eat dust the last couple years. But at the end of the day, there will be people around. He can’t maim you.”

  A ping sounded from Grayson’s computer, and our eyes shot back to the screen.

  From: Célian Laurent, News Director, LBC

  To: Grayson Covey, Editor, Couture Online Magazine

  Gary,

  You were expected to send us the Swedish royal wedding piece two hours ago. Unless you’re fond of long unemployment lines and downgrading to a Bronx apartment with unreliable electricity, I would advise against testing my limit when it comes to punctuality.

  They’re called deadlines for a reason. If you fail to deliver the piece on time…

  Célian.

  Grayson double-clicked the little X on the right-hand corner of his monitor, closing the email program.

  “About the maiming thing…” He cleared his throat, looking skyward and shaking his head. “Wear a helmet tomorrow morning, just in case.”

  “Good morning, Mr. Laurent! Here is your grande Americano, daily schedule, and the news bulletins for today. You have a ten o’clock meeting with your father in his office, and a noon lunch with James Townley and his agent regarding renewing his contract. Your dry cleaner left a message that your navy blue Gucci pea coat is missing. They sent their apologies and offered a twenty-percent discount off your next visit. What would you like me to do with this information, sir?”

  Bunch a lawsuit into a ball and shove it down their throats.

  Overall my PA, Brianna Shaw, was an okay kid.

  A law school grad who I was pretty sure still thought pro bono referred to being a U2 fan, she did make an effort—something that couldn’t be said about the pile of self-entitled, snotty millennials who’d come in and out of this place trying (and failing) to assist me. Brianna wheezed like she was in the middle of an orgy when she talked to me, which made understanding her a struggle. Maybe it had something to do with the fact that she had to chase me up and down the hall. She was short and stocky, and I was tall and ran seven miles a day.

  I bookmarked the idea of hiring a tall, athletic, married assistant the minute Brianna threw in the towel. Which, judging by my track record, should be any week now. My assistants usually quit at the two- to three-month mark. Right around the time either of these grave realizations hit them:

  I was an insufferable asshole.

  I was not going to fuck them.

  Brianna now hovered near the four-month threshold—a trooper if I ever saw one, or one masochistic lunatic.

  “Fire them,” I snapped. “I don’t work with thieves.”

  Unless they have an ass worthy of every rap song I’ve ever heard. Judith Humphry assaulted my mind. Then I let them keep their job.

  Though that was bullshit, and I knew it. Miss Humphry didn’t work for me. Chances were, I wouldn’t see her for months on end. She worked on a different floor, in a diff
erent department. At any rate, I never screwed the same woman twice, and I would never touch an employee. She was officially as toxic as poison ivy, and after stealing from me, just about as tempting.

  Brianna licked her lips, pushing her dull, brown curls behind her ears as she huddled beside me. I was dashing from the newsroom into my office. “Sir, that would be a challenge, seeing as, according to this spreadsheet—” She swiped the iPad screen in her hand. “You have officially blacklisted every single dry cleaner in Manhattan.”

  I pried the device from her fingers, my eyes skimming the lines of red-stricken shops. Un-fucking-believable. Human nature was designed to take what it wanted, consequences be damned.

  Again, I thought of little Miss Humphry. She had no business barging into my thoughts. I usually forgot my one-night stands before the cum on my cock dried up. Then again, she had stolen from me.

  And I took something of hers.

  The Smiths? Bloc Party? The Kinks? Babyshambles? Dirty Pretty Things? The girl knew her way around a record shop.

  “Fire them,” I repeated.

  “But, sir…” Brianna gasped, a rather dramatic response for the occasion.

  I stopped in front of my office door. She did the same. Her face was so red I thought she was going to spontaneously combust. I hoped she wasn’t. I had a new Brioni dress shirt and apparently no honest dry cleaners within the city limits.

  “You have no other option, unless you want to go back to one of the dry cleaners you’ve previously blacklisted,” she explained.

  “False. There’s a third option.”

  “There is?” She batted her eyelashes.

  Not many of my female employees had the balls to do that. First, because I was the president’s son. Second, because I was just a tad more intimidating than Lucifer himself. And third, because I was, as my associate producer Kate labeled me once, “Devastatingly unavailable.” Which essentially meant I wasn’t distracted by a perky set of tits.

  “You can be there to monitor them while they work on my items.”

  “But…”

  “You’re right. Can is a casual word. It is what’s going to happen.”

  “Sir…”

  “Clock starts now. Better run—they get busy around noon.” I tapped my Rolex, storming into my office and shutting the door with a thud.

  An hour later, my lousy excuse for a father wandered into my office like a tourist in a gift store wondering what the fuck he’d like to break. Technically, I was supposed to meet him in his office. But if we were talking technicalities, he was supposed to act like a dad and not a skirt-chasing, social-climbing douchebag, so I called us even. He leaned his shoulder against the doorframe, his hands tucked inside his pockets.

  “Je n’aime pas que l’on me fasse attendre.”

  I don’t like to be kept waiting. Hard to believe this asshole was the president of an American broadcasting news channel. He still insisted on speaking French to anyone who would listen. My mother had stopped being one of those people a year ago, when my sister died. She’d promptly divorced him, moved to Florida, and found a new boy toy to play with. I visited her every few weekends to get away from the bullshit and nagging loneliness. Bonus points: Floridian pussy was tanner and not half as uptight as the New York variety. And it was so much easier to pull the tourist thing without people realizing I was a Laurent. The Laurents, Maman’s family—Mathias took her last name as a part of a draconian pre-nup—were royals in the upper-class crust of Manhattan. We kept our shit secretive and tight-lipped, and we were almost as scrutinized as the people we reported on.

  “Chances are you’ll live,” I said in English, still typing on my laptop. Unfortunately.

  “Look at me when I’m talking to you,” he barked.

  I did.

  I could tell my compliance startled him, because the great Mathias Laurent cleared his throat, walked over to the seat in front of mine, and collapsed into it like he’d been holding his breath for the past year. Which was pretty much what we’d all done since Camille died.

  “We’re having an identity problem that causes ad space to tank.” He slapped the chrome desk between us.

  “Let’s agree to disagree. I know exactly who I am: a newsman who’s grossed the highest network ratings every night for the past two years and the son of a philandering idiot. If you suffer from memory loss, I’d suggest ginkgo biloba, B-12 vitamins, and fatty acids.” I kept my eyes on the screen.

  “Listen, son…”

  He crossed his legs, and I did my best not to laugh. Really? Son? That was rich.

  “Your work here is appreciated, but it’s time to play nice with new advertisers and harvest fresh revenues.”

  “You mean now it’s time to let parties’ propaganda and every dick with an alcohol bottle or cigarette brand sell have air time?” I sat back and laced my fingers together. “Because we already have commercials coming out of our asses. We just don’t run the spots that bring in the big bucks, because people tend to lose their trust in a news channel who tells them they should buy a pack of condoms and lubricants to go with their booze.”

  He rolled his eyes like a teenager. “Il n’est pire sourd que celui qui ne veut pas entendre!” No one is as deaf as the one who refuses to listen. “Perhaps a few simple endorsements on air will do. I’m meeting you halfway here, Célian.”

  “I’d rather meet you in court when I sue your ass for shitting over my soon-to-be network.” I stopped him mid-speech. “This news channel will report the news. Nothing more. Nothing less. It is the sales department’s job to find lucrative deals.”

  “Précisément. They simply can’t. You’ve made this network the goodie two-shoes of TV. We’re never biased, never wrong, and never profitable. And that’s an issue.”

  “Don’t give me the profitable bullshit. I watch the numbers closely. I’m about to inherit this place.” We were making clean profits, just not major revenues like we could if we sold our soul to the devil. I preferred my soul intact. It was bad enough I didn’t have a heart.

  “Continue this line of behavior, and you will inherit nothing.” My father reddened, his face swollen with blood and anger.

  I smiled impatiently. “It’s not up to you, and you know it. My mother gave you the keys to this ride, and you shall return them when you’re no longer fit for the job. The difference between us is that I am a newsman, and you are a lucky bastard.”

  “Watch your tone with me.” He punched his thigh, his face so red it was starting to look purple.

  I knew I should back down before he suffered another heart attack. I hated my father with a fiery passion, but I didn’t want his death on my conscience. I knotted my fingers together, leaning forward and meeting his gaze. Nature must’ve known what I’d found out when I wasn’t even ten—we weren’t going to be close. I’m certain that’s why I looked so much like my mother. Light eyes, dark hair. Only things I’d inherited from Mathias were his height and ability to make people want to commit murder.

  “I pride myself in bringing to the table impartial, factual, bulletproof information. In having a proven track record of clean kills every night. What our viewers do with this information is up to them. You will not inject any pro-Republican, pro-Democrat, or pro-bullshit propaganda into my news show. You will not air ads for casinos, alcohol, or condoms. You will not ruin this business for me.”

  “We need to stay profitable, Célian.” My father adjusted his silky red tie. “And when it comes to thinking for yourself, at least have the decency to sound a little less adamant. Your track record hasn’t exactly proven that you do as you preach.”

  I knew exactly what he was referring to, and I wanted to staple his face to my goddamn door for the hypocrisy. He’d dug the hole I was sitting in with his own dick, and now he was shoveling mud to bury me inside of it.

  “If you don’t want me to touch your show, I will have to cut back on your staff. I will make the necessary arrangements to let go of the interns and stand-by reporters.�
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  Fucker. But it beat drowning in ads for casinos and experimental drugs.

  “You do what you have to do,” I hissed. “Any more words of wisdom from a man who doesn’t know where our studio actually is?”

  “We should rid ourselves of James Townley if he makes any further salary demands.” My father flattened his hand over my desk.

  For a reason beyond my grasp, my father fucking hated our anchor of the last thirty-five years. James Townley had come to this station when he was twenty-four years old, and over the years, he’d miraculously received everything he’d ever asked for—including, but not limited to, setting up his son, Phoenix, with a job here. Said son stirred up so much trouble on this floor, my father’d had to strategically remove him to the other side of the world. He was now on the Syrian-Israeli border, reporting on all things Middle East. It was my educated assumption that ISIS would sponsor the next pride parade in Damascus before trying to kidnap Phoenix Townley. Yet James was still pissy about Mathias putting his son’s life in danger.

  Townley was a lovable prick, and he was well-spoken, well-respected, and well-received. He also looked like Harrison Ford’s fake-tanned, bleach-haired twin brother, which didn’t exactly hurt our ratings. If he and my father could’ve killed each other without legal consequences, I’d have two less headaches to worry about.

  “Are you done?” I sat back and rolled a pen between my fingers. I was going to have a double-serving of this nonsense in about two hours when I met James and his agent for lunch.

  “Almost. I added a little something special to your team I believe you’re going to appreciate.” My father raised his hand to the glass wall, and my eyes followed the direction to the fishbowl newsroom.

  Judith Humphry.

  She stood there, statuesque and holding a cardboard box to her chest, refusing to look petrified. With her sun-kissed hair and a dusting of freckles covering her button-like nose, she was the type of beautiful that suddenly sneaks up on you. The more you looked at her, the more you realized how striking she was. She looked like she belonged on a beach, running barefoot. Even in her size-too-big potato sack dress, she looked like freedom and tasted like a piece of the sky. I wanted to grab her and slam her over the desk, fucking her three ways to Sunday in front of my entire news crew.