’d fallen down a flight of stairs, but the delicious satisfaction that was all through her was a completely fair trade. It was like the morning she got her first tattoo. Stung flesh, and a strong desire to do it all over again as soon as possible. She had to twist around like a dog chasing its tail to see her backside, and finally dragged a chair from the small table in her kitchen into the mouse-sized bathroom so that she could stand on it and see the damages in the tiny mirror above her sink.
For the most part, her flesh was reddened, but there were a few bruises, clearly shaped like fingers and a hand. Heat rushed through her, just seeing it again. She was incredibly glad they hadn’t traded phone numbers last night; she’d be debating right now whether or not to send him a picture of his handiwork. Never a good decision to make when you were this euphoric.
She showered and got dressed. Today was not one of her days in the office, but she did have a Skype meeting with her editor. Yellow news at the Downtown Voice wouldn’t wait. She slid into jeans that made the sore skin on her butt twinge when she bent over, and grinned a little. She’d be thinking of Andy every time she shifted. Fun.
Then she turned on her laptop, and tried to turn the webcam to show the least cracked portion of the wall of her studio.
When she’d moved to New York from just outside Covington, Louisiana, she’d told herself that she knew what she was getting into. She’d had some success selling freelance pieces from where she was, and the offer for an in-office position had seemed completely legitimate. Only once she got to the city, the apartment allowance she’d been promised never surfaced, and the rents in New York City were four and five times what she’d been paying at home, but she’d spent her nest egg to get here, and there was no way in hell she was calling home and begging for plane fare back. She strongly suspected that Mama knew what was going on, but understood that Zoey had her pride. So they kept silent about it. Mama only asked about the writing, and Daddy only asked that she was safe, and if she’d met anyone nice, and they didn’t talk about the money part. It was just easier.
It wasn’t a horrible job, working for the Downtown Voice. The offices were incredibly small, so the staff writers rotated office days and web-commuting, and she did get bonuses when her articles got good views. And she could still freelance in her spare time, what there was of it. So she could pay her bills. She just wasn’t going to get out of this studio any time soon.
Helen kept promising her that she’d get a call soon, that someone at a bigger publication would notice her work. Zoey just wasn’t sure if anyone would be able to see past the click-bait headlines to see the work she put into research and the actual words. One thing she’d learned very quickly: between local writers and the resources available to editors on the internet, hot shot writers were a dime a dozen. The way you made a name for yourself was to show up, day after day, and do the work without making more work for your editor. It meant that sometimes the language took a backseat to the message. It meant that sometimes you compromised just how controversial you were willing to be. It meant that you made your headline as sensational as possible, even if it had nothing to do with the actual message of your article. It meant that you gave up the dream of being the great American writer, and you pretended that only losers wanted a Pulitzer.
Focus, sha, she told herself. The words she’d given to Andy, that she was a dirty little girl, echoed in her mind. She hadn’t expected them to be so true, either.
The way he’d called her princess, though. It still made her shiver.
Devin, her editor, logged onto Skype, and a moment later, the incoming notification for a video chat flashed on her screen. She accepted it, and flashed her débutante smile at the screen as the chat connected.
“Zoey,” Devin said, all business. Of all of the staff she’d met around the Voice, Devin was the one who took the work most seriously. He either didn’t realize that they all worked for a gossip rag, or genuinely didn’t care. He pushed at the bridge of his nose, a gesture she figured he’d picked up as a kid with heavy glasses. He either wore contacts now, or had gotten Lasix. They weren’t friendly enough she’d ever inquired.
She’d been interested in him, briefly. He was the kind of geeky handsome that usually turned her crank, with strong features, warm green eyes, and deep olive skin, but if he was even remotely interested in her, he’d never given any indication. “Morning, Devin,” she replied.
“Great numbers on the piece about the Subway Wanker,” he said, and Zoey had to fight that damned blush rising in her cheeks again. The first major story to have her name on it, ever, was about a dude jacking off on the subway. No, this was not the journalistic career she’d envisioned as a kid, watching old Katherine Hepburn movies. “I have the perfect follow up for you.”
“Really?” Zoey said. A flare of excitement lit her up. “I wanted to talk to you about an idea I had. I was doing some research on AEGIS after I read about the death of their CEO in the Times, and something seriously is not adding up there—”
“That’s exactly what I was thinking!” Devin looked excited and animated for the first time in ages. “A profile piece on Alexander is exactly what we need.”
The excitement dropped like a stone. “What?”
“Alexander Blankenship, son of the CEO and presumed heir to the fortune and AEGIS.”
“The filthiest playboy on Wall Street.”
“That’s the one. Find out everything you can. Who is he, what’s his plan for the company, how broken up is he about Dear Old Dad. The old man was supposed to be quite the playboy in his day, and everyone has said for years that he had spent his own fortune when he married Olivia Cunningham just to keep his company from growing broke. Total money match. I’ll send you some links to pieces we’ve run in the past, and I got an interview with the man himself this afternoon.”
Her lips felt numb. She forced her lips to keep smiling, but she knew the light had gone out. “So we’re going to follow up the Subway Wanker with a standard profile on a Wall Street playboy? And I’m going in to find out his favorite color and who he’s fucking this week?”
Devin’s lips tightened. “Look,” he said, and Zoey braced herself. “If this isn’t what you want to do with your life, I can find someone else. I’m trying to help you out, Zoey. You’re good, but you’re not irreplaceable. No one is, not anymore. Not you, and not me. I have to keep my numbers up too, remember.”
She rubbed at her temples again, and then smiled like Mama had taught her. “I know, Devin. I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be ungrateful. I just thought we were going in a different direction, that’s all. I’ll get the profile, and it’ll be great. For both of us.”
Devin nodded. “Make sure. Wear something low cut to the interview. He’s a tits man.”
It wasn’t exactly possible to hang up on someone with Skype—there was no satisfying thump or the buzz of an empty line—but he didn’t bother to say goodbye before he disconnected the chat.
She knew she was being ungrateful. There wasn’t really any question about that. But God—this wasn’t what she wanted to do for the rest of her life. She was sick of gossip pieces and trashy exposes. Hell, at this point, writing about a congressman who was screwing his aide would be a step up in the quality department.
If only there was a way to go home without looking like a dog with her tail between her legs. If there was a way to handle the inevitable sniffs of satisfaction. Local girl heads to city and can’t hack it, laughs all around. If she could get one good piece under her belt, one serious article, she could tell everyone that she was going to continue to work on her career from home, where she could get good jambalaya and the music made sense. Where the town didn’t stink all summer long, even if it was hot and sweaty.
Her inbox blinked with a new message. She clicked over, and saw a series of forwarded articles and links from Devin about AEGIS, Philip Blankenship, and Alexander’s playboy life style. She got out the tablet that Daddy had sent her last Christmas, and starting making notes. Background information, likely questions, all of it. Maybe she’d get enough to put together the piece on AEGIS she’d been thinking about. It wouldn’t be something Devin could use, but Helen might be able to make it work. It was worth thinking about, anyway. She already had the interview scheduled, and she’d found over the years that getting the facetime with the source was sometimes the trickiest part.