You look like shit.” Donnie sneers before his face lights up. “That means you were up late because you got a good scoop, doesn’t it? You always get me the gossip.”

How does he always do that? He’ll cut me down and then turn right around and give me a compliment. It keeps me off-balance and I think he likes it that way. I sink into the chair across from his desk, smoothing my skirt out to reassure myself that I look fine, and he’s just an ass. “Well, I did spend the weekend scouting for celebs like you told me to. I saw Christian K-”

Donnie interrupts me. “Yeah, yeah, that ship is sailed now. Completely old news.” He shrugs, flopping back in his chair and waving his hands indifferently. “Everyone and their grandma knows that story already. Snooze . . . leave that to the idiots who don’t know any better. We need something fresh . . .”

I ignore his jab at our competitors, as if our online tabloid is any better than the other gossip rags. He steeples his fingers, squinting his eyes at me and, oh shit, I know that look. Before he can stick me with some other soul-sucking assignment, I jump in, adding a bit of intrigue to my voice. “I did see Keith Perkins in the club.”

“Was he drunk? Acting crazy? Getting his freak on in the middle of the dance floor? Please tell me he was doing something story-worthy!”

“No, he wasn’t. But that’s the thing,” I answer, keeping my internal cringe at his hungriness for the ugly side of life to myself. “I saw him Friday and Saturday night at two different clubs, like he was out for a bit of a crazy weekend. But both times he walked in alone, sipped a few drinks, listened to the music, chilled in the VIP, and left alone." I lean closer, teasing the story for Donnie the way I would an article. He's hooked, just need to reel him in slowly. "He had women hitting him up left and right, practically hanging all over him, begging for it. And he dismissed them all and went home early. Alone."

“So? Nothing out of the ordinary for him. Perkins has always been private. He’s the fucking Stonehenge of music,” Donnie replies, already wiggling off my hook. He reaches forward, scooping up a handful of jellybeans from the crystal bowl on the edge of his desk, and starts popping them back. “Maybe he’s just picky. Or he was out of little blue pills. Shit, I don’t know. Lots of reasons a guy might go home alone.”

“Well, if he’s picky, then he’s the pickiest man in the world because the women were knock-outs. And I’d bet my life he’s not gay,” I answer. I really have no idea why I’m so certain. Maybe it’s just wishful thinking.

Donnie seems intrigued again. Score! “Well then, out with it. What are you thinking?” he asks. “You think there’s some scoop with Perkins no one else has found yet?”

“I’m just saying give me a few days and let me check it out. I spent the better part of yesterday doing some research. Every source about him online is nothing but PR bullshit. Album covers, generic as fuck. Interviews . . . he only talks about his music and tours, like they’re prefab questions. That’s it. The sum total of his persona. I’ve never, ever seen a celebrity with such a squeaky-clean PR-created image as Keith Perkins. Something doesn’t add up.”

Donnie grins maliciously. “And if you can find the dirt on Mr. Good Ol’ Boy, it’ll be worth millions of hits.” He tosses back another jellybean, lemon judging by the color. “Okay, do it. You’ve got a week to scout him out, but I’ll need you to do some quick stories simultaneously.”

“And my expenses?” I ask hopefully. There’s no chance in hell Donnie is going to reimburse my cover charge and drinks at the clubs last weekend, but there’s a difference in dropping cash for a night out and tailing someone for days on end. Shit adds up real quick that way.

“Keep your receipts, and keep it reasonable. If the story pans out . . . you’ll get what you deserve,” Donnie half-promises me. Thanks, Donnie. You always know how to make me feel like a cheap hooker. “In the meantime, I’ve got something else for you. Should be a slam-dunk.”

“What?” I ask warily, hoping it’s as easy as he’s making it sound. I don’t know a damn thing about country music, other than that Keith’s famous. I could really use some time to get some more background on him and develop a plan on how I’m going to tail him.

“The Mayor’s son . . . seems he’s gotten into a bit of trouble,” Donnie says, delight written all over his face at someone else’s misfortune. “Seems he likes candy. The nose variety, and got himself arrested last night.”

He's not the only one who like candy, I think, biting my tongue. "So you want a story on it?"

Donnie nods, sliding a paper across his desk. “There’s a press conference scheduled for ten o’clock at City Hall. He’s supposed to do the dog and pony show . . . tearful public apology, earnest statement that he’s changing his ways, maybe a spa-rehab stint. I want you there to get the pics of everyone kowtowing and trying to kiss Mister Mayor’s ass, and see if you can get some shots of the boy looking a bit red-eyed or high. After that, dig up some dirt on the Mayor and his son. I’ve got a feeling he’s been covering the kid’s ass for a while now. Have a thousand words ready for tomorrow’s edition.”

“On it,” I reply, snatching up the paper. A one-day assignment, not too hard and potentially a big hitter considering the political target of the story. “And the Perkins story?”

“Start tomorrow,” Donnie says, pointing towards the door. “Better get your ass in gear if you’re going to make it to City Hall on time. Get me those shots.”

I turn and leave, just as Donnie hollers out the door again. “Fran!”

“Guess Donnie needs his morning blowjob,” I mutter as Francesca struts by in her Jimmy Choos and designer label miniskirt. I didn’t mean to say it out loud, and definitely didn’t intend to be heard, but Francesca gives me a nasty little glance and raises her nose in the air, intentionally bumping me as she passes.

I’m not one to judge people too harshly, I get that journalism is a tough racket to get into. Since anyone can create a blog or YouTube channel and spew whatever they want, trying to be a legit journalist has become a dog eat dog world. It always has been, really. But now there’re more dogs in the fight, and some folks will do whatever they can to get ahead. Including the boss. I shiver at the thought of Donnie’s sex face and decide if Francesca is willing to sell her soul to the devil that way, it’s her business. Good luck and better her than me.

Heading over to my desk, I grab my purse and phone, double checking my memory space to make sure I can film the press conference. Yep, all good.

“Whatcha got?” Maggie asks, looking a lot perkier than I feel. “Something good, I hope?”

“Just the Mayor’s son’s press conference,” I admit. “But I was able to get that Perkins story. I start on it tomorrow.”

“Lucky girl,” Maggie growls, but it’s playful and I know she’s not mad, just a tiny bit envious. She grabs her own purse, “Hold on, let me ride with you. I need to go downtown too.”

“Okay.” We head out, jumping in my car and heading down towards City Hall. As we drive, I glance over at Maggie, who I still don’t quite get in this racket. “Hey, Mags?”

“Yeah?” Maggie asks, looking up from her phone. Seeing my serious face, she frowns, “What’s up?”

“Why’d you get into this game?” I ask. “Seriously. You’re like this perky sunshine of a person, and you do . . . this? How’d you end up airing people’s dirty laundry for a living?”

“I don’t know,” Maggie replies, thoughtfully considering as she adjusts her glasses. They’re big on her face, giving her an adorable owlish look that goes with her nerdy-chic cute style. “I guess it was . . . ninth grade social studies.”

“Huh?” I reply, my eyebrows shooting together in confusion.

Maggie smiles, shrugging. “My ninth grade social studies teacher, she was a real fire breather, you know? She made sure we got the full story on how the system works, made it interesting and exciting. She taught us how newspapers played a role in just about every big event in American history. I mean, if it wasn’t for The Pennsylvania Gazette and Ben Franklin, the whole Revolution would have been nothing at all.”

I hum, nodding. “Guess that’s one way to look at it. So you want to change the world?”

Maggie grins, nodding. “Don’t you? I’ve seen that book on Watergate you’ve got at your desk.”

I laugh, admitting my defeat. “Well, it could be worse. We could be soulless zombies that like digging up celebrity dirt.”

“Yeah, but you’re good at it at least,” Maggie comments. “We both are. And one day, we’re gonna do more than this. Bigger and better, onward and upward!”

“I’m with you girl. Let’s hope there’s some ground-breaking investigative reporting in our future.” I reply supportively. “In the meantime, the best I’ve got is digging into Keith Perkins. The man is hotter than the sun, but has been deemed clean as a whistle by every magazine out there. I’m probably about to crash and burn here. Pop, zzzzzz, boom…” I make hand gestures to indicated my predicted collision with failure.

“Who cares? Still sounds like fun if you ask me,” Maggie teases. “You might not find a damn thing, but watching a ton of videos on him, listening as he croons song after song, and following that glorious butt of his down the streets isn't the worst assignment you could get. Tell me I'm wrong," she jokes with a wink.

She’s got a good point. Seeing if Keith Perkins has more to him than a great voice, a god-like body, and a string of top ten hits might turn up nothing. But I’ll happily stare at his ass in those tight jeans every day of the week and twice on Sunday, even if it’s only in my imagination.