FIVE

Booking It

The next morning, I lie in bed and listen as Asha moves around in the kitchen, preparing her breakfast. The fact that she’s humming tells me things with Kieran went well.

I pull my pillow over my eyes and sigh. God, I really don’t want to hear all the lurid details. For once, I regret that my sister and I are comfortable enough to share every intimate detail of our lives. Maybe if I hide in here long enough she’ll head to work, and I’ll be spared for a few hours at least.

That plan takes a major hit when the delicious smell of frying bacon wafts under my door. She’s trying to lure me out, and dammit, it’s working. If I were a cartoon dog I’d be floating on a stream of bacon fumes, right under the door and out into the kitchen.

“Eden! Get your butt out here! I’ve cooked you breakfast! Don’t you dare let it go cold!” God, she sounds just like Mom when she yells like that.

I sit up and pull my disastrous morning hair back into a ponytail. “No, thanks! I’m good. Not really hungry.”

Within three seconds my bedroom door slams open, and my sister gives me a look of concern. “What’s going on? Are you sick? You’re never not hungry. One of the reasons I resent you is that you eat like a horse but look like you should be strutting the catwalks of Milan. It’s unfair and annoying.”

“I’ve told you before, the only reason I’m not three-hundred pounds is because I work my ass off at the gym. My body processes calories the same way yours does.”

“Bullshit. My hips and thighs have a vendetta against me and are determined I’ll never find jeans that truly fit.”

Since we were teenagers, I’ve coveted her curves, and she’s longed for my lack of them. We all want what we don’t have, I guess.

“Eden,” she says, and I know she’s serious, because she puts her dainty hands on her Shakira hips, “unless you’re dying, get out here right now and eat. I cooked the bacon in maple syrup, just how you like it. I even made freshly squeezed orange juice. I can’t have a glorious Martha Stewart moment unless you come and praise me for my efforts.”

I throw up my hands in defeat. “Okay, fine. I guess I should be grateful you’re doing the work for once. If this is what I can expect every time you get laid, I hope it happens more often.”

She looks at the floor. “Just come eat, please. We need to talk.”

After she walks away, I flop back onto the bed and rub my eyes.

Okay, don’t be a douche. Get out there and listen to your sister gush about sex with the only guy you’ve ever thought may be worthy of snuggling after sex. You can do this. She deserves it.

I swing out of bed and pad out into the kitchen. As usual when Asha cooks, she seems to have used every plate and frying pan we own, and they’re now piled high in the sink. Still, what she’s set out for me looks delicious.

I sit at the breakfast bar and munch on a piece of crispy maple-bacon.

God, yes. Get in me, smoky deliciousness.

“So,” I say, before taking a sip of juice. “You seem to be in a good mood. Care to tell me all about the sexy times with your Irish dreamboat?”

She scoops some scrambled egg into her mouth and gives me a closed-mouth smile, then shakes her head.

“What?” I say. “You’re not going to tell me? That hurts, Ash. We tell each other everything.” Secretly, I’m relieved, but it would be weird if I didn’t pretend otherwise.

She swallows and shakes her head again. “No, sorry. I meant, he’s not my Irish dreamboat. Nothing happened.”

A piece of bacon drops off my fork as I process that. She didn’t screw him? I hate how happy that makes me. “Really? You two looked pretty cozy when I left. What was the problem?”

She shrugs. “Nothing. I just wasn’t feeling it.”

“Asha.” I fix her with my serious face. “Are you kidding me? I’ve never seen you turn your flirt up to eleven like you did with Kieran.” I put down my fork and lean forward. “Wait, did he do something to you? Hurt you? Drunkenly grope you? Because if so, I don’t care how damn attractive he is, I’ll kick his ass all over Brooklyn, and then I’ll –”

“Edie, stop.” She laughs and grabs some toast. “Kieran was a perfect gentleman. As was Pat. They were nice guys. At the end of the night I just realized Kieran and I didn’t have any chemistry. It’s not the end of the world. It happens all the time.”

“Really? That’s it? Did you at least kiss him to come to this conclusion?” I bet he’s an amazing kisser. Those lips were made for it.

“Nope, no kissing. The more we spoke, the more I realized he wasn’t the guy for me. End of story.”

“I see.” I look around at the carnage in our kitchen. “Then why the cooking and humming? You’re way too happy for a girl who had zero orgasms last night.”

“Just because I didn’t bring a guy back here, doesn’t mean I didn’t have fun times by myself.”

I laugh then get up and start making a fresh pot of coffee. “Well, good for you, I guess. But I’m sorry things didn’t work out. You and Kieran would have made a cute couple.” Though it would have been tough watching them together, I wasn’t lying.

“So, anyway,” Asha says as she adds her empty plate to the Jenga tower of filth in the sink, “we should go out tonight. Just you and me.”

“Okay. Where? And also, why?”

“Because I feel like we haven’t had any quality time alone recently. You’ve had a lot on your plate with the whole Mister Romance thing, and I have crappy editorial assignments I’d like to vent about. Let’s do Verdi’s at eight. We’ll eat, get a bottle of wine ... it’ll be nice.”

“Verdi’s is kind of fancy. We can’t have quality sister time at a burger bar?”

“No, so don’t even think of showing up in jeans and a leather jacket. I’ve left that cute little blue dress you like on my bed. Wear it, please.” I make a noise in protest. “And if that groan is because you think you’ll also have to do your hair and makeup, then you’re right. A little effort is all I ask. Promise me.”

I roll my eyes. “God, you’re so demanding. I’m sure we could bond just as easily in our pajamas on the couch with a quart of ice cream, but whatever. We’ll do it your way tonight, but next time I get to choose.”

“Deal.” She kisses me on the cheek. “I’ll be coming straight from work, so I’ll meet you there. Have a good day.”

I gesture to the mess around me. “You’re just going to stiff me with all of this?”

“Sure am. Oh, and Nannabeth called earlier. She said if you don’t stop blocking her calls, she’ll be leaving embarrassing messages for you at work. Byeeeee!”

With that, she grabs her purse and heads out the door, leaving me alone with a stovetop completely caked in maple syrup and bacon grease.

Great. A disaster-zone of a kitchen to clean and a Nannabeth call? Thank God it’s Friday.

I throw down the rest of my breakfast and get to work cleaning up. Nannabeth will have to wait.

Scrubbing the stove takes longer than expected, and by the time I’m done I’m running late for my meeting with Derek

Lucky for me, he’s the patient, forgiving type who won’t tear me a new one for being tardy.

Yeah, right.

* * *

I’m juggling three coffees and have barely made it through the door, when Derek spots me from where he’s giving the advertising department a ‘pep’ talk.

“Tate! Where the fuck have you been?!”

I hold up the Starbuck’s tray and smile. “Stopped on the way here to get your fave, boss, but the line was insane.”

He eyes the cups suspiciously then gestures to his office. “Get your ass in there. I’ll be done in a minute.”

As he goes back to pointing to something on the screen and scaring the bejeezus out of one of our baby-faced interns, I make a quick detour to Toby’s desk.

“Mochaccino delivery,” I say, plonking the large cup on his desk. “Consider this partial payment for the illegal activities you’ve committed on my behalf so far, as well as the ones you’re likely to commit today.”

He picks up the cup and takes a sip. “God, I’m cheap, but never let it be said that I’m easy. Unless your sister asks. Then you can tell her I’m a complete slut.”

“Tate!”

I jump as Derek yells from his office doorway.

I smile at Toby. “Gotta go. If I don’t make it out of there, I want to be cremated and stuck into one of those containers that sprouts into a tree.”

“No problem. It’s totally cool if I plant you in a dog park, right?”

I flip him a sneaky bird behind my back as I hurry into Derek’s office and close the door behind me.

“Morning, boss.” I give him a sweet smile and place a Grande Latte in front of him. “Six sugars, just how you like it.”

He squints at me. “Why are you sucking up to me? Have you fucked up this Mister Romance thing already?”

“Not at all. I just thought you might like some coffee.”

“You’re not fooling me, Tate. You’re not that nice.”

“Sure I am. I bought one for Toby, too.”

“Toby’s your friend. I’m not. So, cut the bullshit and tell me where we’re at. Do you have his client list yet?”

“Well, no, but –”

“What about his identity? What’s his background?”

“Actually, it’s been kind of hard to nail him down as far as –”

“Do you at least have a physical description? He must be quite the stud to have all these women creaming themselves.”

“Ahhh, I haven’t quite seen him yet, but I think he may be blond.”

He slams down his coffee so hard, a glob of foam ejaculates onto his desk. “Christ, Tate, have you made any progress in the four days since I’ve seen you? What the hell have you been doing?”

I grit my teeth and tell my temper to stand down. “Derek, it’s not exactly easy to get to this guy. He’s like a ghost. But the good news is, after some long days of surveillance and many dead ends, I managed to have a conversation with him on the phone yesterday.”

“To arrange an interview? Thank fuck. I was beginning to think you were completely incompetent. When is it? I’ll line up a photographer.”

“Well, he hasn’t agreed to the interview yet, but I’m confident he will. I just need to talk him into it.”

Derek stares at me for a few moments, and his expression tells me he’s about three seconds away from forgetting about the whole thing and firing me out of a cannon straight into the Hudson River.

I take evasive maneuvers. “Derek, listen. This entire situation is delicate and needs to be finessed. There are a lot of high-profile clients he’s trying to protect. The guy’s nervous. If I go in all guns blazing he’ll disappear, and we’ll never get the story. I just need some time. This isn’t something I can deliver overnight.”

“Is it something you can deliver at all?”

“Of course.”

He opens his desk drawer and pulls out a pack of nicotine gum before shoving some in his mouth and chewing loudly as he studies me. “You have twenty-four hours to secure an interview, or I’m telling payroll you don’t work here anymore. Got it?”

“Absolutely. I’ll have something by the end of the day and let you know as soon as it’s locked down.”

“You do that. Now, get the fuck out.” He pulls his tablet in front of him and shoos me with his hand.

I leave his office feeling like a death row inmate whose date of execution has been merely delayed.

I pull out my phone and send a text to the number from which Max called me yesterday.

<Have you made a decision yet about allowing me to interview you? Can we meet?>

I sit and watch the screen, half expecting it to light up with a failure to deliver status. To my surprise, I quickly get a reply.

<No.>

Okay, so at least I can communicate with him. That’s a start.

<Is that your answer about the interview? Or do you mean you haven’t decided yet?>

After I press send, the dots at the bottom of the screen blink long enough that I suspect he’s writing an essay as to why he can’t talk to me, but when his response comes, it’s simply <Yes.>

I let out a frustrated noise.

<Yes your answer is no? Or yes you’ve made a decision?>

More blinking dots, then:

<Miss Tate, for a woman who makes her living communicating through the written word, you know how to set up an impressive string of ambiguities.>

I growl in frustration and dial his number. He doesn’t pick up. Instead, another text arrives.

<What are you doing?>

<Calling you. We need to talk.>

<No, we don’t. I’m busy. Plus, I have another day before I need to give you my decision.>

<Things have changed. Please call me, so I can explain.>

<No.>

I try the number again. Voicemail.

<Please, Max. It won’t take long. Just pick up.>

I call again. After three rings, he answers with a distinct edge of annoyance in his voice.

“Miss Tate, I’d like to tell you that it’s a pleasure to talk to you again, but that would be a lie. I’m busy. What’s with the urgency?”

“My boss is pressuring me for progress on the story. Please, can we just meet and talk? I’d rather get the truth from you than have to start chasing down your clients. I already know about Marla Massey. It’s only a question of time before I find the rest.”

He’s silent for a few beats then says, “So, you think starting our conversation with a threat is going to help your case?”

“It wasn’t a threat. It was a fact.”

“Yes, a fact in which you threaten to expose me, with or without my cooperation.”

“You say potato, I say potahto.”

He swears under his breath. “If this is your attitude, why would I help you? I think your claim of wanting the truth is bullshit.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because you’re not interested in finding out the real story. You want a scandal, and you’ll do everything in your power to get it, whether you talk to me or not.”

“That’s a little unfair, considering you barely know me.”

“I know that you probably sold this story to your boss as a juicy exposé that will cause enough of a stir to win new readers and keep advertisers happy. You no doubt told him you’re going to expose me and the seedy underbelly of New York’s social elite. Isn’t that the truth?”

It annoys me that his assessment of the situation is mostly accurate. “That’s a pretty dim view of my character, Max. All I want is the full story. I’m a journalist, after all.”

“Are you? Journalists have standards. They’re supposed to be impartial observers who report the facts and let the public make up their own minds. You’re coming into this with strong preconceived ideas of who I am and what I do, and I doubt anything I have to say is going to convince you otherwise.”

That gets my hackles up. “Oh, really? Please enlighten me as to what I think of you.”

“Put simply, you think I’m a con man. You believe that I’m disgusting and immoral, and even though what I’m doing isn’t illegal, you’d like to see me locked up for exploiting rich, lonely women.”

“That’s not –”

“Please don’t insult me by lying, Miss Tate. If you want any chance of convincing me to do this, you at least have to be honest.”

I take a breath and resist the urge to tell him to screw himself. “Okay, fine. Yes, I think you’re swindling these women out of their money. That you’re preying on their insecurities and lining your pockets in the process. And I feel sorry for them being so incredibly gullible that they fall for your ridiculous line of bullshit. How’s that for honesty?”

There’s a pause, then a low chuckle. “Well, that’s a start, I guess. So, you can’t comprehend that I might actually have good intentions? That I may even help them?”

“With what? Fake romance? Cheesy role-playing? Please. I think these women live in a fantasy world where they can buy whatever they want, and you’re just one more luxury item they can brag about to their friends.”

“Hmmm, I’m not sure, but I think you just equated me to a designer handbag.”

“Well, aren’t you? The difference is, when they spend thousands of dollars on a handbag, they own it forever. You they rent by the hour.”

“You make me sound like a prostitute.”

“Not at all. That would be an insult to one of the world’s oldest professions. When someone pays for a prostitute, at least they know they’re getting screwed. Your clients have no idea.”

I must be finally getting under his skin, because when he speaks again, his voice is hard. “Miss Tate, you don’t understand a damn thing about what these women know, or need, or want. You’ve formed your misguided opinion through shallow assumptions and breathtaking ignorance of the facts.”

“Then talk to me and prove me wrong.”

There’s silence, and I suspect he knows he walked right into that one.

When he speaks again, he’s calmer. “If I meet with you and prove you wrong, you’d alter the narrative of your story?”

“Of course.”

“Would you give me your word on that?”

“Absolutely.” I almost have him. I’d swear on a stack of Bibles at this point it that’s what it takes. “I want to tell your story, Max, whatever that may be. Just tell me what I need to do.”

He pauses then says, “Alright, then, Miss Tate, I’ll agree to give you the interview, but to make this an even playing field, I’m going to insist on some conditions.”

“Like what?”

“I can’t talk any further now. I have a date.”

“A date? Or an appointment with a client?”

“To me, they’re one and the same.”

“Well, no, on a real date five-thousand dollars doesn’t usually change hands.”

“There’s that prejudice again. Are you sure you were listening the day your college professors covered impartiality?”

I bite my tongue to stifle another snarky answer. “Please just tell me your conditions, so we can schedule the interview.”

“I’ll call you later. Have a good afternoon, Miss Tate.”

“Wait, Max ...” The line goes dead.

Dammit.

I throw my phone onto my desk and push back my hair. When I turn, I see Derek standing in the doorway of his office, staring at me.

After I smile and give him the thumbs-up signal, he scowls and walks back to his desk.

At least Max has agreed to an interview, even if there’s no set time. As long as I can lock him down before tomorrow morning, I have a chance at keeping my job.