Dirty Headlines

“What?” Kate nearly spat her coffee all over the desk. “How did we not hear about this until now?”

“First of all, we are the news.” Judith smiled apologetically, and my jaw ticked, fighting a smirk. “And it happened literally ten minutes ago.” She swiveled to Kate, her chest rising and falling. “Honestly, I doubt it will warrant much reaction at first. Most of his viewers are minors following his journey as a pro skateboarder. But this is definitely something we should be alarmed about. Can I?”

She pointed at Steve’s iPad. Steve dragged his eyes to me, a question mark and boredom shining through them.

“Give her the iPad, doofus.” I shook my head.

Five seconds later we were looking at Cody McHotson—not his real name was my wild guess—wearing a Viking helmet, sleeveless Billabong tank top, and a smug smile that flashed bleached teeth. He looked like the reason they invented guns, but he was actually doing this—sending minors out to look for a body part.

“It’s not gross or anything.” He tucked a lock of his blond side-bang back into his hat. “Like, don’t expect to find something super weird. But it’s there, and hey, if you feel like making a buck, you should go for it.” The stoner laughed into the camera, sending a plume of smoke toward the lens.

“Is he a minor?” I turned to Judith.

She shook her head. “Twenty-one.”

It was official. This generation was too dumb to repopulate. Hard to believe I would be dependent on his likes fifty years from now.

“Good lead, Humphry. Jessica, follow it.”

“I’m on it.” Jessica saluted, typing away on her phone.

“Hey, what about me?” Steve flung his arms in the air.

“You gave me a lead about Belgian cheese. Be happy my shoe is not in your ass.”

“Ugh,” he wailed, picking a pastry from the basket and stuffing it into his mouth.

He was of the Phoenix Townley brand—a rich boy who’d wormed his way into my newsroom through connections. My father had paved the way for people who were incapable of consuming a latte without burning themselves in the process, let alone making one, yet simply had the right last name. Of course, same could be said about me. With two differences: I hadn’t asked for this job, and I’d goddamn well earned it.

People were leaving the conference room when I jerked my chin toward Judith. “A word in private.”

“Here?”

“Yes, Einstein.”

The room had floor-to-ceiling glass walls, exactly what I needed to keep my hands off her. Once we were alone, I shut the door and sat down in my seat, linking my fingers together. She straightened, her chin high, watching me closely.

“This can’t happen anymore.” I motioned between us.

I wanted to make sure she wasn’t going to blow our dirty fucks out of proportion. The last thing I needed was for her to think we were in a relationship of sorts. I needed to keep my work area efficient and professional.

She clicked her pen, nodding. “Agreed.”

“Anything you need help with?” I gestured downstairs with my finger, but I could see by her flaring hazels that this was not the way she interpreted it. “I saw you crying outside this morning.” My lips flattened. “This was not an invitation for a cock-ride.”

Her cheeks pinked. “I fail to see how that is any of your business.”

“My employees are my business,” I shot back drily.

“Their performance is, yes. You don’t have to worry about that. I assure you.”

Judith didn’t have the tools and means to fight me. But other than that, she did a damn good job of standing up to me.

I was getting tired of beating around the bush, so I just gave it to her straight.

“Was the phone call about us?”

She tilted her head back, laughing. “No. There is no us.”

“Quite right. Good job on the YouTuber.” I stood up, ironing my shirt with my palm. This was good. I could go back to ignoring her from now on. I was about to do just that, marching over to the door, when I saw the face behind it and froze.

Lily Davis stood on the other side, her glossed lips grinning at me.

Lily Davis, as in the woman I should’ve been fucking.

Lily Davis, as in the woman Humphry knew nothing about.

Lily Davis, as in my fiancée.



Some girls looked like they had the world at their Louboutin-clad feet, and the leggy brunette who burst through the glass door with a megawatt smile was one of them. Her flowery perfume made my eyes water, but maybe I was just on the verge of crying because of my exchange with my boss. She gripped Célian’s collar—flashing an engagement rock the size of an entire Tiffany’s store—and planted a wet kiss over his scowling lips. He held her shoulders and took a step back, giving her a frosty onceover, as if assessing the damage on a recently purchased wrecked car.

“Lily.”

“Fiancé.”

What?

It shouldn’t have surprised me. Célian was gorgeous, successful, and a billionaire in his early thirties. Why wouldn’t he have a fiancée who looked like sex on heels? But the irony wasn’t lost on me. He had managed to put me firmly in Elise-the-editor’s shoes. The other woman. The homewrecker. The moral-less girl. Only difference was, Elise had known for a fact that Milton had a girlfriend. I, on the other hand, had had no clue.