Dirty Headlines

by Shen, LJ

  “Out of my newsroom, Elijah,” Célian barked, looking back to me. “Continue, Judith.”

  I looked between them noiselessly. Elijah furrowed his brows, picked up his things, and shook his head.

  “It was a joke,” he whispered.

  “Comedy Central is down the block. We make news here.” Célian was still looking at me, but with a jaded expectation, not an ounce of sympathy or affection in his icy blues.

  An unbearable tension squeezed the room from the moment Elijah realized he’d messed up to the second the door closed behind him.

  “Anyway…” My face heated, and I kept my eyes on Kipling. “He’s a Syrian journalist living in Germany. His name is Saiid. I found his Twitter account late last night.”

  “Or Tinder…” Bryce, one of the producers in the room, whispered under her breath.

  Sitting at the head of the desk, Célian couldn’t hear it. But I could. And I wanted to die. I deserved it. Even I could see why it would make my peers bitter. While they were chasing leads, I’d been chasing orgasms with the future president of the network. The engaged future president of the network.

  I took a deep breath, borrowing Kate’s iPad silently and entering a web address. “He uploaded this video, documenting Syrian refugees trying to smuggle their way back to Syria…”

  “Back to Syria?” Jessica raised an eyebrow.

  I nodded. “They find it difficult to integrate, and they miss their families. Hundreds of refugees come back into Syria every week, mostly through Greece. They enter their own country illegally, on foot, tracing back over the route they used to run away.”

  I clicked on the video and turned it around so everyone could see. Most of all, I was relieved to find people no longer looking at me like I was the root of all evil. Now they saw toddlers crying in their mothers’ hands, their lives at great risk.

  “Coverage?” Célian looked up at me after the video ended.

  Shaking my head, I pointed at the screen. “This video has only been watched five hundred times or so, but I’m guessing more people will find it as time ticks by. This could be a great lead for the special we’re airing next week.”

  “Good job.”

  Maybe his words would’ve been more believable if they hadn’t felt like hail hitting my skin. I was growing tired of him being so callous. It’s like his heart was wrapped in a thick layer of dead skin—the kind you have on the sole of your foot. A needle could pierce it, and you wouldn’t feel a thing.

  I bowed my head, not daring to look at the reaction his compliment had created.

  People began to file out of the room, and so did Célian. He probably knew I was about ready to strangle him and didn’t want a shouting match. I stayed inside, watching Kate pretend to collect her things at a snail’s pace.

  She looked down as she spoke to me. “Célian did the only thing he could to make sure both your asses were covered. He did it in his own fuck-you-very-much way, but he meant well. You’re about to get a lot of heat for it, but remember—better to address it here than let The Daily Gossip give people their version of your story.”

  I looked up, through the glass wall, and watched the news spread like wildfire—people hunching down and whispering into their colleagues’ ears, secretaries marching out with their cigarette packs so they could gossip downstairs, reporters passing the newspaper James had brought between them.

  “I think he just killed my career.” My head collapsed into my arms on the table.

  “Killed? No.” Kate tossed her things into her bag and stood up. “But he just made it a lot harder for both of you. So you better get out there and start proving to people what I already know: that you were born to be a journalist.”

  The next few days were a blur. Things somehow got both better and worse.

  Better, because people had very little time to duck their heads down and whisper about us. Célian was running around the office, screaming his lungs out at them. We were severely short-staffed, and every calamity in the world had decided to land at our feet.

  Worse, because ever since the new ads started rolling, Célian was in and out of meetings on the sixtieth floor, and every time he came back, he punched a wall to its untimely death. We were four holes in, with our ratings slipping each passing second and our competitors openly discussing our current situation as a network dying a slow, painful, and very public death.

  Célian had not been kidding.

  Mathias wanted to kill LBC before he left, and now that Célian was no longer engaged to Lily and in no position to overturn those decisions, he had to watch it crumble, eyes wide open, Clockwork Orange style.

  Célian wasn’t the only one trying to plug LBC into a life-support machine.

  James Townley got into a screaming match with Mathias in the middle of the newsroom the day after the commercials started running and threatened to quit.

  “You’re ruining this business, and your son.” He’d thrown a batch of documents in Mathias’s face.

  “If you’re unhappy, James, you know exactly where the door is.” Mathias had pointed at it for emphasis.

  “Yes, Matt. You’ve showed it to me plenty. But I’ll never leave here, and we both know why.”

  Célian had dragged his anchor to the conference room and had a heated conversation with him. They’d come out looking spent, just in time to see Mathias wink wickedly through the closing doors of the elevator.

  If nothing else, Célian had found an ally in James, one person to cross off his Guinness records-worthy shit list.

  The other downside of LBC’s looming demise was that Célian and I hadn’t had time to talk to each other since the news broke that we were together.

  I was still mad at him, but it was difficult to confront him properly when he was running on coffee and energy shots, trying desperately to save his dying network. It was my educated guess that he hadn’t slept more than ten hours combined this week.

  So when Friday evening rolled in, I was surprised to see him walk to my desk, in front of everyone, and lean his hip against my file cabinet, his signature hands-tucked-in-pockets and devil-may-care smirk on full display.

  “Chucks.”

  I looked up. He had dark circles around his eyes and a three-day stubble. I desperately wanted to give him a piece of my mind, but there was no point in kicking him while he was down.

  “Jerk.”

  He arched an eyebrow, and I shrugged. “I thought we nicknamed each other the things that represented us.”

  He leaned down and placed a chaste kiss on my temple. Everybody stopped what they were doing and stared at us, and I felt myself turning crimson. The air stood still in the room. He was gasoline. I was a match.

  “Dinner and an apology,” he said—not offered—in front of everyone, so cocky and sure that I would jump into his arms.

  “You should probably start with the latter to get the former.” I sat back and looked at him blankly.

  He hung his head and shook it, laughing. “I apologize for outing us in a less than diplomatic manner. But not for making sure everyone knows that you’re fucking mine.” He leaned down, his lips grazing my ear. “Hang on to this anger, Chucks. I’ll be happy to work your crazy ass up in bed and fuck every doubt and complaint out of your tight pussy.”

  If I were an emoji, I would be drooling a little pool under my feet.

  “I guess you could buy me dinner.” I kept my expression schooled, and he tugged at my jacket draped over the back of my seat, helping me into it.

  “Guessing is a gambling game. I’m definitely buying you dinner tonight.”

  “We’re going to have a long talk,” I said, feeling Jessica and Kate watching us with horror and fascination. I don’t think they’d ever seen anyone talk back to their boss.

  “And even longer makeup sex.” He grinned.

  Thirty minutes later, we were in a Chinese restaurant off Broadway. Célian was drinking bottled beer as I ordered every single thing on the menu.

  “Sorry.”
I handed our waiter the velvet red tariff. “I can’t eat when I’m stressed, and this is the first time we’ve spoken since Monday, so I’m making up for lost time.”

  Célian unfolded his napkin, frowning at it like it had accused him of something, considering my words.

  “We’re tanking,” I told him. “Your father is on a suicide mission, and he’s taken all of us as hostages. The only way to stop him is to overthrow his decision, which you can do by teaming up with the Davis family. Can you at least ask Lily’s father? Go directly to him?”

  Every word felt like a sword slicing through my mouth. I was sending him off to the last place I wanted him to be. With his ex.

  He fingered the rim of his bottle. “They have their own shit to sort through, and the last thing they need is the motherfucker who cheated on their daughter showing up asking for solids.”

  “You haven’t cheated on Lily, though.” I rubbed my nose in frustration. “Why did you agree with that statement?”

  If looks could slap you in the ass, I think his expression just did.

  “I’m fond of her family,” he said curtly.

  “And?”

  “And I’d hate to break it to them that their daughter is a piece of work.”

  “But…why?”

  “They treated me like a son when I had no relatives to speak of but Camille.”

  “So you’re content with being the bad guy?” I blinked, my mouth lax.

  “Are we living on the same fucking planet? I am the bad guy.”

  He had a point, and I understood where he was coming from, even if it made me uncomfortable that he’d protected Lily.

  “What about LBC?”

  He clutched his beer so tightly I thought it was going to crack, ignoring the steaming dishes the waiter slid on to our table. I wasn’t feeling so hungry myself anymore.

  “I’m listening to offers from other networks.”

  “What?” I whisper-yelled. “LBC is yours.”

  “No. It’s my father’s, for the foreseeable future. Unlike ninety-nine percent of the general population, I’m both good at my job and I love it. I won’t jeopardize my reputation. I’d rather work somewhere else.”

  “What about your staff!”

  It was an accusation more than a question. No matter how much people feared Célian, they respected and were loyal to him, too. He couldn’t just get up and leave. Not in theory, anyway. In practice, I knew better than anyone how he could be taciturn and detached.

  “If it comes to that, I’ll make a package deal to take Kate and Elijah with me.”

  He stretched in his seat, and I watched the muscles of his arms looping around his bones like ivy, every curve incredibly male. Then I thought about the muscle inside his chest. The one that pounded, but didn’t get its recommended exercise.

  His father was killing him slowly and enjoying doing so. His mother was mostly indifferent toward everything around her. Célian didn’t have a shot, other than the Davis family, and we both knew it.

  “And what about us?” I asked quietly. His eyes were cold, but his mouth was red and hot, alive.

  “What about us?” His icy tenor glided like an ice cube along my spine. He waved his empty beer bottle at the waiter, signaling for another.

  “Are you going to explain that little stint in the newsroom when James showed us the item?”

  “Probably not. We agreed it was the best thing to come clean. So I did.”

  “Without consulting me.”

  “False. I consulted you the night before. I have the text messages to prove it.”

  “We agreed to it, but didn’t talk strategy.” I refused to back off.

  “Strategy?” He scoffed. “We’re not running for office, Judith. Just fucking in one.”

  He’d thrown our affair in everyone’s face, and now he was acting like an asshole, because he didn’t know how not to. But I was done—done eating it up every time he threw crumbs of attention my way.

  I knew I had to stand up and leave before I cried.

  We’d done everything backwards.

  First the sex, then the feelings. We’d defied our workplace, and our colleagues, and our ethical codes. We’d ruined a perfectly dysfunctional engagement that had kept his company alive. But most of all, we’d also ruined ourselves.

  My legs were up before I knew it, carrying me to the exit. No explanation. No apologies. I felt his grave steps thumping in my hollow chest as he followed me out. It was raining outside—the kind of dirty, humid rain to break the pulses of summer heat. It reminded me of the day we’d met, of the carnal desperation that ate at me back then, of the fact that I was still alone.

  I felt his hand on my shoulder as he swiveled me around sharply. He jerked me into his arms.

  I didn’t want him to let go.

  I didn’t want him to keep me there, either.

  “I wish I’d never met you.” My fists pounded his chest, and he took it. Maybe because he knew he deserved it. His mouth pressed against my cheek felt like a rusty, hot blade. The world felt like it was ending, even though I knew it couldn’t be.

  The vane of his breath sliced through my ear. “I wish that, too.”

  That night, the sex was different.

  Slow, intense, and angry. Every thrust was a punishment, each rake of my fingernails against his skin a reminder that I, too, could hurt him. We didn’t talk about it. Not even when tears rolled down my cheeks and he kissed them, then licked them, then drank them thirstily, for they were his.

  That night, we ended things differently, too.

  He was sound asleep when I collected the few belongings I had and called a cab. It was going to cost a pretty penny, but I didn’t want to be there when he woke up. We were miles away from Florida, literally and figuratively. And that, too, reminded me of the rainy night we’d met.

  Later that night, I had a strange, somber epiphany.

  Milton was right. I was a mortal playing with a deity, and now I was getting hurt, while he remained intact. There was nothing wrong with my heart. It was not lonely, and it was definitely not a hunter. It had been hunted. There was only one problem with the fact that my heart was so dreadfully, unexpectedly normal.

  Somewhere along the way, it had stopped being mine.

  There was nothing better than a fresh cup of coffee in the morning and getting Chucks’s ex-boyfriend fired from his job.

  I handed Brianna my planner. “Burn today’s page. I have some shit to do.” It was an exact, albeit unprofessional order.

  Specifically, said shit was going to every bigwig who’d denied my request to cancel the new ad campaign and showing them the plummeting ratings chart I’d printed out as a last attempt to save this sinking ship.

  I might have been a bit dramatic last Friday night when I’d spoken to Judith.

  Quitting LBC was not in the cards for me any time soon, with or without the new ads, but I didn’t want to lie to her, either. And I was listening to other offers, mainly so the bigwigs would get tipped by their moles and realize I was serious about leaving if we didn’t get our ducks in a row.

  Getting Milton fired by talking to my old friend Elise and telling her the fucker had tried to win my girlfriend back wasn’t necessary, but it was definitely a nice bonus. Elise, who was a fellow Harvard graduate, wasn’t impressed by her new boyfriend’s antics. Also, Robert, Judith’s father, was apparently on my team, because he’d chosen to share this piece of information with me in the first place.

  As for Judith, I needed to get my head out of my ass, take her to lunch, and apologize for being my bastard self. Again. She’d taken a cab back in the middle of the night after we left things—though not orgasms—unfinished.

  “Yes, sir. Oh, and sir, Miss Davis is here.” Brianna jotted down my orders for the morning.

  I took a sip of my coffee and gathered this week’s statistics in a big, fat file. “Lily Davis?” I arched an eyebrow.

  “No, sir, Geena Davis. She was wondering if you could be the Louis
e to her Thelma.”

  I looked up and caught her nibbling at her lower lip, biting on a huge smile. I smirked. Touché. She was beginning to fight, something she never would have done if it wasn’t for Judith.

  As for the matter at hand, Lily must have been quite drunk, because there was no way in hell and its neighboring sections she had the balls to come here. Shit. It was nine in the morning.

  “Impossible. She knows she’s one step away from a restraining order.” Plus, I very much doubted Lily got up before noon. If hedonism was a job, the bitch would be Mark Zuckerberg.

  “Well, she is, and she’s in tears.”

  “I’m more interested to know if she’s in clothes.” I slid the file into my leather briefcase.

  Brianna blinked at me, cocking her head sideways. “Yes, sir, she’s clothed.”

  I snapped my fingers toward the door. “Send her in.”

  A minute later, Lily stood in my office, still in her nightgown and a jacket. She sniffled, her tears coming down like a broken faucet. She wiped her cheeks and nose with the sleeve of her jacket, and looked like hell, but not in a way that concerned me.

  “What’s going on?”

  “Grams died.” She choked on a sob.

  I stood, rushing to her. For all the shit she’d put me through, I hated to see anyone going through losing someone important to them. I cared about Madelyn deeply, and I hadn’t gotten to say goodbye to her. She hadn’t even known I was there.

  I’d disappeared on the entire Davis family because I hated their daughter and was too busy licking my wounds.

  I pulled Lily into a hug, and she buried her face in my chest and howled, the kind of yelp that ripped your chest open.

  I cupped the back of her head. She swayed from side to side in my arms.

  “Shit, I’m sorry,” I whispered. I was. And it made me feel oddly human.

  “I don’t know what to do,” she sniffed, rays of the old Lily—the one I’d actually liked—seeping through the cracks of her Botoxed exterior. “Will you come to the funeral?”

  “Of course.”

  Her thigh nestled between mine, and I hated it, and I couldn’t stop it, and I hated that even more. Because if it wasn’t intentional, I would never forgive myself for pushing her away.