Dirty Headlines

by Shen, LJ

When Phoenix said he was happy for me earlier today, I actually believed him. All his facial features are still untouched and untarnished, so that tells you all you need to know about our relationship these days.

  And earlier this week when Elijah, Phoenix, and James (yeah, no way in hell I’m going to call him the D word, unless I’m referring to the thing inside my pants) insisted I have a bachelor party, I almost didn’t scowl the entire way through it.

  Judith said she was proud of me for making an effort and being a good sport. I told her I needed to work on my cardio tonight, so she’d better fucking be a team player.

  “You think I don’t look bad?” I cock an eyebrow at her.

  “Definitely handsome. But you can look even better.”

  I angled my head to the side, knowing where this is going. “Do tell.”

  She nods. “Naked. With your head between my thighs.”

  We didn’t sign a pre-nup. My mother and Mathias did, and look how they ended up. There’s something profoundly telling about committing to someone, but covering your ass in case shit fails. Jude Humphry is the only person I want to see every morning and kiss goodnight before I go to sleep, and admitting defeat when it comes to our marriage before it starts is not in the cards for me.

  The guest of honor, our Lab pup, Charles “Chuck” Humphry-Laurent, is running between everyone’s feet, barking and pulling at dresses.

  The Warrior watched us earlier as we exchanged vows, and now we’re on to cutting the cake. Our wedding cake is a giant red notebook, like Kipling, adorned with the words Congratulations to Mr. Timberlake and Ms. Spears.

  Grayson’s idea, naturally.

  I feed my bride a slice of cake the size of her entire face, and she giggles into the frosting. I take the opportunity to lean down and hiss, “Deep throat it, baby,” so only she can hear, and her face turns scarlet, even under the layers of professional makeup.

  My mother sneaks up behind us and hugs us into a three-way embrace. Hardly the right time, seeing as I’m sporting some serious wood behind this giant Sour Patch Kids-flavored cake, but what-fucking-ever.

  “Thank you for inviting me,” Maman gushes. Her ice water eyes glitter in different shades of blue.

  Before we know it, Rob sheepishly joins us in front of the cake, rubbing his daughter’s arm, his smile so dazzlingly happy he looks like a dream. Mrs. Hawthorne stands behind him, looking down and worrying her lip.

  Jude turns around and motions for her to get closer. “Anne, get your butt over here and join the hug.”

  I want to marry Chucks all over again for that huge heart of hers. Lonely, my ass. She lets everyone in.

  “Of course we invited you, Maman,” I finally reply. “You are family.” And I guess, when it boils down to what matters, she is.

  After the revelation that James Townley is my father came out, Maman surprised me by announcing that she was staying in New York for the unforeseeable future to try to save what was left of her family. Namely, her son. She cut ties with her regular booty call in Florida and focused on reconstructing the board of LBC.

  We made some of the investors who were eager to kiss Mathias’s butt step down and give up their shares by threatening to come out with all the bullshit they’d done along the way, and I finally got my staff back. These days, you can find ads for health care programs and gadgets on LBC. Not a condom or casino in sight.

  For the past six months, Jude and I have been doing the whole family dinner thing with Maman, Robert, Mrs. Hawthorne, James Townley and his plastic wife, Phoenix, and Ava—who, by the way, has started dating Phoenix—and Grayson. We take turns, a la Come Dine with Me. So far we agree that none of us knows how to cook, and when it comes to smack-talking about people’s culinary abilities, I take the cake. And eat it.

  Saying it’s weird to be a part of a family would be the understatement of the century, but we’re trying to make it work.

  Especially now, when Robert is doing so well. His tumor is barely a few centimeters long, and doctors are predicting a full recovery. He recently moved in with Mrs. Hawthorne upstairs, so Jude and I took over his apartment. We’re refurbishing it, one meltdown at a time.

  Next month, we’re going to Syria for a few weeks. Jude wants to help cover what’s happening there. And I want to be with Jude.

  If you’d told me a year ago that I’d live in Brooklyn, I would have laughed.

  But if you’d told me a year ago I’d be desperately in love to a point of madness, I would’ve admitted you to the nearest mental health facility and thrown the key in the ocean.

  Yet both of those things have happened, and strangely enough, they didn’t ruin my life. They saved it.

  James appears behind me and claps a hand over my shoulder, whispering into my ear, “Proud of you, son. Junior is one hell of a catch.”

  I smirk, my eyes still focused on my bride, who is wearing the most ridiculous wedding gown. The hem of the dress is painted pale yellow, which makes it look like it was dipped in Chuck’s piss. Jude says it reminds her of my Post-it notes—the ones I keep on writing to her now so she’ll never forget how I feel about her, even when I suck at saying the words out loud.

  “Call me your son one more time…” I hiss at James, as I always do. “And I’ll move you to the marketing department and have you cold-call small businesses to convince them to place plumbing ads on LBC.”

  He laughs. “Call us from the honeymoon.”

  “Only if you promise not to pick up,” I banter. He squeezes my shoulder.

  Why does the gesture feel more real than any moment I ever shared with Mathias?

  I look across the buzzing room, scanning for something to dampen the moment. I keep expecting to see him, even though he wasn’t invited. But Mathias hasn’t been in the States for over four months, if the rumors are true. I never bother checking. Giving a fuck and worrying about people who are malicious robs you of your power and purpose—otherwise they wouldn’t want to harm you.

  Coast is clear.

  I pick up my bride and carry her to the elevator, honeymoon style, essentially bailing on everyone else. Her arms are looped around my neck and she purrs as she says, “I heard there are CCTV cameras everywhere in this place, so don’t do anything stupid.”

  I lift my hand and give one camera the middle finger, still holding her, then kiss her so deeply and darkly she doesn’t come up for air until the next morning.

  In the South of France.

  In my bed.

  “I believe you just brought sexy back, Mr. Timberlake.”

  One Year Later…

  “Pink Chucks, huh?” Célian smirks as he coils his arm in mine and we stride toward the elevators. He is on the sixtieth floor—the new president of LBC—and I’m on the sixth, an associate producer next to Blu. Kate is the director of news now, a role she earned the hard way and fully deserves.

  Every evening, my husband picks me up from the newsroom, seals my grinning mouth with a hot kiss for everyone to see, and whisks me to the elevators, where we share all our thoughts and secrets, because since day one, the elevator is where everything happens between us.

  Why break the habit now?

  The doors slide open, and we get in. As soon as they slide shut, I wiggle my toes inside my Chucks.

  “Let’s make a Le Coq Tail stop before we go home,” Célian suggests, already advancing toward me across the tiny space.

  “Sure, I could go for a roast beef sandwich,” I say as he corners me against the wall and hoists me up by my ass, wrapping my legs over his waist.

  “And a drink to go with your long day.” He bites down on my lower lip and tugs it inside his mouth.

  I groan into our kiss, grinding against him shamelessly. I’ve been needy lately. “I’ll stick to the food.”

  “Good idea. I like you sober when I fuck you.”

  “And when I’m pregnant,” I add.

  “And when you’re…” He continues the sentence, dipping his hand between my legs and shoving my pantie
s to the side under my skirt.

  He stops and frowns. “Come again?”

  “Pink Chucks.” I bite down on a smile, my eyes traveling to my stomach.

  His do the same. They flare a little, and then he squeezes my ass, seemingly for affirmation that he’s still breathing.

  Good. We only talked about kids one time, just days after he proposed to me.

  “I don’t think I’m much of a father figure, but if you want kids, we’ll have kids,” he’d told me. “Hell, if you want rabies, we’ll catch it together. Make a day of it.”

  I wanted to wait a bit longer before we became parents, and took my pill every day. But then I made a basic mistake this past winter and went on antibiotics to treat my sinus infection without using further protection. I’d been so busy with work and Célian and Dad, I didn’t even realize I’d missed three periods.

  When I finally bought the test—Ava made sure to hit me in the head with it before we opened it in the restroom of the fifth floor—it came back positive. I went to the OB-GYN the same day. That day was yesterday.

  My husband is looking at me now, with a look I’ve never seen on his face. A look of redemption, and awe, and hope. The fact that I put it there makes me want to break into a dance, sing at the top of my lungs—even though nobody in this zip code deserves such punishment.

  “I’m having a daughter?” He blinks.

  “Technically, I’m having one. But I can settle for we. How would you feel about naming her Camille?”

  He throws his head back and laughs, and it’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. His blues are twinkling like stars in the dark, and he lowers me down, wraps his arms around me, and chuckles into my ear, sending hot, sweet air into it and making me shiver in pleasure.

  I can get used to this.

  I think I just did.

  “I love you, Judith Penelope Humphry wallet-thief, Smiths fan.”

  “I love you too, Célian James Laurent one-night-stander, cold-hearted bastard.”

  In case you were wondering, we’ve already crossed off every item on the bucket list I’d made with Milton.

  Visit Africa.

  Get assigned to the Middle East.

  Watch the sunset in Key West.

  Eat one perfect macaron in Paris.

  My heart is not lonely.

  It’s full and happy and whole.

  Most of all, it is Célian’s.

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  First and foremost, I’d like to thank my readers for following me on this journey, as I continue to evolve as a writer and an artist. It means the world to me that you trust my words. I have so many crazy, exciting, new ideas, and I cannot wait for you to meet all the characters and worlds that I am building.

  Huge thanks to my beta readers: Amy Halter, Lana Kart, Charleigh Rose, Helena Hunting, Melissa Panio-Petersen and Yamina Kirky. Each and every one of you brought something fresh and fundamental to this story. Special thanks to the person who has read this book approximately five-hundred times, Tijuana Turner. You can’t ever, ever leave me. Just saying.

  To my editors, Angela Marshall Smith, Jessica Royer Ocken and Tamara Mataya. Thank you so much for helping me get this book to where I wanted it to be. You have an amazing eye for detail, you challenge me with every turn, and make me a more skilled writer.

  To my designer, Letitia Hasser at RBA Designs, and my formatter, Stacey Blake of Champagne Formatting. Thank you for making my product pretty from the inside and out.

  To my superstar agent, who is so much more than an agent, Kimberly Brower, Thank you so much for your incredible input and all the hard work.

  And, of course, Jennifer, Brooke and Sarah from Social Butterfly for the amazing work and devotion.

  To my street team, I love you so, so much. You work so hard day in and day out: Lin Tahel Cohen, Sher Mason, Kristina Lindsey, Brittainy Danielle Christina, Summer Connell, Sarah Grim Sentz, Nina Delfs, Amanda Soderlund, Luciana Grisola, Vanessa Serrano, Leeann Van Rensburg, Becca Zsurkan, Sophie Broughton, Jacquie Czech Martin, Betty Lankovits, Tanaka Kangara, Yamina Kirky, Hayfaah Sumtally, Avivit Egev, Aurora Hale, Paige Jennifer, Erica Panfile, Ariadna Basulto, Vickie Leaf, Julia Lis, Sheena Taylor, Tricia Daniels, Lisa Morgan, Vanessa Villegas, and Samantha Blundell.

  To the Sassy Sparrows—love your faces! Thank you so much for making my days brighter.

  Finally, to my husband, son, my extended family and friends. Thank you so much for putting up with my weird hours and moods ever since I started this whole writing gig. You are, and always will be, the real MVP’s.

  Much love,

  L.J. Shen

  PROLOGUE

  Troy

  Trinity Chapel

  South Boston, Massachusetts

  Silence. The most loaded sound in human history.

  The only sound audible was the click, click of my Derby shoes against the mosaic floor. I closed my eyes, playing the game I relished as a kid one last time. I knew the way to the confession booth by heart. Been a parishioner in this church since the day I was born. I was christened here. Attended Sunday Mass here every week. Had my first sloppy kiss in the bathroom, right fucking here. I would probably have my impending funeral here, though with the legacy of men in my family, it wouldn’t be an open-casket event.

  Three, four, five steps past the holy water font, I took a sharp right turn, counting.

  Six, seven, eight, nine. My eyes fluttered open. Still got it.

  It was there, the wooden box where all of my secrets were once buried. The confession booth.

  I opened the squeaking door and blinked, the smell of mold and the sour sweat of sinners crawling into my nose. I hadn’t set foot in reconciliation in two years. Not since my father died. But I guess confessions were like riding a bike—once you learned, you never forgot.

  Though this time, things would go down differently.

  It was an old-fashioned booth, in an old-fashioned church, no living-room bullshit design and fancy, modern crap. Classic dark wood covered every corner, an old grid divided the priest and the confessors, and a crucifix hung over the grille.

  I settled in my seat on the wooden bench, my ass hitting the rough pew with a bang. At 6’4”, I looked like a giant trying to fit into a Barbie dreamhouse. Memories of sitting here as a boy, my legs dangling mid-air as I told Father McGregor about my small, meaningless sins raced through my mind, tangling into a messy ball of nostalgia. The thought of how big my sins were turning out to be would make McGregor sick to his stomach. But my rage toward him was stronger than my morals.

  I folded my suit coat on the bench beside me. Sorry, old man. Today you’ll meet the maker you’ve been preaching about all these years.

  I heard him sliding his side of the screen open with a screech, clearing his throat. I did the sign of the cross, reciting, “In the name of the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Spirit.”

  The creak of his chair, when his body stiffened at the sound of my voice, filled the air. He recognized me. Good. I relished the thought of his death, and I guess that’d make me, in your book, a psychopath.

  But it was true.

  I was fucking thrilled. I was a monster, out for blood. I was vengeance and hate, fury and wrath.

  “Son…” His voice trembled, but he stuck to the usual script. “How long has it been since
your last confession?”

  “Cut the bullshit. You know.” I smiled, staring at nothing in particular. Everything in the place was so goddamn wooden. Not that I expected an interior designer’s touch, but this shit was ridiculous. It looked like the inside of a coffin. Certainly felt like one.

  “Can we move on?” I cracked my neck and rolled up my sleeves. “Time is money.”

  “It’s also a healer.”

  I clenched my jaw, balling and releasing my fists.

  “Nice try.” I paused, checking my Rolex. His time was running out. Mine, too.

  Tick tock, tick tock.

  “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. Two years ago, I killed a man. His name was Billy Crupti. He shot a bullet straight into my father’s forehead and blew out his brains, causing my family pain and devastation. I killed him with my bare hands.”

  I let the weight of my confession sink in and continued. “I cut his arms and legs, just enough so he wouldn’t bleed to death, tied him up and had him watching as a pack of fighting dogs fought over his parts.” My voice was eerily calm. “When everything was done and dealt with, I tied a weight to his waist and threw him from a commercial pier on the bay, still twitching, to die a slow, painful suffocating death. Now tell me, Father, how many Hail Marys for a murder?”

  I knew he wasn’t the type to bring a cell phone into the booth. McGregor was too old and cocky for modern technology. Even though he went rogue on my father, he never imagined he’d be caught. Least of all by me.

  But now, as I confessed my sin, he knew I was going to wait at the other end of the booth and claim his life, too. He had no way out.

  He was mostly silent, calculating his next move. I heard him swallow hard, his fingernail scraping at the wooden chair he sat on.

  I crossed one leg over the other and cupped one of my knees, amused. “Now your turn. How ’bout we hear about them sins, Father?”