The NYCE Girls!

by Raquel Belle

  The NYCE Girls

  Book #3 – I Really Love to Hate You!

  Raquel Belle

  Chapter One

  Beth

  I strode into the Wently building and hurried through the security checkpoint, waving my work badge over the turnstile twice before it let me through to the elevators. Running late wasn’t a usual occurrence for me, but everything that could’ve gone wrong that morning had gone wrong. Even as the elevator rose to The Post’s main floor, it seemed to stop on every floor in between. Once it finally opened on the forty-eighth floor, I hurried through reception, barely waved at Ney—the front desk girl—and booked it to my boss’s office.

  The features editor, Carl Lucci, sat at his desk with his feet kicked up, reading two documents at the same time. He was an average guy with a head of salt and pepper hair. He always wore those old, wire-rimmed glasses and probably had a million pinstriped shirts. I tapped on the glass, and he glanced up before waving me in.

  “Hey, Carl, sorry I’m late. My cat went missing in the building, and then you wouldn’t believe what happened on the subway this morning…”

  “Yeah, yeah, it’s the city. I know—shit happens. Nothing of note to fill you in on from the staff meeting. Other than, you’ve been assigned a sweet feature. Should be fun for you. Thank me later.” He handed me a thin manila envelope.

  “Awesome! I’ll get started,” I said, while reading the file. I’d been assigned a feature on Jonathan Fitzwales, who’d just had a debut appearance in the musical, Pennsylvania Avenue. I backed out of Carl’s office and flipped through the page and a half of notes an intern had turned in about the show. I didn’t need to read it. Anyone with an internet connection and social media access would know how popular Pennsylvania Avenue was. The musical had debuted months ago to much acclaim, and tickets were notoriously hard to come by. What made it groundbreaking were the songs. Never had any Broadway musical showcased rap before, and many of the songs and lines were rapped instead of sung. On top of that, the writing was excellent, as was the acting.

  I stepped into my office and got to work immediately. I knew a little about Jonathan Fitzwales. He was an English actor, apparently from a noble British bloodline. I did a cursory Google search on the guy and smirked when his handsome mug graced my desktop. He was tall and blond with striking blue eyes. Pretty much the definition of classically good looking.

  I scrolled past the pictures and came across a tabloid headline and paused, something I’d never normally do. It read: Jonathan Fitzwales Seen in Dark-Green Hood, Entering Believed-to-be Abandoned Building. I clicked on the article and sighed. It did exactly what it was mean to do, clickbait. However, the article talked about that obscure rumored cult, the Common Templars.

  That cult had been talked about for years, but no one could prove it existed, sort of like the Illuminati. I bit my lip and wondered if it was an angle worth pursuing in the feature. Otherwise, it would be another white bread piece about an actor the world loved and lusted after. There wouldn’t be anything special about it. I wanted special, this was an opportunity, and I needed to make more of a name for myself…otherwise I’d keep getting boring features topics while I continued to drift down the slippery slope of this dying industry. I shuddered just thinking about it, then I dialed Carl.

  “What’s up, Beth?”

  “Hey, Carl, I was just brainstorming my angle for the feature and doing some research. Do you remember hearing about this cult, the Common Templars?”

  “Oh shit, yeah. It’s huge intrigue in the UK. I remember there being some tabloid buzz about Jonathan being associated with it, but no one could prove that he was.”

  “Right…do you think it’s too outlandish a lead for me to follow?”

  “No news is too outlandish, Beth. If you’re interested, and it makes sense to include in the feature, then sniff out the story. I trust you.”

  “Alright, thanks, Carl!”

  “Yep.”

  I hung up and then jotted down a few notes as I researched everything available on the internet about this secret society. For one, I learned that it was less of a cult and more of a club. What I didn’t know was what they did or where they met, or if they had chapters, or, hell, if they were even real. I sighed and pivoted back to Googling Jonathan himself. When I couldn’t stare at any more pictures of the guy or read anymore interviews, I e-mailed the features department’s intern to get me a ticket for the show.

  I jumped when Carl rapped on my window before barging into the office. “What is it?” I asked, confused.

  “Did you forget about the New York Media Gala like I did? Did you also forget that you’re my date in representing the paper because the publisher couldn’t make it?” Carl took his glasses off of his head and ran his fingers nervously through his hair.

  “Carl! You were supposed to confirm with me on that weeks ago! You specifically said …,” I paused and then did my best approximation of his smoky, sometimes raspy, voice. “‘Beth, it’s not a definite yet. I’ll let you know for sure. But, would you be willing to go with me to the Media Gala?’”

  Carl put his hands up as if to defend himself. “Well, clearly, I forgot to confirm with you. But you did give me a tentative yes, so does that still stand?”

  He gave me a pleading smile, and I took a deep breath. I didn’t really want to spend an entire night schmoozing with other industry professionals in a ridiculously fancy atmosphere. I’d rather talk to journalists I was friends with at a bar while playing darts or something.

  “I’d owe you …,” Carl said.

  That caught my interest. “Fine, I’ll go. Send me the exact time and transportation arrangements, please.”

  “I won’t forget,” he said, “Beth, you’re my savior.” He hurried out of my office just as quickly as he’d entered.

  “Shit, now I have to do my hair and find a dress …” I said. I glanced at the time and figured Carl couldn’t give me shit if I left early in order to get ready.

  I finished my initial research, then reached out to Jonathan’s publicist to schedule an interview, but I got her voicemail.

  “Figures …” I gathered my things, packing my file folder and tablet into my bag. I stepped out of my office just as Carl was poised to knock.

  “Here’s the invitation. You headed to follow a lead?”

  “No, I’m going to buy a dress and figure out what to do with my hair, Carl.” I smiled at him and took the invitation. He rolled his eyes and sighed. There wasn’t anything he could do, honestly.

  “See you later, Carl,” I called over my shoulder.

  “I’ll be in the shining town car that’s picking you up at six, sharp.”

  “Yeah, yeah, I’ll be ready!” I waved and hurried out of the office.

  Chapter Two

  Anthony

  As I sipped my coffee, I spotted a woman running out of the Wently building across the street. Just as I started to wonder if I knew her, she got lost in the traffic of people and disappeared.

  “Anthony.”

  I snapped out of the bored trance I was in and remembered who I was having coffee with—my boss, Nelson, Editor-in-Chief of The Tribune. He wiped his hand over his bald head and tugged at his sweater. It was that nebulous time between fall and winter where one day it was twenty degrees in the city and the next, it was sixty.

  “What do you say? Which story interests you?” He ate the last bite of his bagel, and I stared at him, honestly trying to remember what the fuck he’d said earlier.

  “The um…the feature seems up my alley,” I said, taking a shot in the dark. He always let me have my pick of the features and other opinion pieces, so I figured I wouldn’t strike out with that guess.

  “Really? On Jonathan Fitzwales and the Pennsylvania Avenue musical?”

  I licked my lips and put my cup down. “Yeah, it could be interesting. Weren’t there old rumors circulating about him and that secret society or cult that no one knows anything about?”

  “Oh shit,
you’re right. Yeah, try and dig that up. The story’s yours then.” Nelson took out his phone and started typing away, probably reaching out to the other editors. I usually got first dibs on stories because mine were always great. I had a reputation in the city as one of New York’s best journalists, and that wasn’t all talk. The only reason I hadn’t chosen to be an editor by now was because of the prestige that came with my reputation. If I moved up as editor in the paper, then I’d be starting from scratch to build a new reputation.

  “The other thing I wanted to talk to you about… West wanted you to accompany us to the Media Gala tonight. I hope you don’t mind?”

  I smirked. West Gable was The Tribune’s publisher. He inherited it after his old man croaked and left it to be run by the editors. West knew nothing about media or the world of journalism. He was the kind of city socialite who just liked to be at every party and in every picture.

  “I guess he needs someone else he can point to when confronted with an intellectual conversation, huh?”

  Nelson snorted and laughed. “Didn’t take long for you to see through that one, huh?”

  I grinned and picked up my coffee again. “It’s always the same with him, but whatever, I don’t mind. It’ll give me the chance to catch up with our industry colleagues.” Yeah, I didn’t mind picking the brains of other smart journalists. It was honestly part of my process, and there were wells of information within every journalist worth their salt. Trying to dig dirt out of them was seen as sleazy, sure, but I didn’t mind doing what it took to make sure my articles continued being the best.

  “Anyway, how the hell are you going to get information on a secret society that may or may not exist?”

  “I’ll figure it out. Jonathan obviously knows about it, so, I’ll just ask the guy for leads. If it’s less cult-like and more Freemason-like, then he should be able to tell me about it, right?”

  Nelson nodded. “True. Be careful with the tie in, though. This feature is on Fitzwales and the musical.”

  “Come on…” I said, looking at Nelson who held his hands up in surrender.

  “I’m just sayin’, I’m an editor, and I can’t help but to critique.”

  I nodded and finished my coffee, then grabbed my muffin and stood. “I’ll see you tonight Nelson.” I shook his hand. After saying goodbye, I crossed the street and flagged a cab to get uptown. I didn’t bother with researching my assignment yet. I figured there would be some info to get on Jonathan at the gala. So, when I got to my apartment, I took a nap then got up in time to get ready for the party.

  ***

  The ballroom of the Signature Manhattan couldn’t have been more gold and gaudy. The chandeliers were like ponds on the roof—that’s how ridiculously big they were. I stood at the crowded bar waiting twenty minutes for a fucking Old Fashioned while New York City’s media elite milled around—from publishers to the more notable writers of every big paper, magazine, and news network.

  I had to remind myself why I agreed to come and that was to talk to other journalists. But I needed a fucking buzz going in order to deal with all the glare of the gold and crystal, not to mention the grating sound of fake laughter.

  “Hey, Anthony!” West Gable hurried to me with a huge grin on his thin lips. His shock of orange hair hung in his face, and he didn’t bother moving it. “There you are! Nelson told me you were here. I swear, I’ve been around this place three times looking for you.”

  “This bar is slammed. It’s like every journalist here is trying to prove the drunk genius stereotype.” I glanced at the bartender who put a napkin in front of me twenty minutes ago, and gave me a nod, then he listened to some woman’s order instead.

  “Just catch one of the servers. They’ve got champagne going around.” West turned my elbow and pointed across the room at a man surrounded by three other men, clearly pandering to him.

  “I wanted you to meet Lester Spiel, the man who just bought all of Commenitex Publications. People are trying to get jobs out of him left and right. Word on the street is, he might liquidate the whole thing.”

  “So…why do you care if I talk to him?” He glanced behind me, already done with the interaction. It wasn’t the first time that I’d suspected West of having some sort of attention disorder. That’s why he could never hold a conversation.

  “I’ll be back,” he said and spotted someone else to run and gossip to. I shook my head and flagged down the fucking bartender.

  “Sorry about that,” the bartender said. “With these sorts of events, we’re always slammed. What can I get you?”

  “An Old Fashioned.” He got to it, and I scanned the bar again for anyone interesting. I’d have to do my rounds. I spotted a few old colleagues I used to paper hop with back when I was coming up. I’d check in with them once I got a bit more alcohol in me.

  “Here you go, sir.” The bartender gave me the drink, and I paid him and gave him a tip. I grabbed my glass and turned around, immediately hitting some woman’s back.

  Chapter Three

  Beth

  I jumped as an icy splash spilled down the back of my very white dress, the one that I had just bought.

  “I’m sorry. Shit, I didn’t see you. This bar is so fucking packed,” the male voice said.

  I recognized his deep, smooth voice with the faintest touch of a city accent. When I turned around, my hunch was unfortunately proven right. Anthony Preston’s annoyingly handsome face lit up with an almost mocking grin.

  “Shit, Beth Espinoza!” His electric blue eyes scanned the length of me, and his smug grin got wider.

  I scowled. “Thanks for spilling your drink all over me, Anthony. The least you could do is offer me a napkin.” I snatched one from a stack on the bar and tried futilely to dab at my back.

  “It was an accident, honest. I didn’t know it was you before I turned around. I might’ve ordered red wine instead,” he grinned as he took a sip of his drink. I wanted to knock it in his face.

  “Somehow, I doubt that. Knowing you, you’ve probably already taken tabs on every journalist in here. Getting ready to scoop everyone for their stories or sources as per usual, Anthony?” I gave up on trying to get a drink and grabbed a glass of champagne from a passing tray, then stepped away from the bar…and Anthony. Annoyingly, he kept in step with me.

  “Aw, come on, Beth, give me some credit. I’m not that grimy. Besides, I’m here for the foundation.” He smirked and took another sip from his glass. His eyes glittered with mischief, and the single dimple on his right cheek peeked through his five-o-clock shadow. Anthony was the worst kind of reporter, but the city’s media scene adored him. The only reason his stories were good was because he’d screw over every other journalist just to string together decent prose.

  “Please, the only charity you’d ever care about is the one that benefits you.”

  “I’m a major donor to a few different charities, Beth. Get to know someone before you try to insult them.” He sipped his drink again in that maddeningly smug way.

  “Doesn’t change anything. You’re still the lowest kind of journalist in here.”

  He scoffed. “Please …”

  “So, how would you describe your behavior when we were both covering the Times Square backfire scare?” I put my hand on my hip and stared him down.

  Anthony brushed his ink-black hair out of his eyes and shrugged. “Every reporter has their methods, Beth. If you were tougher, you’d see that and respect me for it.” He raised his brow patronizingly and took another sip.

  I took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “The fact that you’re following me around to try and steal my sources and scoop me on every single angle is not toughness—that’s malpractice.”

  He laughed. “I didn’t know we were doctors, Beth. You gonna sue me?” He stepped closer, his tone lowered but grew more intense. “Let’s be honest … The only reason you’re still mad about that is because I had the better coverage and wrote the better story.”

  “Oh, please, Anthony. Then w
hy did The Post sell more papers that week than The Tribune? Did you catch that my name was on the front page?” I smiled at him, and he clenched his jaw for a second.

  “Whatever, Beth. Every young journalist hits their peak before everyone else realizes their lack of staying power. Then they get scraps for stories, and their voices drift off into the wind. They’re forced to move to some Midwestern state in order to afford a life for themselves, and the city forgets all about them.”

  Rage wouldn’t have been the correct word to describe what I felt in that moment. I bit my lip to keep from spitting on his pristine Italian leather loafers. “You’re so full of yourself, Anthony. Is it your mission to make every other journalist feel small to reconcile your lack of confidence in your abilities? Is that why you’re here?” I gave him a look that Medusa would’ve envied and took a swig from my champagne.

  He laughed. “You know what, Beth? I’m here to make connections with my industry colleagues. You should do the same instead of standing here, picking a fight with me for sprinkling some ice on your dress.” He backed away, and then gestured to the floor-length, form-fitting gown I’d found at Nordstrom for a steal. It had a slit up the thigh and clasped over my left shoulder. In the most sarcastic voice he could muster, he said, “It’s nice…for a toga party.”

  I automatically relaxed my grasp on my flute, so that I wouldn’t snap the stem in half. As I put distance between us, a large part of me wanted to turn around and really let him have it. If he thought that was arguing, then he wouldn’t survive an actual argument with me. I’d bury him. Hell, I’d more than bury him.

  My boss walked up to me with a full glass of champagne and a sympathetic smile. “You look like you could use another one of these.” He laughed, as I downed what was left of my glass and traded Carl for the full one.