Filthy Dirty Laundry (Filthy Dirty Laundry #1)

by Kailin Gow

  “Oh....” my moan is soft.

  “I want to take you now,” whispers Philip. “God, you have no idea how this is killing me. He kisses me again. Then he pulls away.

  “I want more...” he growls, hungrily. “But I can't. Not in the office. I'm sorry – I'm sorry to put all this on you. We have to keep this a secret. Not just because of office ethics, but because of Kendall. She'll go crazy if she finds out about us...I realize that now. And unfortunately, finding out about other people's business is exactly what she's good at. And I have a promise to my parents to look after her, to make sure she doesn't fall off the wagon again. If Kendall doesn't grow up, this may be the last straw...

  “Philip...” I don't want to know about Kendall. I don't want to hear another word about her.

  “You should be an inspiration to her,” he says. “Someone who works, does well, doesn't ask for special favors. You may not believe it, Sidney stone, but seeing you here at FILTHY DIRTY LAUNDRY may be the best medicine Kendall will ever get from anyone.”

  Chapter 17

  “Come on,” sighs Philip as he pulls away from me. The chemistry between us is still electric, overwhelming. I feel him, I want him more than ever. My whole body is aflame: ready, willing, able. Waiting for him to take me. Wanting him to take me. Wanting to surrender my consciousness, my virginity, every part of me to him. But I know that I cannot. He is right. We have to be professional. We can't screw this up, not with all that's hanging in the balance. I have a responsibility to my career and my goals. He has a responsibility to his family: and that includes Kendall, as much of a witch as she may be. We can't just give up all of those things to act on our desires, no matter how overwhelming and passionate they may be. No matter how much we feel we may need them.

  “I should take you home,” Philip murmurs. “I don't want to – believe me...or rather, I do. I want to take you home and take you upstairs and see where you live and then go straight into your bedroom and take you then and there.”

  I flush – not just from arousal. The idea of rich, spoiled Philip seeing the messy dump where I live is downright humiliating. “I don't think you want that,” I say. “My place isn't exactly as nice as yours...”

  “I don't care...” He leans in and inhales me. “The smell of you...the smell of your clothes...I can't think of anything more arousing in my life.”

  He pulls back again. His hand touches mine on the desk. It's like lightning is going off inside our fingers. I feel like I'm going to explode. Then the phone rings. Immediately Philip springs to answer it. He's almost too quick: his energy is striking; he's like a watchspring that's coiled too tight.

  “Hello, LaFleur here...” he says in his brusquest business voice. “What is it? Oh. Oh! That sounds...bloody hell...”

  I lean over and mouth “what is it?” But he isn' t looking at me now. He's Philip Trell now, ace journalist in full-on Work Mode. He barely even sees me.

  “Thank you for calling me,” he says. “I'll get one of our top reporters on it.”

  He slams the phone down on the receiver.

  “What was that?”

  “There's a breaking scoop, my dear,” says Philip. “You know Mitch Conway?”

  “The...MMA fighter?” I seem to remember doing a few stories on him back in the day. He's a rising star in the MMA world, and a frequent face in the news. It's the perfect rags to riches story. He grew up in inner city Vegas. He was discovered at a high school wrestling match. Now it's a life of fast cars, hot girls, sneaker endorsements – the works. Every athlete's dream. And every athlete's nightmare. His personal life has been plastered across the front page of every single tabloid.”

  “What tip could you find out that hasn't been already covered?” I ask.

  “That's the thing. He's just been accused of beating up his girlfriend.”

  “He has a girlfriend?”

  “A model who won't ID herself publically says she's his secret girlfriend. And that he beat her up. Domestic violence – it's a serious issue. It's gossip with a much deeper edge. I normally hate churning up misery – but there's something about this story...”

  “What do you mean?” I ask. “What was the tip? Everyone knows this guy is violent – it's awful and despicable, but is it really news?”

  “This is one of my most important anonymous sources. And it has the power to upend everything...”

  “So...maybe someone who is saying that the story everyone else is getting isn't the real story? That maybe the report about Mitch is wrong?”

  Philip is listening intently. “So – you think Mitch Conway didn't beat up this mysterious model after all?”

  “I'm not saying that,” I say. “I think whoever gave us the tip – there's a reason she'd want or he would want something investigated. Maybe whatever's happening is worse than just one woman.”

  Philip beams. “This is why I like you!” he says. “That's the story – the one I know you are capable of absolutely mastering. First thing tomorrow, Sid, I want you on a flight to Vegas. First-class. My treat.”

  “M-me?” I've never been sent out of California for a story before.

  “You're going to cover this story, Sidney. You have what it takes. If you can spin a powerful and moving saga out of the story of some dog food brand, and turn it into a complex meditation on the nature of public and private identity in the modern age, and how even the most vapid fame-whore among us has some stuff she'd like to keep all to herself, imagine what you can do by delving into the seedy underbelly of the MMA world, a story about gender politics, domestic violence, abuse.”

  He's more excited than I've ever seen him – except of course when it comes to sex. He's practically beaming. I really am starting to understand why Philip Trell was such a good journalist. He eats, drinks, and breathes stories like this. They are his life's blood. And I find myself getting excited, too. Maybe for the first time since college, I'm getting the chance to do something real, something serious, to follow my nose, follow my hunches, give into the Bug that got me into writing in the first place. Visions of “serious” news outlets like The New Yorker and The New York Times pop unbidden into my head.

  “Follow your nose, Sidney. If this guy is really an abuser, I guarantee you the other tabloids will try and make excuses for him, to save his career so they can keep rolling along on the gravy train. But if not...there might be something deeper, darker there. And I want to figure out what that is.”

  “This is what I live for, Philip...” I stammer. “I can't thank you enough.”

  “I'm sure your inventive mind can find ways to thank me,” he murmurs, with a wicked glint in his eye. I inhale sharply. I have to catch my breath. Just looking at this guy makes me go insane. I can't stand it. I'm terrified that he's going to get complete and utter control over me: over my body, mind, soul.

  So, this is what a sex haze feels like. Not being able to concentrate on anything except the feeling of someone's hands upon me, of someone's lips upon me. Of playing the things he says over and over again in my head as the fantasy reaches its mad, wild, apex.

  “Of course...I have to send two people to co-report the story,” he arches an eyebrow. “I hate to say it, but I'm going to have to send you over with Johnson. He is our sports reporter, after all. Can I trust you with him?”

  I look up, confused. I'm flabbergasted. Of course he can “trust me”. Not that there's anything to trust me about. Johnson and I have never even...

  “We're just friends...” I say.

  I'm thrilled to be working with Johnson, but something about this makes me nervous. Is Philip trying to test me – to see if there's anything between me and Johnson after all?

  “I don't know what you're talking about,” says Philip. “The way he looks at you, with those puppy-dog eyes. He looks like he's desperately in love with you. You'll have to fight him off with a stick.”

  “Johnson and I have been friends for years,” I say. “We were old colleagues – we were in journalism classes toget
her back in college.”

  Philip's ears turn faintly pink. “I see,” he says. “I didn't realize that the two of you were so close.”

  “We are,” I say. “Just not like that.”

  “Well, you watch yourself,” Philip says. “I get the sense that you're the kind of woman with the skills to drive men mad. How did you two become friends, anyhow?”

  Funny story,” I smile. “I was lost my first day, looking for my first class. And Johnson and I bumped into each other and he guided me there...and he's been guiding me ever since.”

  He walks me down towards the car.

  “Shall I drive you home, my dear?”

  I nod, hoping he won't ask to come up.

  He starts driving. At one point, another car swerves into the lane. He swerves suddenly, and I'm thrown back against the cushion of the car seat.

  “You are a distraction, he laughs. “I'm so focused on you I'm going to get myself into an accident one of these days. That's the terrible thing about being around you. I just am not myself. Are you okay?”

  “I'm fine,” I breathe. “Just shaking.” He keeps on driving. But the scenery is unfamiliar. Is he taking a different route?

  But then he stops in front of his house. I recognize it from yesterday.

  “What are you doing?” I ask him.

  “Oh dear...” He smiles darkly. “Bad habits. I guess I simply took an automatic turn towards my door...”

  “Philip...” I sigh.

  He gives a little laugh. “Tell you what, why don't you come on upstairs. I'll cook you a nice Vietnamese dinner. I had all the ingredients flown in fresh this morning. You must be starving...I know I am....”

  “You cook Vietnamese?” That's not really the issue here, but it's the first thing to pop into my mind.

  “Yes, I was in Vietnam for about a year. Then I went to Egypt to cover the Arab Spring.”

  I sigh jealously. “I wish I could live a life of adventure the way you did, Philip. Instead I've been stuck in boring old California...”

  “Don't be too jealous,” Philip laughs. “At first it seems glamorous, but war zones, politically volatile areas...they get you down. It's an adrenaline rush, at first. But sometimes it's sick, the things you're expected to do for a story. You're forced to become entirely....closed off to avoid getting too invested.”

  “But isn't that what drives you?” I learn towards him and raise my chin. “Danger?”

  At once he grabs my wrist. He yanks me towards the house. He pushes me inside. Then, once the door is closed, he starts kissing me. Fiercely. Passionately. He picks me up and starts to carry me, walking me through his house. I can't see anything but his face in front of me. Then he throws me down. I feel something soft but firm under me. A sofa.

  Then he's on top of me again, kissing me hard. “Yes, Sidney,” he says to me. “I am driven by danger. But of all the danger I've experienced in the world, I don't think there's anything I've encountered quite so dangerous as you...”

  Epilogue

  Philip

  Being with Sidney Stone was more than dangerous and arousing to me, it was life-threatening, especially knowing how much she affected Kendall’s mental state.

  I’ve never met anyone like her, with that passion to everything in life. It was what I was missing after being out in the field for so long. I needed to feel again, to experience life with a fresh outlook.

  Sidney made me feel alive again, chased away that darkness within me that I have been trying to control.

  Now I fear I could not let her go. Even if Kendall kills me.

  Philip, Sidney, Kendall, and Johnson’s story continues in

  Book 2 of the Filthy Dirty Laundry Series

  Filthy Dirty Laundry 2

  August 2015

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