"Just follow me Gatlin. I happen to know a lot of these guys … we'll be through the crush — as much we're allowed by the NYPD — in no time."
Eyes honing in on her taut, jean-clad rear, Gatlin thought, following her would be his absolute pleasure.
Chapter 2: Getting to Know You
"So what do you think? Do you think there was any foul play involved?" Gatlin said.
"Hey, who's the crime reporter here?" Kylie teased. "What do you think?"
"Of course, I know nothing about starlets and leading men, but I can't shake the feeling that this wasn't a suicide or accidental overdose. I smell a good ole murder," he said, and immediately regretted his characterization of the situation.
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean that the way it came out," he said. "I'm used to talking to cops, hookers, drug dealers and other non-genteel types," he said.
"Look Gatlin, if we're going to work together, one thing you'll learn about me is that I don’t shock easily and there's nothing you can't say to me when it comes to work. Believe it or not, entertainment reporting is not all fluff like some would think. I hear things and know things that could literally get me killed if I revealed them, so talk to me like a big girl, ok, not some wilting, southern wallflower."
"So that was a southern accent I heard earlier," he said, his eyes going to her small waist as she stood in front of him, drying her hands on a paper towel after coming from the restroom.
They were back in the office, working late. It had been a long day at the crime/death scene, where they'd both worked their sources to try to piece together the story that wasn't being told.
"Yes, it was. I don't try to hide it. I've been in New York for 11 years now, so it's mostly disappeared. But for some reason, certain phrases I say — or when I get nervous or excited — my southern twang comes out."
"Where are you from exactly?" Gatlin asked.
"Athens, Georgia. It's a college town about an hour outside of Atlanta. My parents still live there and when I go home, it's like I never left. I slip back into full southern-speak then," she laughed.
"And you, exactly where do you hail from Gatlin? And where'd you get such an unusual name?"
"I was born in Detroit. My folks moved here when I was seven though, so I've been in New York for 30 years. I feel like a New Yorker — went to school here, started my career here and to be honest, other than going on vacation, never have a desire to leave it. This city gets in your blood. In my experience, you either love it, or you hate it. There's no in-between with her."
"Boy do I know what you mean there. I used to say all the time when I was growing up that I was going to move to New York City — and I'd never even been here. But watching shows like Sex & the City and Law & Order made me fall in love with it. It's the only place I've ever wanted to live."
"Some things you just know — you know it in your bones," he said, becoming drawn more and more to this charming beauty. And she was quite beautiful.
Long, black curly hair; smooth, clear skin; doe-shaped, dark eyes; almost-too white, even teeth and that smile … he'd never been more mesmerized by a simple smile. He couldn't take his eyes off her.
Trying not to be drawn into that deep tawny gaze, Kylie cleared her throat and said, "So your gut is saying foul play, to put it mildly?"
"Yep," he said, snatching his eyes away from her tongue as it moistened her lips.
"I'm inclined to agree, and I'll tell you why … the ex-boyfriend," Kylie said, making the motion to put the word 'ex' in air quotes.
"Go on, I'm listening," Gatlin said.
"Well remember, no one knows that they still deal with each other. Also, nobody knows that he kicks her patootie."
Gatlin laughed out loud. "Patootie? Really? You'll never get your New Yorker card by talking like that," he teased.
"And who said I wanted it, Mr. Matthews. I'm quite happy being a southern girl who simply resides in New York."
"Touché, Ms. Andrews. Touché. I stand corrected," he said, still smiling.
"Anyway, like I was saying, he kicks her patootie. And she's allegedly started riding the white horse again. Apparently he was her supplier. And that's why it would look bad if people thought she was back with him."
"Funny, Hollywood will forgive abuse, in spite of what their public relations departments would have you believe. That's a star's personal situation. But the money men — movie execs — they get highly upset when a star is on drugs. It messes with the bottom line. It costs thousands of dollars a day in production when a start doesn't show up and/or shows up all effed up."
"Apparently, he really, really wanted her back and she was doing her best to get clean — and stay clean. So …"
"The next question is," Gatlin broke in, "where's the real boyfriend?"
"Exactly!" Kylie agreed.
"Are you sure you're not a crime reporter?" Gatlin said, impressed by how her mind worked. He realized that he'd highly underestimated her because she was 'just' the entertainment reporter. She was every bit as skilled — if not more so — than he was.
In crime reporting, it was expected of you to ask the hard questions, get the dirt and report it. After all, the dirty laundry is what usually leads to a person getting killed, or in some kind of trouble with the law.
But in her field, you had to not only get the dirt, but decide what you could report on, couldn't report on — and keep everyone happy, eg, movie stars so you could get that next interview; bosses so they'd keep you around; PR people so they'd give you the next big scoop.
"I told you, I have enough dirt on enough people in Hollywood to get me killed and/or write one helluva best-selling novel," she said.
Turning serious, Gatlin asked, "Would you? Would you ever write one of those tell alls?" For some reason he really didn't understand, her answer mattered to him.
"Nah," Kylie said. "Not my cup of tea. Don't get me wrong, I love reading the gossip, dishing the dirt, getting the scoop, etc. But I never forget that there are real people behind the stories. So I try never to get too personal. I'd say 50-75% of what I know, I don't report. It's a fine line for sure, but you learn to walk it."
"You know, it's funny, people think you have to be cutthroat to be in this business. But I don't buy into that. Business, any business, is all about people. And if you treat people with respect, you can find away to do your job without violating that. It's why you have to really know who you are to be in this business, or it'll make you cross lines you never thought you'd cross — and all for bullshit."
"Enough about me, Gatlin. Let's talk about you some. How'd you get into crime reporting?" she asked as they unwittingly turned their break into shop talk.
"First, let the record show, you cursed. I didn't think you had it in you, but you obviously do."
"Stop avoiding talking about yourself Matthews."
At his surprised look at her astuteness, she simply smiled and waited for him to start.
"I wanted to be a cop to put bastards like my father away," he began, then stopped, surprised that he'd admitted such a personal fact so openly to this woman he barely knew.
Kylie sat still, instinctively realizing the gravity of what he'd just said. She wanted to give him space to either continue if he felt comfortable, or change the subject if he didn't.
Deciding that the cat was out of the bag, he continued, "But, I figured 'the pen is mightier than the sword,' as Bulwer-Lytton wrote. That …"
"Who wrote? I thought Thomas Jefferson wrote that?" Kylie questioned.
"Nope. It was the English author, Edward Bulwer-Lytton. It was a line in a play he wrote in 1839 entitled Richelieu, aka The Conspiracy. It was a historical play about the 17th century French statesmen Cardinal Richelieu."
"Hmm, you learn something new every day," Kylie says. "I would have bet my little finger that it was Thomas Jefferson."
"Now if I'd known you were into betting body parts, I would have quizzed you before giving you the answer," Gatlin said.
Kylie lowere
d her gaze and looked at him in mock astonishment, and continued digging into his past. The more she learned, the more she wanted to know about Mr. Gatlin Matthews. "So let me guess, you majored in English Literature." she said.
"Nope, Political Science," he replied. "But I do have a heavy appreciation for literature."
"So, you were saying, your discovery that the pen is mightier than the sword changed your career choice …"
"Yeah, that phrase always stuck with me. It really started my career as a writer. I wrote for my school newspaper in high school and in college."
"Where'd you go to college?" she asked.
"Columbia … and I still have the student loan bills to prove it," he said wryly.
"I hear ya there," Kylie said. "NYU."
"Hmmm," Gatlin said, shaking his head in understanding at the cost of an Ivy League education.
"In my last year of college, I did a series of columns on rape on campuses across the country. It's more common than many think. Those columns caught the attention of a few big whigs in the news industry."
"I had a couple of opportunities out west. One in Oregon; one in California. But the best option — at least for me — was right here in New York."
"It didn't pay the most, but I figured if I was going to be in the news business, there's no better place than right here in New York, especially as many in our trade spend the bulk of their careers trying to get to a major market like this. And besides, like I said, I love New York; really can't imagine living any place else."
"And the name, Gatlin? Where'd you get that?" Kylie asked innocently. "Is it your real name?"
"Yes, it's my real name. No middle, just Gatlin Matthews."
"As sexy as the first name is, you don’t need a middle one," she said, flirting with him, which he seemed not to notice.
"My mother named me. I never asked her about it. In my mind, it's because she was probably thinking she'd like a Gatlin gun to put some holes in my father."
"That's the second time you've referred to your father. I don't want to pry, but …"
"Q&A session is over Andrews," he said softly, but firmly. "Besides, I’m beat."
"Let's file this story and then call it a night. You know this is the kind of piece that's going to have legs for a while, so we're in for some long days," he finished.
A little taken aback by his abruptness at ending their shop talk, Kylie acquiesced. "Ok. I'm tired too. My head is already on my pillow."
. . .
The last vision Gatlin had before falling asleep that night were coal-black curls spread across crisp, white pillow cases.
Chapter 3: Will You?
"I have a confession to make," Gatlin said as they shared a meal in Chinatown, a few blocks from a police station. They'd spent all morning there working sources to find out what was going on with the real boyfriend of the starlet who'd died just over two weeks ago. He'd finally been located and was being questioned by police.
"What's that?" Kylie said, tucking into her fried dumplings.
"I seriously underestimated you and was not pleased to be assigned this story with you. I usually work alone, and I don't usually report on celebrities, so wasn't looking forward to it."
"But I have to say, your investigative skills are second to none and your intuition is as sharp as any cop's I've ever met. I'm not ashamed to admit it, but I was wrong; dead wrong about you. And if you'll forgive me, I'd like to take you out on a formal date."
The dumpling in her mouth went down the wrong windpipe. Much to her embarrassment — and gratitude — Gatlin performed the Heimlich maneuver and dislodged the delicacy.
It was lunch time, so the dingy little restaurant was crowded. Her only saving grace was that it was small, so there weren't a whole lot of patrons to view her embarrassment.
"Here, drink," Gatlin ordered, putting a glass of water to her mouth.
Kylie drank and coughed a few more times.
"Are you sure you're alright?" he asked.
"Yes, yes, I'm fine," she said, wheezing a little, wiping the water from her eyes brought on by her chocking incident. "I can't believe that just happened."
"What? That you choked, or that I asked you out?" Gatlin said, trying to make light of the situation.
"Both," she said, and burst out laughing with him.
"Well? Will you?" he said seriously. "There's something about you Kylie that's … well, that's captured me."
"Well I do declare sir," Kylie said in her thickest southern accent, "I'm very, very flattered and would be delighted to be escorted out by you on some fine evening here in New York City."
Gatlin laughed until his sides hurt, drawing glances from the other diners, but for a whole different reason this time.
Truth be told, he'd captured her too, as he so suitably termed it. Her every waking thought was of him these days. He'd even invaded her dreams.
Signaling for their check after he somewhat regained his composure, Gatlin quipped, "I think we'd better get out of here before we're politely asked to leave."
. . .
"I took a chance that you'd still be awake when I passed by your building and saw your light on. Can I come up?"
Kylie buzzed him into her building.
Coming through the door, Gatlin grabbed her and pushed her against the wall in her tiny foyer, kicking the door closed with his other foot.
"I've wanted to do this every since you stood before me in the newsroom that night slowly drying your hands on that paper towel after you'd come from the ladies room."
"And I've wanted you to do this since I spotted you at your desk two years ago talking on the phone."
Gatlin cupped her jawline in his large, rough hands and lowered his head to press his lips to hers. Kylie's arms took on a life of their own, finding their way around his neck.
The cool, exposed brick in the hallway pressed into her back, while the front of her was encased in heat — the heat of his body pressing into hers, as hers struggled to get even closer to him.
Kylie closed her eyes and gave in to the eruption of hunger between them. She felt weightless as he lifted her into his arms, instinctively finding his way to the bedroom.
His lips were warm, so warm. Afraid he'd release her as he laid her on the bed, her arms tightened around his neck. Grabbing the back of her head, he kept their mouths perfectly melded together as he somehow maneuvered them both to the bed.
Pressed together — mouth to mouth, chest to chest, pelvis to pelvis — Kylie could feel the blood rushing through every part of her body. She felt like a volcano that was about to erupt, so hot and molten was her womanly center.
His right hand tugged the strap of the camisole she was wearing down over her right shoulder. Sucking in his breath, he simply gazed at the beautiful brown heated mound before devouring it.
Kylie's entire body sprang upward as electric desire flooded her. It had never felt like this. Her body had never responded to a man's touch like this.
She held onto him, sliding her hands in eager anticipation from the blade of his shoulders to the small of his back above his buttocks.
Moving his attention from one breast to the other, Gatlin's other hand slid to the top of her silky night shorts, moving inside to the top of the most intimate part of her. Kylie opened her mouth, moaning in anticipation of the pleasure to come.
A smile spreads across his lips as he drank in her passion-filled profile.
Wordlessly, he admired her as his fingers slowly parted the silken, lust-swollen lips of her womanhood. Slowly, he inserted one finger inside me, as if to search for hidden treasure.
Kylie's legs opened to him like the petals of a drought-thirsty flower to sudden rain. He stroked her as if he had a guide to every pleasure point she possessed, all the while reveling in the tossing of her midnight-black curls as her body rocked in unison with the chorus of the passion he was eliciting from her.
His strokes were gentle at first. As her moans increased, so did the pressure of his finge
rs. She was literally riding his hand, thrusting her hips to every move he made.
Sensing she was near the peak, Gatlin eased his finger out of her and reclaimed her mouth, slipping out of his jeans as he did so.
Mounting her, he wordlessly plunged his manhood into her waiting, slippery cavern.
Now it was his turn to moan, as she locked her legs around him, pulling him deeper into her. She held him by his hips and ground hers into him — first round and round, then up and down.
Any Way You Want Me Page 2