In the chat section, she saw that Rylan was live.
Annie grabbed her laptop by the side and walked over to her bed. She rested against the headboard and propped up the machine between her legs, crossed underneath her. She opened the chat with Rylan and typed: Hello, you’re live tonight? Okay if I debrief?
Her dating mentor wrote back immediately:
Rylan: Of course! That’s why I’m here!
Annie: He was late and disengaged. Never watched My Cousin Vinny.
Rylan: Two of those things sound like issues we can explore further. [smiley face] Would you like me to request future dates to keep this in mind?
Annie couldn’t tell if she was joking. She kept typing.
Annie: It’s fine. No movie list required.
Rylan: Gotcha. Keep going. How did the night progress? Never got better?
Annie: I kicked him out after his beer.
Rylan: That bad, then. I see.
Annie: Is that too harsh?
Rylan: Are you asking if ending the date prematurely was harsh?
Annie: Yes. It feels like I shocked him.
Rylan: I’m sure you did. Most people are conditioned to muddle through an awkward or bad date out of a sense of politeness.
Annie: But…fuck politeness? Isn’t that someone’s motto?
Rylan: Ha! Maybe sometimes, sure. [pause – typing] I don’t think that’s our motto, for what it’s worth, but I like it. I appreciate your diligence in telling me what didn’t work. I’ll get his feedback tomorrow, we’ll go over it, and we’ll talk some more. And I have a match I’m starting to really adore, but you’ll have to tell me if you want to hit the profiles again.
Annie: No, I mean. Maybe. I don’t know. I’d like to try your date.
Rylan: Growing and matching love isn’t easy, but we promise that we will keep working hard for you, Annie. Keep room in the process!
She paused and read Rylan’s message again. And again. Room in the process. She thought the whole thing sounded like canned advice—maybe a prepared statement she could copy into the chat when dates went poorly so clients could reflect inwardly on their own potential shortcomings instead of the company’s. She made a mental note of it and then decided to keep it light.
Annie: I want a guy who has seen all the best lawyer movies.
Rylan: Noted. Hahaha.
Annie: Hey…while you’re here….
There was this guy tonight. She wondered how it sounded. Paused and debated. She wondered if there was room in the process to see him. As friends. Was she allowed to have male friends? That was a ridiculous question. So, no, she wouldn’t ask about him. She took a deep breath and cracked the vertebrae in her neck, turning left and right, rolling her shoulders. Thinking of a way to finish the sentence instead.
Annie: I’ve got a busy with my caseload. I’m in court almost all day. Maybe we can hold off another date for two weeks?
Rylan: You steer the ship!
Click. Paste. Complete with the exclamation point. Maybe, she thought cynically, she was talking to a bot.
Annie: Well, I’m just trying not to steer it into the rocks.
She thought of Benson and the lighthouse. She didn’t care what he thought; that lighthouse would be a good story. No one had written about it the way it deserved. Terrible Tilly took lives during her short tenure as a gatekeeper, and her subsequent doom was to become a place to store them.
Rylan: I’m always working for you in the background, Annie. We can hold off on the date, but do you want me to the send over the files? Do some social networking stalking?
Now she was convinced it was a bot. A real human would’ve continued the ship metaphor. Maybe. Yes, yes, she was interested in the files.
Annie: Yes, please!!
Rylan: First thing in the morning. Hugs. Hang in there. Sorry tonight was a bust.
Annie: I picked him myself. Serves me right.
It was a joke. But there was too much pause and so Annie quickly added a smiling and laughing emoji to make sure Rylan understood: there were no hard feelings with the bad date.
Rylan: Good night! [smiley face]
Annie closed her computer and tipped her head back so it rested against the fabric of her headboard. What was intended to be a few seconds of rest turned into her falling asleep sitting up, laptop by her side, body slumped.
She slept and she dreamed. Annie rarely dreamed and this one felt real and close; so real and close that she wondered if she could control it from her state of her sleepy subconscious.
Benson was in the water. Swimming in the ocean. And as he swam, his body was illuminated by the phytoplankton in the sea. He was a blue, glowing, outline against the salt water, and she watched as he—improbably—swam toward the lighthouse. Somehow, she was overcome with dread and an understanding that she couldn’t get near the water herself. She ran alongside the shore as his body drifted further out to sea, headed straight to the craggy rocks that claimed so many lives in the previous century.
“Benson!” she yelled to no avail.
Glowing, glowing, he arrived—improbably—to the lighthouse. Lighting his own way up the stone steps to the battered exterior, long neglected. Seabirds nested inside the abandoned keeper’s quarters. Unable to stop him, Annie only watched. A deep growl emanated from the bowels of the lighthouse—so close in her dream, so close she wondered if she, too, could swim to it, to save him. But Benson’s glow took over the lighthouse. His bioluminescence filled the space where the giant light once saved ships from crashing into the rocks. Although, then, it wasn’t Benson at all. The lighthouse grew and glowed and Annie felt powerless as it moved toward her with its menacing light, cerulean and bright, unstoppable.
Chapter Four
He left his parents’ house a mess and drove back to Portland in time for his nine am meeting. It would be easy to get back down to Annie’s by seven if he hustled out of work before the Beaverton rush started to head home out of the city and plugged up the major artery to the coast. The girl and her mysterious story were on his mind as he blasted the radio and sped a little too fast over the mountain, whipping through Highway Twenty-Six on a mission to save face.
He was the Head of Investigative News for a magazine that was primed and ready to reshape the entire media landscape of Portland. And he’d lost his source and his shit, but he was going to prove that he was back and unaffected and ready to kick the shit out of the next thing he followed.
Which was going to be the elite matchmaking service.
The whole way home, he thought of his pitch, looking his editor Peggy Lundquist in the face and steadying himself against her inevitable frustration. She was a formidable editor but she looked like a character from a sketch comedy show representing Portland with her long prematurely graying hair and ever-present Birkenstocks. Her father was Swedish and her mother was a painter, and Peggy was more dogged than he was.
Every story went through her.
“Here’s what I want you to picture,” Benson tried to say as Peggy sat down in the chair opposite his desk and tried to appear neutral. “Rich women and men and rich parents—”
“I don’t want to write about what rich people do,” Peggy said. She swung one leg over the other and waited to see if he had anything else.
“But it’s not just a story about them…it’s a story about how the worst parts of our society are still just perpetuated and…and…”
“It’s a great story, Benson. But that’s not the kind of investigative cover story I can sell to the board.”
Peggy started to stand, but someone from another part of their open-air office stood up, mouth full of pasta salad and said, “I loaded up the website. Prices start at ten-thousand for a personal dating consult and that doesn’t even get you private matchmaking services.” It was Nolan, the News Editor, a pudgy middle-aged man with a drinking problem and a beard.
“Steep,” Peggy called back, knitting her brows. “What would a consult get you?”
“Oh,” Be
nson said, rolling his eyes, and slapping his desk, “now you ask questions to Nolan? I brought this story here.”
“So, what’s your pitch here?” Peggy asked.
“I do it,” Benson said.
“You do what?” Nolan asked with a smirk. “You write it? No….you do the…matchmaking thing? You join Twoly? A consult for ten-grand? And you write about it? No. Too narcissistic…too much about you, not enough about people we care about.”
“Ouch,” Benson pretended to be wounded. “Look, Peggy. This is an untapped story. Going into an elite service like this and exploring it through all its different facets. Who uses it? Is it successful?”
“That’s not a unique question…” Peggy said.
“I don’t support, as a married man, Benson getting ten-grand to date….when I was only recouped for about five-hundred dollars in dinner expenses before accounting figured out it was for dates and not meetings.”
“He’s not getting any money,” Peggy said without looking at Nolan. “You’re not,” she said again straight to Benson. “We don’t have the money.”
“Live dates. Blogs every day. Podcasts. A whole multi-media experience. There’d be the story in the magazine, but also video clips to follow of me learning how to date in this service…you don’t think that…feels like everything we wanted to do here? It’s not just the idea, it’s what we can do with the idea to grab people and make them keep coming back…Benson Dates, or maybe like Benny Dates and Mini Dates….oooh. Yeah. And I can do it all first…or maybe it’s just Twoly. Maybe it’s an intimate look at one way people are finding love and—”
“We don’t have the money. Love it. But a simple financially motivated no,” Peggy said and she seemed apologetic, but it also ended the conversation. She stood and walked three feet before turning back to him and lowering her voice, “Staff knows I suspended you for the anger outburst.”
“Is that what you’re calling it? An anger outburst?”
“I’m calling it unprofessional and a cause for a suspension…”
“You called it a vacation.”
Peggy didn’t budge. She blinked and leaned in an inch as if it made a difference. “You violated her trust by going undercover and when I asked you if this story was legit you said yes.”
“It was legit,” Benson said through clenched teeth.
His boss shook her head. “You were reckless. And you put her in danger. Your anger was so wrong on so many levels because that story could have caused real harm, Douglass. You were angry for yourself, but you should have been angry at yourself…”
“I don’t need a rehash. I know why I went on vacation,” he said. “Okay?”
“You waltz in here like you’ve been on a vacation and everyone knows, Benny. And now this…a story that puts you in a position where you are living out journalism in real-time? How does that not violate privacy in the same way?”
“You don’t trust my journalism,” Benson said. He slumped backward in the chair and brought his hands up. He nodded as if it all made sense. “We are living in a twenty-four-seven world. Peggy, you need to get on board with what the audience needs and wants. Trust me.”
“I trust you to write the best shit out there…but I don’t trust you not to bend the rules. Or cater to the craze and the whims of modernity. And when you’re already under a microscope, well, I can’t condone it.”
“We’re not bending rules if we’re rewriting the rulebook,” Benson said.
“Spoken like a true white male,” Peggy replied and Benson started to interrupt but she put her hand up and he paused. “We’re not doing anything that’s different than journalism at any other time. The only thing that’s different is we’re publishing it online. Anything else about it novel? Nope. So, an expose’ on dating won’t earn you the Pulitzer. We see this for what it is. A chance for you to go on dates and wax philosophical and romantic about dating while the rest of us are busting our asses hunting down leads on less exciting stories. Like…corrupt homeowner’s associations. Issues related to climate change. Shit that matters.”
Benson took a beat. “I’ll take the corrupt home owner’s association story if it’s available…and you’re wrong about me. You’re right that we’re not doing anything novel and you’re right that I’d be derivative, too, but this is me. And you’re right, it’s self-centered, but it sells and it would be good. I can write heartfelt and I’m all about authenticity. I can edit a phone video in record time and I am the best, and you know it, the best on spinning inspiration into things people understand…and if you don’t think this could bring in traffic to the web, leading people to other things, then…”
“Then what makes us different than anyone if we cater to the masses with a dating blog? Of course, I think it would sell. I just don’t think we’re selling the right thing.”
Benson stared at the ceiling and wondered what it would take to get her to see his seriousness. He snapped his fingers and looked at her, locking eyes.
“Let me prove it to you. Let me write you about a girl I met. And I’ll use the same voice and style I want to write the blog. And if you like it, we’ll run with it. And if you hate it, tell me to shelve it and I will. Give me a chance to show you what I want to do. Let me write about the girl. Hear it, hear the tone.”
“Oh, man.” Peggy closed her eyes. She bit her lip and he could see how much she didn’t want to say yes.
“You’re gonna say yes,” Benson said. He sat up straighter and more eager. He could see Nolan flip him off from above the cubicles. “You are. You know you are.”
“If I don’t like the attitude, you’re done. No second chances. Know me and know thyself…I’m allowing this only because that’s a no lose for me. I’ll read it.”
“You’ll love it.”
“Just write it.”
“Give me until tomorrow,” Benson said and he grabbed his jacket off the back of his chair and began to exit the office.
“Where are you going?” Peggy asked, spinning to watch as he marched right by her.
“I have a story to write and I have research to do. I’m going to win your heart with this Lundy,” he said endearingly. “I’m serious. This time.”
She looked as if she wanted to believe him.
Benson made it back down to the beach in record time. He hopped in the shower, styled his hair, and picked out a black shirt that brought out his eyes. He had no idea what was happening at Annie’s at seven, but he wanted to look good. The girl had been clear about her intentions and her commitment to Twoly, but Benson saw a way through that bullshit. On the company dime.
At 6:49, he couldn’t wait any longer, Benson rang her doorbell.
Annie answered in her pajamas. She examined his pressed pants and black polo. She wafted her hand in front of her nose and said, “Oh, someone smells like a department store.”
“That’s so rude,” Benson said and he picked up his shirt to smell himself. “This isn’t even department store shit. I smell lovely.”
“You do. You’re lovely. You’re overdressed. I should’ve told you…we’re video chatting with a large group of friends of mine. It’s just you and me. You didn’t even need to wear pants if you didn’t want.” She made a gesture over her own pajama pants. He smiled.
“I can remedy that inside then?"
Annie noticed her gaffe and made a snort. She shrugged and led him into her living room where she’d set up her computer monitor and a projector. The video would project on to a white sheet, large and expansive, covering her entire fireplace and mantle.
“You do this often?” Benson asked, not really knowing what this was.
“I just started. Sometimes I have to miss it, but I’ll get notes. I did let them know you’ll be joining me tonight. They always get excited when we invite guests.”
“Who is they again?”
“The Love is Murder Social Club,” Annie said with a grin. “My friend Erin introduced me to them. It’s evolved through the years…started as a place to
sit around and talk about true crime at this bar in Northeast Portland called The Alibi, but it….grew. Now they have this clubhouse out in a rural area in Oregon and they take on cold cases. Shit got real. I moved to the coast.”
Benson felt his arms prickle with excitement.
“Huh,” he said, but he meant: A group of citizen detectives taking on cold cases and solving them under the noses of police? Tell me more.
“And I’m a member,” Annie said. “The only lawyer, too, so I act as the defacto legal expert. I’m sure someone will make badges for us at some point. Maeve has wine-charms.”
“Well, holy shit. That’s awesome. And…why am I here, again?” Benson asked. He took a seat on the couch where he was visible in the computer’s camera range. On the screen, his image sat and mirrored him, magnified.
“I told you I’d get you a story.”
“I want Twoly,” Benson said with a shrug. And I probably won’t get it, but let’s not talk about it.
“Don’t act like I’m not aware of what you want,” Annie said. The phone on the computer began to ring. She smiled and pointed to the green button, waiting. “Do you want a drink while we talk to you? Or…go on, push green,” Benson pushed green.
A screen of women’s faces popped up in front of him. At first, one woman loomed large and then another, soon everyone settled down and waved and hummed. And Annie joined them and facilitated introductions and plied him with a cocktail that tasted like rum.
“Women,” Annie said with a certain amount of pride. “Meet Benson Douglass. Journalist.”
A chorus of hellos and his name echoed from the screen. He waved.
“Let’s tell Benson why he’s here tonight,” Annie said and she put her hand on his knee for just a brief second. He stared at her. Her blonde hair had ringlets, had she had ringlets before? And across her neck she wore a silver chain with an octopus charm.
Savage Distractions (The Love is Murder Social Club Book 3) Page 5