Boy, what a story this would make. I had a major scoop here. Hell, who even cared about a lousy art review for Art News Now? I could write up a shocker exposé and sell it to the Cleveland Plain Dealer.
The audience stood in stunned silence watching the two models fucking, snapping photos with their phones and iPads and whispering among themselves until reality sunk in. Then mass chaos ensued.
Richard Darling burst into the center of the room, red-faced. He grabbed the white sheet from the floor and tossed it over the fucking couple, swearing under his breath. “Ladies and gentlemen, I humbly apologize,” he called out to the crush of people, about two-thirds of which were heading for the door in disgust. The other third was watching the show, gape-mouthed, holding up their iPhones and iPads and Droids to capture the moment. A few of the men were noticeably drooling, with erections showing through their clothes.
Richard turned to Peter, who stood off to the side, arms folded across his chest, his face emotionless.
“Peter, WHAT THE HELL?” Richard boomed, making no effort to save face in front of the dwindling crowd. “I did NOT give you permission to stage that---that, whatever it is!” He stamped his foot and kicked the pedestal that held the two live models, who were still fucking---rather vocally now. “STOP! Take it somewhere else, for Chrissakes!”
Peter looked upon the scene with noticeable amusement. “Richard, as I recall you told me to go big and bold with the live exhibit.”
“I didn’t mean have to have people fucking in public! This is Cleveland, not the Amsterdam red light district! Good God Peter, we could be shut down for this!”
As if on cue, a pair of police officers burst into the room, guns drawn. “Everybody FREEZE!” one of them shouted. Everyone did. Everyone except the two models, who kept right on fucking. “This is a raid,” the lead cop barked. “We find this establishment in violation of Cleveland City Ordinance 876-dash-102 against Public Indecency. We are hereby revoking your business license and shutting you down pending a hearing.”
Richard dashed up to the cops, wringing his hands. “Officers, please,” he begged. “This is all a big misunderstanding. Had I known the artist would stage that type of exhibit I’d never have allowed---“
The police were having none of it. “You are the owner of this establishment, I presume?” asked the younger cop, who holstered his weapon.
“Yes. I’m Richard Darling, owner of the Flaming River Gallery. But I claim no responsibility whatsoever for what those two, um, people---“ he jerked his head in the direction of the two fucking models---“over there. I had no idea that the artist had something like this planned.”
“It’s still your establishment, sir,” said the lead cop, who kept his service revolver in hand. “You’re responsible for what happens here. We’ll have to issue you a citation. Ditto for the two indecent individuals there. We’ll wait until they’re done, of course.”
The man and woman were partially covered by the sheet now, but they kept right at it. I watched them with fascination. It was the first time I’d seen sex live and up close. Sure, I’d overheard Hannah and her various boyfriends fucking down the hall over the years, had even watched the odd porno scene, but this was my first experience seeing the real thing. (Technically it was anal sex, and not the regular real thing, but still.) My only regret was that it wasn’t me who was getting fucked at the moment.
I shuddered. Christ, did I really just think that? This was no time to be thinking about sex. I needed to concentrate on the task at hand----getting my story. I was a professional journalist who’d just stumbled upon a great big scoop, not an undersexed housewife. I needed to get a hold of myself.
Focus, Nancy, I thought. Focus. But that was a tall order, because the male model chose that exact moment to have his climax.
“Fuck, FUCKFUCK!” he called out, let out a long low moan, then slumped forward. The woman whimpered underneath him, then he collapsed on top of her. The metal chain rattled loudly, ringing out across the stunned room. I couldn’t take my eyes off them. My whole body felt like a live wire about to shed sparks. I shut my eyes tight, trying to clear the image from my brain, but it didn’t work. I gave up and tried my best to go back into reporter mode, but the scorching heat that rose between my legs made it almost impossible for me to concentrate.
The cops gave the happy couple a moment to collect themselves, then informed them they were both under arrest for public indecency. The woman wrapped the sheet around herself, while someone produced a trench coat to cover up the man. The cops handcuffed the pair and dragged them off. A third officer appeared then, toting a clipboard and pen that he used to take statements from witnesses.
I snatched my own reporters’ notebook and digital recorder, using both to get as many on-the-record statements as I could. I made sure to give Peter a wide berth, however. I didn’t know what to think of him, or what I’d just seen. I knew even less about the strange sensations wracking my body, which had me so off-balance I could barely think straight, let alone act the role of the hardnosed reporter on a scoop.
I didn’t have long to get my facts straight, though. Richard Darling soon began shooing everyone out of the gallery. “I’m sorry everyone, but we have been officially shut down. We’ll let everyone know when we reopen. Flaming River Gallery thanks you for your support. Please, everyone leave at once.”
I got swept along with the crowd, soon finding myself near the front door. I craned my neck in search of Peter but he had disappeared. I wasn’t sure what drove me to look for him then, but my whole body ached with an unpleasant sensation now that we’d been separated. My inner self longed to be near him again. I didn’t understand why. Or maybe I did understand, and just didn’t want to acknowledge it. These feelings were all so new, all so strange. And all so alarming. The only thing I could think about as I tried to make my way through the crush of people was the growing heaviness down there, and what I was going to do to relieve it.
I should have been already out on the street scrolling through my iPhone for the number of the Plain Dealer’s city desk, but my groin was still calling the shots---and I just wasn’t prepared for that. I’d never allowed the primal needs of my body to overrule my rational mind before, but today my whole world had turned upside down.
I was a strait-laced, serious, studious young woman, a journalist out to get her story----not a silly, shallow sex goddess out to get laid at the drop of a hat. That sort of thing was Hannah’s department. Always had been.
I took several deep cleansing breaths, steeling my resolve to get safely out into the fresh air so I could clear my head and hopefully get back to the task at hand. I finally made it out the door mostly intact, though I noticed for the first time that a few key things were missing from my press kit---among them, the glossy press photos and the artist’s biography. I didn’t know if they’d slipped out of the folder in the confusion or if Peter had deliberately taken them out when he’d had possession of the press kit. Probably the latter. It fit his overall pattern.
Oh well. Screw him. He’d thoroughly ruined my evening----and from the looks of things, everyone else’s too. But I still had to hand it to him. It wasn’t often that a college student reporter stumbled upon a scoop as big as this.
Dusk was settling as I stepped out onto the pavement. I parked myself under a streetlamp so I could get a better view of my iPhone screen. I scrolled through my list of personal contacts, silently offering a prayer of thanks that I’d been paying attention when a staffer from the Plain Dealer showed up to one of my journalism lectures last winter to talk about how citizen reporters could call in scoops to the city desk, and maybe even cover them on the ground for pay if we were savvy enough. I’d taken down the number that day never once thinking such an opportunity would arise----but boy howdy, one definitely had. I highlighted the number and pressed TALK.
Someone picked up on the first ring. “City Desk, Plain Dealer.”
“Um, hi. This is Nancy Delaney, freelance reporter,” I
knew I had to make myself sound as official as possible from the get-go or they’d just hang up on me before I got a single word out. “I have a scoop I’d like to phone in. Flaming River Gallery Shut Down for Public Indecency, end headline.”
There was a noticeable pause on the line. The editor on call cleared his throat. “So are you phoning in copy, then?”
A slow smile spread across my face. “Yes, I am. Are you recording or taking it down?”
“We’re recording. Start whenever you’re ready, Ms. Delaney, and include punctuation. You use the usual spelling for your first and last names? For the byline.”
“Yes, just like it sounds.” I flipped open my reporter’s notebook and started dictating a story, half from my written notes, half from memory. I silently thanked my high school guidance counselor for convincing me to take shorthand, too----it was the only way I could have gotten down all the names and personal details down from all my interview sources so quickly.
I rattled off my story, feeling butterflies rise in my stomach as I did so. Of course I’d been trained on how to phone in copy during my journalism classes, but never thought I’d actually get to use that skill in this day and age. My heart raced as I gave each point and detail, and I could have sworn I heard the editor’s jaw hit the receiver when I relayed the little nugget of the models fucking in public----using family-friendly copy, of course. “As of this reporting, the gallery remains closed,” I said, finishing off the kicker line.
The editor thanked me for the copy. “We’ll get this into tomorrow morning’s print edition, and put an abbreviated version up on the website overnight. Good scoop, by the way.”
“Thanks.” I could barely contain my excitement. “Um, by the way, this is my first time contributing to the Plain Dealer, so I would need to, um---“
“Set up a payment account?” the editor finished for me. “I’ll transfer you down to Accounts Payable, they can take care of that. Freelance rate for hard news exclusives this hot is a dollar a word, by the way. And I think this piece’ll go in almost exactly as you wrote it. No cuts. Nice work.”
I mentally calculated the approximate number of words. I’d make almost three hundred bucks for this piece, pretax. Not bad for a night’s work. I had some back bills to pay, so that money would be put to good use. I just hoped Hannah wouldn’t be too upset with me for cheating her out of a golden reporting opportunity. Well, to be technical she’d cheated herself out of it, but she could be petty about this sort of thing.
The editor thanked me for my story, then put me on hold. After a long moment, Accounts Payable picked up and took down my financial information. I was surprised they had someone in the office that late in the evening, but then again news happened on a twenty-four hour cycle, so they probably had to pay people on a twenty-four hour cycle, too. They told me I could expect to get my check within a week. I was about to hang up when the Accounts Payable clerk said, “Hold for City Desk, please,” then transferred me back to the editor who had just taken down my story.
“Hey there, is this Nancy Delaney back on the line?” It was the city desk editor again, and I could hear a lot of newsroom chatter in the background.
“Yes, it is.”
“I just wanted to tell you how much I appreciate you getting this scoop in. We just got the initial version up on the website and out on the wires, and the phones lit up like a Christmas tree within about thirty seconds,” he said. “By the way, I’m Eric Burgess, the weeknight editor. I was wondering, would you be willing to take an assignment?”
“Sure,” I blurted. Never mind that I had class tomorrow or that I worked tomorrow night. You didn’t turn down a gig at a big paper like the Plain Dealer. I would just have to figure out a way to do both.
“Before you agree, let me just tell you what it is first,” Eric replied. “We were wondering if you could do an investigative profile on the artist on display at the gallery that got shut down tonight.”
“You mean Peter Rostovich?”
“Uh huh. You’ve met him, I take it?”
I chose my words carefully. “You could say that.” I wasn’t about to mention the fact that he’d tied me up with strips of plastic, or what his presence did to my nether regions. That would have been highly unprofessional.
“Good. We’ve actually gotten some strange tips in about Rostovich over the past few days, not to mention all the calls that have been coming in for the past few minutes since the gallery story went up. Very weird stuff. I think most of it is bogus, but there’s definitely something odd about the guy, and I’d like to have someone see what we can dig up. What’s your email address?”
I gave it to him. “Great,” Eric said. “I’ll email you some notes on what our tips have been so far. We’ve gotten everything from suggestions he’s a pervert to some kind of high-ranking dude in the Russian Mafia. We want to know if any of it is true, or if it’s just part of some phony artistic persona he puts out for publicity purposes.”
“The truth is probably somewhere in between,” I offered, quoting one of my investigative journalism professor’s favorite sayings.
“Yeah, that’s usually how it is,” Eric replied with a laugh. It struck me that he spoke to me as an equal---a professional colleague---and not the squeamish, unsure college student that I actually was. “Well, Nancy, we’ll look forward to what you come up with. Could be an interesting piece, either for the Metro section, or maybe even the Sunday magazine. Depending on what you find out, of course.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” I said, trying hard not to get in over my head. “Are you looking for a full-length feature then?”
“Yeah, you can go up to 2000 words,” he said. “This’ll be on spec, of course. I can’t guarantee we’ll buy it if the story turns out to be nothing. But if we do buy it, you can expect a good payout, maybe even a chance to become a contributing writer. We’ve been on the lookout for new talent, and you’ve definitely got some.”
I practically salivated at the prospect. What undergraduate journalism student wouldn’t give anything for a shot at a staff position at one of the best big-city newspapers in the Midwest? The Plain Dealer even had Pulitzer winners on staff. What an honor!
And yet, I couldn’t help but feel conflicted. I was attracted to Peter Rostovich---yes, I could admit it now---so wouldn’t it be unethical of me to do an exposé on him? Or would my relationship with him just help me get the information I needed to write a killer story?
Relationship? How had that word even come up? I had no relationship with Peter Rostovich. I’d only met him an hour ago, and the sum total of our interaction amounted to some small talk and a set of cable ties. Not to mention his blatant disregard for my press credentials.
Hell, if anything I owed him payback for what he’d done to me at the opening. He’d crossed professional boundaries, and so could I. “Yes, I’m sure I could get all the information you’re looking for and more,” I said. “Mr. Rostovich and I have established quite a, ahem, rapport. He’s already shared some very personal information with me.” That last part was stretching the truth a bit, but we had established quite a rapport. In a manner of speaking. “What’s your deadline?”
“We’d like to keep it as close to the release of the gallery-closing story as possible, so we can play off the buzz,” Eric said. “So we’d like to see what you can put together quickly. Can you get me something by next Wednesday?”
Wednesday? It was already Thursday night. That gave me only about five days to do some hotshot investigative reporting and write up a killer feature. Plus I had three cocktail shifts to work, a paper to write for Victorian Literature II, and a midterm exam next week in Indian History to prepare for.
But this was a plum assignment, for potential big bucks. I’d just have to find a way to meet the deadline. If the Plain Dealer ended up buying the story, I’d make more money than I could earn in a whole month of cocktailing. “Wednesday it is. I’ll file the story no later than six p.m. Will that work?”
; “Yes, it will. Email it directly to me. My email is [email protected].”
“Great! I promise, I won’t let you down. And thanks for the opportunity!”
“You’re welcome. Gotta go, things are nuts here tonight.” With that, Eric hung up.
“So who aren’t you going to let down?” said a familiar voice just over my shoulder.
I spun around and found Peter Rostovich’s icy eyes staring back at me. He looked pissed. I had no idea how long he’d been standing there. For all I knew, he’d overheard the entire conversation.
“Umm, well, ummm, I was just talking to an editor about a freelance gig,” I said, twirling a stray bit of hair around my index finger. I didn’t want to blow my cover. At least, not yet.
“Oh? You mean with Art News Now?”
“No, this was with a different. . .publication.” I wasn’t about to mention I’d just landed a plum assignment with the biggest newspaper in Ohio. Let alone that the assignment was all about him. “Given what occurred here this evening, my Art News Now review probably won’t work out,” I lied. “I didn’t get a good look at enough of the art.” I paused, took a deep breath for courage. “Though I did see quite a lot of those two models of yours. A little too much, I think.”
He pursed his lips, and his eyes flashed fire. “I would like to apologize for that,” he said. “Had I known that part of the exhibit would end up going that direction, I never would have attempted it.”
I discreetly slid my left hand into my press bag to turn my voice-activated recorder back on. “You mean it wasn’t intentional?”
“Absolutely not. At least, the, ahem, sexual intercourse part wasn’t intentional. The bondage and positioning definitely were, though. As was the body paint.”
“What do you mean, the positioning?”
“Having the woman in the supine prone position, with the man standing over and behind her, holding her collar chain,” Rostovich said. “I staged that. I had nothing to do with where their genitals ended up, however. They did that part without consulting me.”
Domino (The Domino Trilogy) Page 4