Vixen Investigations: The Mayoral Affairs

by Ashley Papa

  With a coffee in one hand and my tote in the other, I found a quiet nook in the lower level of the library where I felt I could have a good brainstorming session. On my custom-made legal notepad with a Vixen Investigations seal in the center, I began formulating potential scenarios of what the odd purchases were all about.

  1. Walter was doing some early Christmas shopping while down there visiting the congressman. But why would he be buying sexy lingerie for his daughter? Victoria didn’t look like a woman who wore that kinky apparel, either.

  2. Someone—a female—got ahold of his credit card and went on a shopping spree.

  3. Walter has a secret fetish and likes to dress up as a woman. Was he hiding the fact that he was transgender?

  4. He was purchasing gifts for an unknown woman…a mistress.

  Stood up by Theresa...It was moments after I grabbed a prime spot at the bar at Wilfie & Nell in the West Village that Theresa texted me that she couldn’t make it. She was delayed on a film shoot.

  I decided to sit by myself and enjoy a round to warm my bones anyway. Besides the eight heads at the bar, the place was dead. I scanned through my phone to make it look like I was busy reading work emails or texts. In reality, I was just scrolling my Twitter feed.

  “Friend not coming?” I heard a voice say. A new bartender had emerged. “Is that Perrier-Jouët you’re drinking?”

  I nodded and he went forth to poor me another glass of my favorite Champagne.

  “Yeah. Something came up. It’s no big deal. I don’t mind sitting by myself.” I took a gentle sip.

  “Well, you’re handling the rejection quite well. Most girls I’ve experienced would be throwing a fit right about now.”

  “Well,” I took an even bigger sip, “I’m not like most girls.”

  “I can tell. You know what. This glass is on the house. You just have to come back here more. We don’t get a lot like you in here.”

  I smiled at him as he walked to tend to another sole patron. I am sure he was just fishing for a big tip, even though he appeared to not need it. He either did really well as a bartender or was a trust fund child. I could tell by his Hublot watch, Tommy Bahama boat shoes, and Gucci eyeglasses. I certainly wasn’t wearing those brands at his age. It was all I could do to afford my $1,800 a month rent on a $550 a week freelancer salary when I first moved into the city.

  Drink number three had me drifting in and out of thoughts about my first press conference with the mayor.

  I wonder which reporters I’ll see there. I wonder if people will recognize me. I better leave soon or else I’ll have garbage bags under my eyes.

  I became distracted when across the bar I heard a man mention, “Summers in Avalon.”

  Summers in Avalon? I grew up going down to that beach.

  I began to focus my attention on these two men chatting and laughing in that beloved Jersey accent. They were both attractive with brilliant smiles. One, in particular, struck me as a younger and baby-faced version of Jason Statham. It was an instant attraction. He was with a taller guy of the same age and they both looked like they had just come from work. They sipped their vodka tonics and would occasionally check their phones. My eavesdropping also picked up on the fact that they were both single. The taller of the two had recently split from a girl he had been dating for 12 years. The other was encouraging him to move on and find someone who won’t spend all his money.

  Sounds like a really good friend.

  As I continued the cycle of looking down at my phone, right out the window and straight ahead towards the Jersey boys, I caught them both looking at me. I veered my eyes down at my phone. When I looked back up seconds later, I locked eyes with the shorter one. He smiled after having caught me checking him out. I smiled back. He turned to his friend and engaged him in a discussion once more. It was obvious they were now talking about me. I pretended to flip through e-mails in an effort to look busy and important until I felt the presence of someone above me.

  “I hope you are here by yourself and not being stood up,” a male’s voice said.

  I looked up to see the guy I was eye-flirting with standing in front of me. I quickly closed the screen of emails.

  “May I buy you a drink?”

  “Actually, I was stood up by my friend. And yes, I’ll take another one of these, please. Thank you.”

  “My name is Liam.”

  He pulled out the barstool next to me that was originally intended for Theresa. We shook hands. His grip was strong and his skin was soft. Closer up, I could see that his eyes were greener, like mine, than blue. From his cheeks, to his lips, to his nose and ears, everything about his baby face seemed to match the friendly and loyal vibe he gave off.

  “I’m Paige, nice to meet you. Where did your friend go?”

  “So you did notice us? I guess we made it kind of obvious.”

  “Well, I’m pretty observant. Plus, you guys were pretty loud.”

  I noticed that Liam’s cell phone wallpaper was a picture of him and his grandparents when he was a lot younger. You can tell a lot about a person based on their phone’s home screen image. It usually indicates what’s really important to them. The wallpaper on my phone was the Vixen Investigations seal.

  “Eh. He’s going through some girlfriend issues. He’d do anything for her. Can’t say the same about her. She just takes and takes from him. I hate seeing that happen.”

  I could sense the concern in Liam’s voice and on his face as I stared into it. For a moment, I didn’t even hear what he was talking about. The smell of Old Spice and laundry detergent emanating from his clothes was calming despite the surge of heat I felt building between us.

  When was the last time I felt this electricity? This isn’t me.

  My chest was getting warm and likely turning red, as well as my cheeks. It looked like Liam was dealing with his own bout of rosacea himself. His face flushed just as much as mine.

  We continued to converse all while forgetting about how late it was getting. The only thing I knew was that we were onto drink number three and Liam was really opening up to me. When I found out that he grew up only 15 miles from me in western New Jersey, I questioned if we had ever crossed paths before.

  Maybe that’s why I feel such a strong connection. We probably saw each other in Whole Foods or Nordstrom’s.

  “Maybe that’s why you’re not like most of the women I meet. I never meet people from my part of Jersey,” he said. “You’re kind of mysterious. There’s something about you, Paige Turner. What’s your deal?”

  Without getting into the thick of my life and career, I briefly mentioned me being a journalist and reporting on everything from politics to relationships, my mom passing away from cancer, and a little about my past relationships. I could feel myself getting drunk and I didn’t want to let anything slip. There was something about Liam—his sweetness, his apparent honesty and devotion—that made me want to tell him about Vixen Investigations. I didn’t.

  “I would love to read your articles on relationships. I am sure I could use some good advice,” he said as I downed the last bubbly sip of my Perrier-Jouët.

  Uncontrollable. That’s how our hands were by 10 p.m. As much as I wanted to blame the alcohol, I couldn’t. Liam and I were engaged in a full-on make-out session on the corner of Bleecker and West 10th Street. He leaned his toned body against mine and kissed me harder. He knew how to utilize his tongue perfectly as he sensually moved it along my lips and in my mouth. The feel of his defined muscles as I ran my hands from his back around to his abs made my knees weak and my stomach tingle. Every sexual nerve inside me craved his body. Sex was definitely bound to happen if I let him come home with me. I could easily cave if he pushed.

  No sex tonight! You just met him! You have that big press conference in the morning!

  “I really have to go. I have this huge assignment in the morning,” I f
orced out.

  “Just one more kiss,” he whispered into my ear. I melted back into his arms at the sound of that Jersey accent.

  Every time I tried to pull away, I was easily pulled back. It was like there were magnets in our lips, in our chests and in our hips. In the midst of this unintended encounter, I had lost all concept of time and place. The surrounding apartments had turned their lights off, meaning it was late enough for New Yorkers to be asleep.

  With every bit of willpower I had left in me, I hailed the only cab I saw in the area. Liam insisted on paying and gave the driver three $20 bills after he helped me into the backseat. If it weren’t for the cab driver starting to run the meter during our extended goodbye kiss through the rolled down window, I wouldn’t have left. Right as the car started to pull away, Liam started frantically banging on the car and yelling.

  The driver stopped and I rolled down the window.

  “Your number! Your number!” I could barely make out what he was saying he was breathing so hard.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “I need your phone number. I almost let you drive out of my life without your phone number.” He panted and I smiled in delight.

  I carefully entered my digits into his cell. We kissed again and off I went, back to New Jersey.

  Liam was already texting up a storm and I wasn’t even home yet. I was the “highlight of his week,” he said. Even the blast from the 30-degree wind chill when I stepped out of the cab wasn’t enough to snap me out of my love spell.

  The night doorman, Jason, came running over when he saw me stumbling to the door.

  “Are you okay, Miss Turner? Another busy night I see,” he sarcastically stated.

  I grabbed his arm for balance and he walked me inside. When I got to the elevator, I gave him a peck on the cheek.

  “My hero. Goodnight, Jason,” I said as the doors closed between us.

  I was still grinning ear-to-ear.

  Exhaustion hit me as soon as I got up to my apartment. Now all I wanted to do was crawl into bed. With only the bright moon to light my path as it shined through the living room windows, I went straight to the refrigerator, chugged some water and popped two aspirin.

  From the kitchen I went to the bedroom without turning a light on. I peeled off my clothes, left them in a heap on the floor, and crawled naked into bed. The silk sheets felt good against my bare skin. As I lay in bed I replayed the entire day in my head before falling asleep with a smile on my face.

  I can’t wait to see you Thursday.

  I couldn’t stop thinking about the text Liam had sent me right before I passed out. I didn’t even remember making a plan with him for Thursday night, but thankfully he did.

  It was almost time to leave for the press conference. I cranked up the morning news so I could hear Price Cooper and Scott Baldwin from the bathroom. They were discussing the latest happenings from overnight, the weather being unseasonably mild for late February and they even mentioned Mayor Wilcox’s press conference later this morning at the United Nations.

  As I curled my highlighted layers, I could also hear my cell phone start beeping to alert me of an incoming text.

  Don’t tell me Adam is here this early?

  I ignored it until I was completely ready. I didn’t want to be late so I quickly gathered up my things, including my new reporter’s notebook, a handful of “Paige Turner—Freelance Reporter” business cards, my press pass, and my phones and threw them in my tote. It wasn’t until I was in the elevator and heading down to the lobby when I noticed an odd text.

  Number Unavailable (8:02 a.m.):

  Looking forward to seeing you in the field again

  Unavailable? That’s the same person who texted me “kryptonite tiger.”

  Who is this? I responded.

  Whoever this was knew that I’d be at the press conference today.

  It has to be someone in the administration. The only people who get word of the press list are the ones who work with the mayor. It was the only explanation I could think of.

  Now, with my heart and mind racing with intrigue, I also noticed a new voicemail message that had come in at three in the morning.

  “You have a new voicemail from Danny Thompson,” the robotic voice said.

  My heart thumped a bit harder. I hadn’t heard his voice in five years.

  “Hey, Paige. It’s me. I assume you’re purposely not responding to me. Either you got rid of my number or have it blocked. I’m going to be in New York in two weeks.” There was a long pause. I thought that was it until he continued, “I want to see you. I miss you.”

  I hit the delete button before I was even presented with options to replay or save the message. I wasn’t about to let him put me into a sour mood. I was still riding high from my night with Liam and anticipation of being back on the reporter beat.

  I hustled through the building entrance and around the corner to where Adam was waiting for me with the Jeep. I was having him drive me into the city this morning so I could get some work done beforehand. Since the Jeep was wired into a virtual roving office and mini intel center, I was able to do all my work. From the outside, it looked like any beach-cruising Jeep Wrangler. One would never know about the Wi-Fi, GPS tracking system, audio and video monitoring system, light-less headlights, and bulletproof exterior.

  There was a copy of The Gotham Post waiting for me on the passenger seat. Adam didn’t say much as he drove us down to the entrance of the Holland Tunnel. He knew my mind was somewhere else.

  “How was dinner with Theresa?” he asked.

  “Oh…she didn’t make it,” I vaguely stated without lifting my head up from The Post’s Page Ten. I loved to see which famous faces were out and about being scandalous.

  “Really? So what did you do?”

  “I just stayed and had a drink by myself. Nothing special. Hey, did you get me that list of his current staff?” I quickly changed the subject.

  Adam motioned to a file folder in the backseat. While sitting in the morning crosstown traffic, I went through some of the paperwork. I was correct in my assumptions about his administration. Most of Walter’s staffers were around the same age. All of them were original New Yorkers who either stayed here or left the city and then moved back to work with Mayor Wilcox. Another big red flag was that they were all men with the exception of a few female secretaries.

  So much for equal opportunity.

  Security around the U.N. was tight. So, I made Adam drop me off farther away on 2nd Avenue and 40th Street and just walked the rest of the way. I was one of the last people to check in at the press desk. Luckily, and as usual, the mayor was also late. It was always rare for politicians to be on time for anything, especially a 9 a.m. press conference. I caught a glimpse of the press list. It looked like someone from every media outlet, even the foreign ones, would be attending.

  Must be a slow day in the news. All the mayor was talking about is security at the consulates throughout the city. Wow, Andre Hernandez is here? He was so good in bed. Hope I don’t see him.

  With my badge and pad in hand, I made my way into the designated conference room. I took a seat in the back corner so I could have a wide view of the audience. There was a large turnout. The police chief, the U.S. ambassador to the U.N., a few other foreign dignitaries, Walter’s press secretary, and the comptroller, who was standing by whom I imagined were his wife and kid.

  Why would he bring his family to something like this? The kid should be at school.

  It was hard not to notice his press secretary looking distracted and overwhelmed. As I briefly conversed with the reporters sitting to my left and right, I was keeping my peripheral vision on anything I found out of the ordinary. I hadn’t been recognized yet and there were a lot of new faces in the press crowd. There were a few seasoned reporters whom I remember being on the same beat with back in the day. I lo
oked down at my watch. Nine-twenty, it said. Walter was now twenty minutes late.

  “I don’t think I can sit through another one of his press conferences. He seems to be a bit obsessed with hearing himself speak lately, don’t you think?” I quietly addressed the Polish News Network reporter sitting next to me on the flimsy folding chairs.

  She looked at me, smiled and then looked back down at her notepad. She was either ignoring me or simply did not understand my English. Having the attention span of an 8-year-old wasn’t helping, as I was getting bored and antsy.

  Various thoughts drifted in and out of my head. One second it was the case, then the anonymous text, then Liam, then being hungry and thinking I might be getting my period because I felt crampy and irritable.

  Let’s go already!

  Just as I was thinking about stopping at Duane Reade afterwards for a bag of white chocolate-covered almonds, the lights dimmed a little and the podium lit up. A minute later, Mayor Wilcox was walking out. He looked peeved, almost like he didn’t want to be here. He has this slight arrogant swagger that only someone in his position could master. I turned on my audio recorder and began taping.

  “As you know, hate crimes are up in the city. Terrorism is a huge global threat and we’re going to increase spending on security guards, cameras, and law enforcement in the area around the consulates to ensure no foreign official feels the least bit threatened when coming to our great city.”

  Increase spending again?

  Every time I heard him say we’re going to do this and then to do that, all I heard was “increase taxes.”

  I could see Jimmy DeFazio standing off to the far right of where the mayor was. He looked busy on his Blackberry. He was some press secretary. He seemed a lot more wrinkly and worn out than he did in the mayor’s first term.

  I wonder if he ignores everyone like he ignores me. He looks like he needs to get laid.

  The police chief, comptroller, and two other men who looked like security guards stood behind Walter. Their eyes seemed to focus solely on what the mayor was saying or they would look straight out into the crowd. The only one who looked somewhat out of place was the lady with Brownstein. She darted her eyes all throughout the crowd as if she were looking for someone specific.