“Well, I’ll be...” She’d brought a phone into the club. A phone that was currently recording.
Chapter 6 – Paige Matthews
At 6 am, my alarm blared, but I was already wide awake. And once again I asked myself that question that had been ping ponging through my mind ever since I’d gone to Expose: What the fuck?
What the actual fuck in the name of all fucks had I done? Had someone roofied my drink? Except I hadn’t had a drink, so I couldn’t blame drugs for my insanity.
I’d allowed a man I’d never met before– a man I didn’t know the first thing about– to spank me and give me not one but two orgasms. And then I’d fled the room like a freaked-out Cinderella. Only instead of leaving my shoe behind, I’d left my fucking phone behind.
I didn’t realize what had happened until I got into the taxi and felt around my back. Next time I needed a phone concealed inside the lining of my dress, I’d go to a seamstress instead of putting faith into my sucky sewing skills.
The phone must have been too heavy for the stitches and busted through the pouch. I also should have bought new thread instead of relying on what I’d found in my grandma’s dusty sewing tin. For all I knew the thread she’d kept was older than she’d been before she passed.
I had considered going back into the club but then thought better of it. The masked man had spanked my ass for being late and for not addressing him correctly. What the heck would he have done if I’d returned to his room and asked for my phone? The phone I wasn’t supposed to have with me.
Losing my phone wouldn’t be too big of an issue had I backed it up in the past year or had the Cloud backup toggled on. Find My Phone would have been another helpful setting to have toggled on. But of course, these things had been on my ever growing “to do one day” list, and I’d never gotten around to doing them.
As soon as I’d gotten home, I’d remotely locked my phone, but most likely by that stage, I was too late to save my ass. I needed the phone back ASAP. Not only because I wanted the video from last night, but also because it held irreplaceable photos of my grandma.
All night, both awake and in my dreams, thoughts of the masked man filled my head. The way his fingers seemed to know my body. Seemed to know everything I wanted and everything I didn’t know I wanted.
Even now, the memory of the deep timbre in his voice puckered my nipples. His room was too dim for me to get a good look at his eyes and face, but his body was to die for.
When he wasn’t calling me mouse— what a ridiculous name— he’d called me sub. He clearly thought I’d belonged at the club, which was a good thing for my own purposes, but also surprised me.
Maybe I truly was a sub. I’d never expected to feel that turned on by a man spanking me or ordering me about, because I prided myself on my independence. It was jarring to think I’d enjoyed it so much that I’d fit right in.
My ass still smarted from where he’d spanked me, and the slight discomfort was a pleasant reminder of what I’d experienced and what I hoped to experience again. I’d never become a member of the club because I’d never earn enough money to cover the membership fees, and I doubted I’d meet someone as hot as him ever again.
From the second I walked into his room, he knew I didn’t belong there. The masked man had played me, and I didn’t mind one single bit.
Vivian– whoever she was– was one lucky woman, and someone I was intensely jealous of. I made a mental note to track down Mike and ask where he’d gotten my invitation from and if he knew anyone called Vivian.
***
Before going into the newsroom, I stopped by Walgreens and picked up a cheap twelve-dollar burner phone. The first thing I did was to call Jessica and explain that I’d lost my own phone. On any given day, we texted one another fifty times or more, and I didn’t want her to worry if she couldn’t reach me.
Then, I hurried to work. As soon as I sat down at my desk, the intercom on my desk crackled to life.
“Paige, can you come into my office?” Henry asked.
“Everything okay, boss?”
“Now, please.”
Henry had never summoned me to his office before, and the walk there felt like a death march. What if the masked man was a friend of Henry’s and he’d told Henry that his advice columnist allowed men she didn’t know to finger her to orgasm?
The office door was open, and I didn’t bother knocking before I went in. I had my go-to everything’s great, nothing to see here smile plastered across my lips.
Henry wasn’t alone. Sitting opposite him was Alec Williams. The pain in the ass features editor who resembled a hard-living Matthew McConaughey.
“Take a seat,” Henry said, gesturing toward the chair beside Alec.
“What can I do for you, Mr. Williams?” I asked, wishing I’d taken a Xanax and washed it down with vodka for breakfast.
Henry leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers. “What do you know about Wyatt Palmer?”
“The billionaire?”
Henry nodded.
“Not much,” I admitted. “He’s an investment mogul who gives motivational speeches. I saw him on TV yesterday morning talking about his latest memoir. Why?”
“You’ve never met him?” Alec asked.
I turned to face him, and if looks could kill, I’d be on the floor in a pool of blood. “Not that I’m aware of.”
He blew out an exasperated breath. “You sure you’ve never messaged him, emailed him, or contacted him in any way?”
The venom in his voice was clearly directed towards me, and I was confused as to why.
I rolled my eyes.
“You’ve got me,” I said sarcastically. “The reason I’m working at The Reporter writing the advice column is because I’m in a relationship with a gorgeous billionaire.”
I wanted to add you asshole to the end of my sentence but decided against it. Alec was an asshole, but he was also my superior, and I didn’t want to lose this job. They were still looking at me, obviously deciding my sarcastic explanation wasn’t good enough, so I went back to being genuine.
“I don’t know him. I’ve never met him, and I’ve never talked to him.”
Henry and Alec shot each other a look.
“He seems to know you,” Alec spat. “Because the interview I’ve been waiting to do for months— the one I bent over backwards to arrange— is the interview Wyatt Palmer will cancel if you’re not the one who interviews him.”
I stared at him as if he’d lost his damn mind.
“You’re not serious?” I asked in disbelief. “Is this a joke? Why would someone like Wyatt Palmer want someone like me to interview him?”
Alec frowned. “That’s what we’re trying to find out.”
“Maybe he wants some advice on his love life,” I said, attempting to crack a joke.
Henry shrugged, and said, “He mentioned something about giving young journalists a chance. He said you two would have a lot to talk about.”
I snorted. “I doubt that. I know more about the mating habits of albino kangaroos than I do about investment banking. Meaning, zilch.”
“Well,” Alec said, waving a finger at me. “You have three hours to figure it out because he wants you at his apartment by noon. I’ll email you the information and the pre-agreed questions.”
What, really? Someone important wanted me to interview him? I still couldn’t believe my good fortune. But I was also deeply suspicious. What the hell was going on?
“Don’t fuck this up, kid,” Alec added, “because if you do, you’re done.”
Now, in addition to my jumbled emotions of surprise, suspicion and glee, I had anger to add to the mix. I jumped up from my seat and glared at him.
“Are you threatening me?”
Alec dismissed me with a wave of his hand and stormed out of the office.
Henry sighed and pushed his glasses to the top of his head. “I’ll talk to him. When he calms down, he’ll apologize. I don’t know what’s going on here, Paige, but tak
e some advice from an old man. Don’t get yourself into anything you can’t get out of.”
“I’m not getting myself into anything. Apart from what I’ve seen on TV and in magazines, I don’t know Wyatt Palmer.”
“This is your chance. Don’t blow it.”
“I won’t,” I told him, my heart beating faster with adrenaline. There was nothing I liked better than a challenge. “I promise.”
***
Back at my desk, I Googled the shit out of Wyatt Palmer. He’d dragged himself up from poverty and made his first billion by the age of twenty-five. Early in his career, he’d pledged to give away at least half of his fortune during his lifetime or when he passed. This year alone he’d given over two billion dollars to philanthropic endeavors.
In his early 40s, he was super hot, with a warm smile and eyes that held a wicked gleam. Anytime I’d watched him on TV, he’d flirted his way through the interviews. If he pulled that crap with me, I would put him in his place and fast.
I could only find a handful of photos of him with women. Maybe he was gay, or maybe he preferred to keep his private life very private. There were a few gossip pieces about a broken engagement. His ex-fiancée was in prison for money laundering. She’d stolen trading information from him and passed it on to her employers. What a bitch.
I studied bio and questions Alec had emailed me for the interview. Wyatt lived near Central Park in an apartment building called The Avalon, and as luck would have it, his apartment building was a few blocks away from the Expose club.
I’d kill two birds with one stone. On the way to his apartment, I would stop by Expose Club and maybe ask if anyone had handed in a phone. No one needed to know I’d been a guest on the third floor. I would play it off as if I was just a regular club goer who’d lost her phone. Going back there was playing with fire, and I hoped I didn’t get my fingers burned.
Chapter 7 – Paige Matthews
Standing outside the club, I hugged my puffy winter coat around my body and looked up. I had called the club before coming, but no one answered so I decided to take my chances.
The building was as day and night as it could ever be. There were no LED snowflakes floating over the exterior, and there was no blue carpet leading to the front door. There were also no Rottweilers or Pit bulls disguised as doormen guarding the entrance.
Not only did the building look as different as day and night, but so did I. I had wanted to go home and change out of my chunky sweater and skinny jeans before my interview with Wyatt Palmer, but I’d fallen down the Google rabbit hole when researching him and lost track of time. I’d figured it was better to show up dressed casually and on time, than show up late and dressed professionally, but now I was second guessing that decision.
Anxiety and nerves churned around my insides, but I couldn’t deny I was excited. I still couldn’t understand why he’d requested that I be the one to interview him, but I guess I’d find out that reason soon enough, when we met.
I walked up to the club door and knocked, which was probably a dumb thing to do. What was I expecting: Jimmy the Rottweiler to throw the door open and invite me in for a cup of coffee? After a few minutes, when no one answered, I gave the door a push and was surprised when it opened.
In daylight, with no lights flashing and no glamorous people walking around, the club was a cold and empty space that stank like stale booze. I headed straight to the cloakroom, hoping that maybe the check-in clerk from last night would be there. If she was, I would ask her if anyone had handed in a phone.
Shutters covered the cloakroom door. I gave them a push, but they were locked tight.
“Who the fuck are you and what the fuck are you doing here?” boomed a voice from behind.
I spun around, and Jimmy stalked towards me with thunder filling his eyes. He wore a long sleeve black T-shirt and a pair of black pants. He was even more intimidating than he had been last night. There was no way he’d recognized me. Not with my glasses on and my hair scraped back.
“Who the fuck do you think you are waltzing in here?”
Screw him. I would not let this jumped-up douche intimidate me.
“Number one, your door was open and number two, I don’t appreciate you talking to me like something you wipe off your shoe. It’s not like I’m an armed robber or thief. I came in to see if anyone handed in a phone last night. I dropped it somewhere in here.”
He didn’t need to know exactly where I’d been in the club when I dropped it or who I’d been with.
He grunted, and said, “You should know better than to even try to bring a phone here. If you had listened to the rules, you never would have lost it.”
I just glared back at him, because I didn’t have a good argument to that one.
Finally, softened a bit and said, “Stay here. I’ll have a look in the lost and found box.”
It didn’t take him too long to reappear.
“Well?” I asked expectantly.
He shook his head. “Come back later. Maggie might know where it is.”
“Thanks. I appreciate you checking. It has pictures of my grandma before she passed.”
“Do you see anything on my face that looks like I care?”
He was back to using gruff words but something close to sympathy flashed in his eyes, and I could tell he was lying. Maybe there was a heart beneath all that beef.
He sighed.
“Leave your name and a number, and if I find anything, I’ll call.”
“Um, Pa— Patricia.” I rummaged through my bag for a piece of paper and a pen and scribbled down the burner phone number. “Call me anytime.”
He flashed me a mischievous grin. “Is that a proposition?”
“No,” I said and laughed. I could tell he was joking.
“Hey, don’t I know you?” he asked. “You look sort of familiar.”
“I come here a lot. Maybe you know my face because of that, but I don’t think we’ve ever met.”
“Now we have. I’m Jimmy.”
“Nice to meet you, Jimmy. Thanks again for your help.”
I left the club. I would go back later to see if anyone had handed in my phone, but I doubted it would turn up.
***
Since it was a beautiful, crisp winter day and the aura of Christmas filled the air, I walked the three blocks to The Avalon apartments. It would be faster than taking a cab, anyway. As I made my way to my destination, I told myself to calm down and not be nervouse, mentally reciting the information I’d read about Wyatt.
I had researched and prepared as best as I could with such short advance notice. I told myself “you’ve got this. You’ll be fine.” But I wasn’t quite sure I believed it. There was a rumbling in my stomach that told me things could go badly, and I’d be out a job.
The Avalon apartment building held more billionaires than should be legally allowed to exist in one area. The building sat on the corner of 5th and 69th and gave stunning views of Central Park.
I hurried my pace, not wanting to be late. But when I looked at the time on my burner phone I realized I was already a couple minutes late. Talking to Jimmy had taken longer than I’d anticipated.
Crap. I briskly walked up to the door and a portly man with black hair and dressed in a red bellhop uniform greeted me. He introduced himself as George Worthington.
“Can I help you ma’am?” he asked.
“I’m Paige Matthews, and I have an appointment with Wyatt Palmer at midday. I’m a little late. Sorry.”
“Mr. Palmer is a bit of a stickler for punctuality, but I’m sure he’ll understand. Step inside, and I’ll let him know you’ve arrived.”
George picked up the phone by a small check-in desk and dialed a number. After a few beats, he said, “There’s a Miss Paige Matthews here from The New York Reporter.”
After a pause, he nodded, and then said, “Very well, Sir.” He hung up and looked at me. “You can go on up.”
George gestured to the elevator at the far end of the lobby. “Forty-
eighth floor.”
“Thank you.”
As I walked through the Christmas tree-lined lobby, the rich scent of coffee wrapped around me and enveloped me in a hug. To my left was a café advertising all kinds of goodies, including hot chocolate surprises.
I vowed to myself that after the interview, I would treat myself to one, with an extra helping of whipped cream. I didn’t know what the surprise was about, but I made it my mission to find out.
Once inside the elevator, I consulted the notes Alec had given me— boring, boring, and boring. They were the same old questions everyone asked.
How bad would it be if I asked my own questions? And, the first question on my list would be why this guy had requested that I be the one to interview him.
I was a good journalist. That much I knew, but nothing I’d written suggested I was any better than any other graduate, so the question remained: why me?
Chapter 8 – Wyatt Palmer
I wasn’t angry. Pissed maybe, but not angry. Who was I more pissed at? The little mouse or me? The jury was still out on that.
It didn’t take much digging to find out about Paige Matthews. She was a recent graduate from Emerson. She’d won several awards and had a promising career, so what I wanted to know was: why was an obviously talented journalist answering letters about cheating husbands and unrequited love?
After I’d found her phone, I scrolled through her social media apps for about thirty minutes until the lock screen kicked me out. From her bookmarks and notes, the young journalist was obviously working on a story on Expose and had somehow managed to sneak a phone in. Her snooping would uncover too many people’s secrets, including mine, and that wasn’t an option.
Since last night, I’d left countless messages for Vivian, but she hadn’t returned any of my calls. She had, however, sent a text message asking if I had missed her, and informing me that she was enjoying the money she’d gotten from the sale of the invitation.
Out of Line: A Bad Boy Stepbrother Romance Page 80