Easy Ride

by Suzanne Ruby

  “Your eight o’clock is here. I put her in room three,” Fabian said.

  So formal. By now, they all knew about the news report, and all of them were on their best and most professional behavior. Everyone’s required uniform—a white button-down shirt—stayed buttoned tonight. Even Gentleman John could have passed for a real gentleman.

  It wasn’t lost on Adam how Kirby had originally booked this time slot, and how she’d been canceled. Deleted.

  “What’s this one’s number?” Adam asked without turning around.

  “It’s 225. Brand-new customer.”

  Adam jutted his shoulders back, walked to room three and opened the door.

  An attractive young woman sat on the sofa. She looked appropriately nervous.

  He eased in beside her.

  Her skin was pale, her stare was penetrating. Her breathing, labored. It almost looked as if she were about to hurl.

  “Hey there. I’m Easy Ride, but everyone calls me Ride.”

  Every time that bullshit came out of his mouth, he nearly gagged on it. But first names were definitely out of the question. At least Seth-the-Prick Wainwright hadn’t revealed Adam’s moniker. An odd and less-than-thorough oversight.

  “Hi, Ride. Um. Is there any chance I can go to the ladies’ room before we get started?”

  Of course, half of them made the same request. And half of those came back properly freshened up, for whatever reason. As if they needed to impress a prostitute.

  Pathetic. Every last one of them. Himself included.

  He felt a chuckle rise in his throat, but he managed to swallow it back long enough to say, “It’s right down the hall. Next to the exit.”

  “You’ll wait here for me?”

  Her nervousness was rather sweet. He could relate to the fragility. Despite her angelic beauty, he felt absolutely nothing for this person. No attraction on any level. No desire to rip off her dress or hear her out.

  Nothing.

  Feigning interest and getting through this evening was going to be harder than he had originally thought.

  “I’ll wait right here. Take as long as you need.”

  As soon as the door shut behind her, he whispered under his breath, “Hell, take the whole hour. Please.”

  She really was taking quite a while, Adam noticed after about ten minutes had passed. Maybe at least one of his wishes would come true. He turned on the sound system, changing the station from the country Muzak to real country rock.

  He stood, stretched his legs and removed his hat. When he turned back around, she had returned. Only, it wasn’t the same woman who had left.

  Even with the stupid wig, there was no disguising her.

  * * *

  “PLEASE, DON’T KICK me out. I need to talk to you,” Kirby said.

  He looked at her with such anger, but there was more. Hurt. Betrayal.

  She shed the wig and walked toward him. She wanted to touch him. Needed to feel his skin.

  “Sit,” he demanded.

  She didn’t dare argue. Rather, she was grateful he hadn’t thrown her out with his own hands.

  “You need a shoulder to cry on, baby? Oh, wait, you want something really good to write about, don’t you?” he said.

  Before she could formulate a response, he cranked up the music, then proceeded to unbutton and completely shed his shirt.

  “I’m not here for a story. I need to tell you some things,” she said in a raised voice, trying to be heard over the music.

  He didn’t acknowledge whether he’d heard. Instead, he continued to remove his belt.

  She gulped. Hard.

  “Seth confiscated my notes. I wasn’t going to air anything about you, but I did find out some things you need to know,” she called out. “Please, I want to talk.”

  As he unbuttoned the top button of his jeans, her sex pulsed and contracted against her will, against her common sense.

  “Is that what you want? To talk? Well, I’m the host. You’ll graciously accept what I offer,” he said, mocking her words from the previous night.

  He firmly eased her down to her back, and she swore he was about to kiss her, which was beyond crazy because she would have let him. She wanted to kiss him, still. Instead, he proceeded to straddle her chest.

  He moved his hips in slow and sensual strokes to the beat of the music. The way he’d moved with her last night. The way he obviously knew she liked.

  All of a sudden, she felt flushed and red from the inside out as she tried to digest the uneasy cocktail of excitement and confusion.

  And embarrassment.

  Embarrassment over opening her mouth to him, willingly and eagerly spreading her legs so wide she thought she would break, allowing him to make love to a woman who’d harbored ulterior motives.

  In all the whirl of movement, and much-too-loud music, she managed to grab one of his arms and tug him down. It took every ounce of strength she could manage, but it was as if her need to rectify this was stronger than his ill feelings toward her now.

  He settled on top of her as he had that first night, nudged her legs apart with his own and pressed into her. He grew harder against her. He still wanted her, even through the anger. His body couldn’t lie.

  Neither could hers.

  Her mouth wasn’t willing to lie anymore, either. But he wouldn’t allow her to talk.

  Instead, he began kissing her with an intensity that took her breath away. Even though she didn’t want it to happen like this, she didn’t fight it.

  He began to thrust his hips against her, to the slow, steady pulsing beat of the song. Turning her on while simultaneously confusing the hell out of her, and all she could think was: this is better than being ignored. This is better than being rejected.

  But it wasn’t better than what they almost had.

  As swiftly as the song ended, he stood.

  “Your time is up. Report whatever you want. Just get out,” he said as he rebuttoned his jeans.

  “Let me explain everything.”

  “Leave.”

  “No.”

  “Then let me guess. You’re sorry that it ever went this far.”

  “I should have told you the truth earlier. I wanted to, but I didn’t know how.”

  “You had every opportunity to tell me the truth.” He jerked his shirt back on and proceeded to button it.

  “I’m sorry about the way I handled it. I—”

  “You’re sorry, all right. No wonder your husband didn’t want you.”

  What?

  The words seemed to hang between them for an eternity...didn’t want you. No wonder.

  He opened his mouth as if he wanted to either take back what had already been said, or say even more. Instead, he stormed out the door.

  There was nothing else to say anyway. He’d used her most painful confession against her.

  After the initial humiliation and soul-draining agony of it, an odd numbness settled in. All the confusion and pain and embarrassment condensed to a clearly defined point, where there was no longer any question, only complete understanding. A pure, undeniable truth.

  It was over between them.

  And they both knew it.

  15

  KIRBY HAD STAYED up all night, polishing her pitch along with a backup plan.

  She marched into Bettencourt’s office this time and closed the door behind her but remained standing.

  Bettencourt looked up and didn’t miss a beat. “I’m sorry Seth presented your story instead of waiting for you.”

  She started to speak, but he interrupted.

  “There was chatter that another station had been tipped off. We had to air it first. Sure enough, Channel 2 aired a similar story last night. Your guy wasn’t menti
oned in theirs, so we’re ahead of the game. Now, I know what you’re thinking, Kirby, but I had to let Seth proceed with the information he had. I’m sure you understand my position.”

  She wanted to scream at the top of her lungs that this was exactly the type of scenario she had tried to avoid. Thank God she hadn’t downloaded the video on her work computer. Not that it proved anything, but Seth would have eagerly tried to spin it that way.

  She remained composed, even though she hadn’t even consumed her usual four mugs of coffee, and was operating on little sleep. The thought of Adam was providing the adrenaline.

  “I’m not upset. But, for the record, there’s no basis for the earlier sexual allegations against Adam Drake, and no wrongdoing on his behalf in the case of the missing Hermès saddles, as Seth had reported. These misstatements need to be corrected. Since he aired the story that was supposed to be mine, I’d like to air those retractions, along with some additional information about the club that wasn’t documented.”

  Bettencourt shifted in his seat.

  “You can’t directly contradict his report. Especially when he got that impression from your research. If you’re worried that you’ve lost your only chance, you haven’t. I’ll give you a shot at the oil-and-gas scandal. You have a bright future here.”

  If only she’d traded stories with Seth from the beginning, none of this would have happened. She also wouldn’t have met Adam.

  “I appreciate that, but I thought we were all about telling the truth.”

  “Kirby, you know the truth about your contact better than anyone, and I believe you. We’ll talk about a retraction later. You mentioned other information. What else do you have?”

  Besides the truth? That was why she’d wanted to be a reporter in the first place, but now she was being asked to withhold it. And withholding, in any form, was unacceptable.

  She gripped the piece of paper and contemplated her next move. Ironically enough, her backup plan had little to do with truths of any kind.

  “I dug deep, like you instructed. Since I can’t issue a retraction, I’d like to go live with this.” She handed him the paper.

  While he reviewed the content, she unclipped her cell phone from her waist and forwarded the footage to the part where she and Adam were deep in the throes. With a shaky thumb, she put it on Pause and waited for Bettencourt to finish.

  “Orgies? Sex toys being passed around without proper sanitation?” he said. His entire upper body visibly quivered.

  Kirby nodded, then snatched the paper from his hand.

  “If for any reason Seth steals this out from under me, I’ll deny everything, and I’ll give Channel 2 exclusive rights to the things I did not include. I left out the juiciest part on purpose. I want to be the one to bring down The Deep, and I want to do it tonight. I’m sure you understand my position.”

  Bettencourt seemed to contemplate it, if only because she’d forced him to do so.

  “You sure you want to do this? It’s your reputation, as well.”

  “Don’t worry about my reputation. I’m not. In fact, I have some footage I’d be willing to air, in support of my narrative.”

  She turned the phone around and willed her hand to stop shaking long enough to bait him.

  Listening to the audio alone was torturous. Fortunately, the video quality was poor enough to raise questions as to what, exactly, the two of them were doing on that sofa.

  When Bettencourt had obviously seen enough, she turned off the phone.

  He cleared his throat. “I appreciate your willingness to go all the way, so to speak, to get the story. But let’s leave out the footage, in case young children are watching. You have my permission to go on air with the information you’ve presented, as long as you don’t use any words or descriptions that would land us in hot water.”

  “Thank you. And, for the record, let’s not pretend Seth didn’t take advantage of my absence for his own gain.”

  Bettencourt simply stared in response to her straightforwardness. But she couldn’t leave without it being said.

  Now she needed to shred this fake script and stash her personal belongings in her car before she went to Deep in the Heart for the on-location segment because, in all likelihood, she wouldn’t be allowed back on these premises.

  Seth glanced up as she passed by.

  Instead of giving him the finger, she gave him the thumbs-up. She took her time for the full effect.

  Predictably enough, Seth walked over, sans his confident wobble.

  “So, you’re not mad at me?” he asked.

  “Why would I be? I didn’t feel well. Besides, you did me a favor.”

  “I’m relieved. I’m also a bit surprised.”

  Suspicious was more like it.

  “Don’t be. You were right. I wavered. Besides, you paved the way for me to embellish. I’ll be live at five.”

  She looked at him the moment her words hit.

  “You’re bullshitting me.”

  “No, sir.”

  “You have more information? Why didn’t you document it?”

  “I didn’t know you were going to steal my notes, or I would have been more thorough.” She chased the sarcasm with a huge grin.

  He turned on his heel and headed straight to Bettencourt’s office.

  For once, she wasn’t the least bit concerned.

  She spent the rest of the day backing her files to a flash drive, contacting the other media outlets in Houston to give them a heads-up about her segment and arranging a one-on-one with the Houston Police Department to go over everything she knew about the false allegations against Adam.

  After she’d finished all necessary covert housecleaning, she retrieved the actual script she planned to use and headed to the club.

  She’d wanted to get everything she needed to say on paper, although these particular truths could easily be spoken from the heart. She wouldn’t need a script to thank Adam for wanting her, if only for a while. Even though the two of them didn’t have a future together, he’d rescued her from the prison of her own past. No matter what happened from here, she’d finally be able to look at herself in the mirror, like the person she saw, and genuinely love the person she intended on becoming.

  “You’re on in five,” an assistant said the minute Kirby got out of her car and caught up with the camera crew.

  The afternoon had passed by so fast. Life passed by so fast. Even the drive from the station passed by in a jagged heartbeat.

  Two other stations were set up for broadcast. Word had spread.

  The cameraman assumed his position, legs anchored to the ground, camera resting on his shoulder.

  The audio guy nodded, then held up five fingers and paused.

  A flurry of butterflies and wasps swarmed in her gut. What she was about to do was both beautiful and terrifying.

  Four...

  She cleared her throat, willed her hands to stop shaking and straightened the collar of the white shirt Adam had left behind. It still smelled of pine and vanilla.

  Three...

  Both of her horseshoe earrings dangled, unobstructed, against her trembling jaw.

  Two...

  This was it. Her first on-air broadcast. It would also be her last.

  One.

  * * *

  ADAM COULD ALWAYS count on Fabian to rescue him.

  If it hadn’t been for his friend’s insistence that Adam meet him at the Western Pleasure Saloon for a drink, Adam would have probably disappeared down a familiar black hole of depression. One that he’d dug for himself when he said words he never would have otherwise said.

  No wonder your husband didn’t want you.

  No matter what Kirby had done—and she had arguably done the worst thing possible, short of cheating on him—he wouldn
’t want to crush her that way. Wouldn’t, but had. And it wasn’t even the fucking truth. He never for one second thought Kirby did anything to deserve such rejection. Maybe someday, if his life were ever in a better place, he’d tell her that much.

  He could definitely use a drink or three, and he had plenty of time to nurse every bottle that lined the shelves across the whole bar. Yep, plenty of time, since Lydia had put him on suspension, which mercifully shifted his thoughts to his other problem. Unemployment.

  The thought of what went on in the club, and how he never broke the cardinal rule but was the one who had to leave, tickled the hell out of him. Life didn’t get any damn funnier, he mused as he downed half a Dos Equis without coming up for air.

  Gentleman John and Cowboy Roy eyed him from a few seats down. John even shrugged as if to say, “Tough luck, Ride.”

  Little did any of the guys know that Adam’s tough luck was contagious. Their days were numbered at the club, as well. Lydia might have put him on suspension, but she also told him about her plans to lock the red door for good, do some major housecleaning and focus on the legitimate end of the business after the dust settled. That was, assuming she didn’t get charged with running a brothel.

  He hadn’t seen the other reports, but he’d heard about the story airing on at least one other channel. That station didn’t implicate him, so maybe Bernard could pull something from the ashes.

  The bartender placed two more longnecks on the bar. One for him, and one for Fabian.

  “You’re a hell of a mind reader, Joe,” Adam said as he reached into his pocket to pay.

  Joe quickly knocked it back. “On the house,” he insisted.

  “I can spot you some cash, if you need it at some point,” Fabian said.

  “Can you spot me a place on your sofa? Might be cheaper than my house note.”

  “Anytime, my friend.”

  No everything-will-turn-out-fine bullshit tonight. And no more calling him Ride, which was more than fine.

  The sixty-inch flat-screen television over the bar competed with the drunken conversations among patrons, and damn if it wasn’t on Channel 53. Any minute now, that lowlife reporter Seth Wainwright would rear his ugly face and body. And equally ugly ethics.