Survival of the Fiercest

by Chloe Blaque

  I gulp down coffee.

  “We do, however, think that some content needs to be added to get the full attention of your readers. Enhance the big-sister talk, so to speak,” says Khan.

  “Meaning what, exactly?” I ask.

  Lou shifts in his chair. “How would you feel about adding some celebrity gossip to your site?”

  No. Hell no. “You mean dedicate a whole page?”

  “No, just sprinkle it in your news page.” Khan smiles, which makes him look like Dracula.

  “I’m not sure if our readers will go for that.” I glance at Lou, who has that weird light in his eyes again.

  “Well, let’s try,” says Khan. “We are proposing a trial period of four weeks in which your website will run some more gossip-related content, and we monitor how well it’s received. Our ad sales and integrated marketing teams are confident that they can increase your traffic and your page views. The offer for your site will be based on your success.”

  “That sounds very fair, Mr. Khan,” Lou says, his fake smile making him look like a clown.

  Suddenly I’m curious what Lou’s stake is in this deal. I turn to Khan. “What type of gossip are we talking about here?”

  “Highflash.com just revealed that Jay Norfolk was caught propositioning a male masseuse.”

  I can’t believe what I’m hearing. He means malicious gossip, rumors that can wreck people’s lives.

  “Are you talking about the Emmy-winning actor who has a wife and three kids?” My eyes narrow when Khan nods. “Are the rumors true?” I snap.

  “Who knows?” Khan shrugs. “Does it matter? The site received eight million hits in three hours.”

  Damn, that’s a lot. I’m about to protest again when Lou jumps in. “There is no harm in trying. Is there, Lex?”

  “No,” I say into my coffee, wanting Lou dead.

  “Mr. Khan has a great idea. There is a new club opening tonight downtown. Viper’s PR has confirmed that a lot of celebrities will be making appearances.”

  “Specifically, Jared Waters,” Khan cuts in. “Running back for the 49ers. His best friend owns the club. It seems he may be cheating on his wife with a porn star.”

  “What porn star?”

  “Josie Pink. They’ve been seen together around town.”

  “No way. She’s with the rapper Big Skinny. She was in his last video.” I know this because when Pete isn’t working or drinking, he is watching videos on rachethiphop.com.

  Khan smiles, showing bleached teeth. “It sounds like there is a story here.”

  This is a story? I clamp down on the need to roll my eyes.

  Lou leans in. “We think you should go to the club tonight.”

  The “we think” sets me on fire, as if I wasn’t already stewing because this idea was clearly discussed without me. I turn to Khan. “Do you mind if I speak with Lou privately for a moment?”

  “Not at all,” Khan says.

  With a plastic smile, I stand and gesture for Lou to follow me outside the fishbowl. Now in the hallway, we move farther away from the glass. When I stop and turn, Lou is right behind me, using his kerchief to dab sweat from his brow.

  “What is this…this ambush?” I hiss.

  “This is a potential buyer, which you are lucky to have. The only other offer we have had so far was for Mommytalk.”

  “Fierce is not a gossip site, Lou.”

  His gray eyes turn steely. “Well, if it doesn’t want to end up like TechHeadz, maybe it should be. We are bankrupt, Lex, and everything must go in six weeks. That’s when we have to shut down the servers. Anything that is not bought by that time goes dark.”

  My breath catches. Having no server is the true death for websites.

  “You can do this, Lex. You are a trained journalist. That idiot at TechHeadz just sat around and played with a light saber. I have faith you can make this work.”

  I slide my gaze to his. “What’s in it for you?”

  Lou’s shoulders go back in defense. “My job is to facilitate the buys and get as much money for our sites as we can to pay off some of our debt, which is extensive.” He didn’t answer my question, but I have a feeling a board seat or maybe a percentage of the deals is in the works for him.

  My staff, my amazing staff, pushes into my thoughts. I have a duty to them to keep us going. Fuck! “Okay, let’s go back in.” I nod.

  “What are you going to say?” Lou shouts. He is on my heels, almost bumping into me as I stop in the glass doorway of the fishbowl.

  “All right, Mr. Khan. You have a deal. We’ll reconvene in a week.”

  Chapter Three

  After the meeting, I am on my laptop finishing up an article for Fierce in my suite at the W Hotel. No way was I going to stay at Curve in those depressing cubicles, especially since Lou was still there. Asshole.

  Stepping to the window, I twist my curly hair into a ponytail and look out over the sunny afternoon of San Francisco. Deep breath, slow release. I’m hyperaware that in a few weeks, I could lose everything I have ever worked for. I imagine selling my apartment and moving to Vermont, like in the movie Baby Boom, sans baby.

  Punching the keys on my computer, I pull up thefiercest.com and check the content feed. The recent piece we ran about interracial dating is getting good reviews. I click our news site and scroll through, trying to envision gossip posts. I can’t. I can’t put gossip in here. Gossip tears people down. It can ruin people’s lives.

  My head fills with all the slurs and slanders I’d endured growing up as a mixed kid. In high school, Tony Giuseppe started a rumor that my black father was in jail and my white mother gave me up, all because I wouldn’t let him go up my shirt after the sophomore dance. He was such a dick.

  The truth is my parents died in a car accident when I was eight. And they loved each other, despite the shit they got for being an interracial couple. My father’s mother raised me and peacefully passed away when I was thirty. Maybe that’s why I had gotten married then, to ease the loneliness, but now the marriage is gone too.

  I shake myself. Fierce is a forum for change, for positive reinforcement, not mean-girl rhetoric. But I can’t lose it either. It’s all I have left.

  A muffled ring fills the room. Skirting my still-packed bags, I fall onto the king-size bed and grab my phone.

  “’Sup, Tina?” After the meeting, I called Tina, but of course she already knew what happened. Now I find myself listening numbly as she fills me in on the club.

  “I spoke to Viper’s PR,” she says. “You are all set for tonight. It’s a two-story hip-hop club and street art gallery called Muse. Several actors, athletes, and musicians will be there. And I hear the owner is well connected.”

  “Connected? Mafia?”

  “No, former lawyer or something…whatever. Listen. You are on the list at the VIP entrance, and they worked out an exclusive interview with the owner, so call his marketing director when you get there.”

  “Yeah. No problem.”

  “Dolly, you’re good. I have faith, but there is one thing I’m concerned about.”

  I frown. I can’t handle another surprise. “What?” I ask cautiously.

  “What are you going to wear?”

  I sit up like a shot. “Did you just ask me that? My clothes are what you are concerned about? This isn’t a date, Tina. It’s work.”

  “You need to look sexy. Rumor has it the owner likes model types.”

  I sigh. “As opposed to the other club owners who just like us regular girls? Shocking.”

  “You know what I mean. You need celebrity attention. If you go there in your hipster flats—”

  “Uh, excuse me, they are Chanel.”

  “—and your tangerine work dress that you wear with that black suit jacket.”

  My jaw drops, and I stare at my unpacked bag. I love that dress.

  “You won’t keep anyone’s attention. You’re beautiful Lex, with a rack like Christina Hendricks and a booty like Serena. Show some cleavage, for Christ’s
sake.”

  “Should you be saying ‘Christ’s sake’? You’re Jewish. And stop exaggerating. I’m not twenty-two anymore, but I keep it tight. I mean…I try.”

  I wander over to the mirrored wall of the dressing area. My white V-neck T-shirt shows just enough décolletage to be edgy, and my butt is squeezed into a pair of dark-wash skinny jeans accented by a thin black racing stripe down the side. The strappy heels I’m wearing tie it all together. She’s crazy. I look good.

  “I can dress myself, Tina.” I purse my lips, slap a hand on my bump, and give my reflection a few booty pops. My ponytail bounces along before I stop and roll my eyes at my reflection. I’m too old for this shit.

  “You’ve got great style, dolly. It’s hip, and it’s New York. But you’re in California; you have to look like a slut.”

  She’s insane. “I have to wear that tangerine dress. It’s the only one I have with me.” And just then I think to call Randy, my style editor who works out of Los Angeles. As a stylist to some of Hollywood’s elite, he can get me some pretty hot dresses. Maybe I can also get him to do stills and video of the club.

  “No. No, that dress is for a wedding. When is the last time you got laid?” Tina’s voice slices through my thoughts.

  “I get laid,” I snap.

  “By who, that Puerto Rican guy from the Bronx you were trashing at Christmas?”

  “Pete. Yeah.”

  “I thought you broke up?”

  “We sorta still see each other.” I cringe at how stupid I sound.

  “Sorta?” I hear a huge sigh. “We’ll talk later about how you need to start focusing on your love life,” she says offhand. “Listen to me. Please go buy something fabulous.”

  “Yes, Mom.”

  “And wear your hair down,” she says.

  “No, it’s going up. It gets too hot and frizzy at clubs.”

  “Ya think I don’t know frizz? I’m Jewish. My niece has a head of hair like steel wool. Once a week she’s at the Dominican salon getting a wash and set. It’s a line of black girls, and her.”

  I laugh some more, then swipe the pencil and pad from the bed. “That’s a good post. Jewish girls’ hair care.”

  “Focus, Lex. Buy a dress and work it tonight. I gotta go. Good luck.” Tina hangs up.

  A thirty-seven-year-old slut, I think as I pull out my orange dress. Cute, hip, maybe not as sexy as I thought? Sexy in my twenties is not the same sexy in my thirties—cough—almost forties. Sexy to me is a healthy, fresh, feminine look. Boring…that sounds bo-ring. When did I lose the sexy?

  My ex-husband was a black conservative hedge fund manager from the South who was born in a suit and liked me in one as well. He bought me J.Crew outfits for Christmas and had frowned when I wore the blazers with a pair of skinny jeans or the skirts with a slouchy top. He was almost embarrassed when I wore a red, sleeveless Diane von Fürstenberg dress to a dinner party at his boss’s house. My hourglass figure was poppin’, but he wasn’t comfortable with the attention I got. At first I thought his jealousy was cute, but after a long, angry car ride home—and similar fights throughout our relationship—I realized it wasn’t cute, it was controlling. After three years together, I filed for divorce.

  Then there is Pete, who loves my curves but gets embarrassed when I wear something too flashy or expensive.

  It’s like I can’t find someone who is proud of my assets, all my assets.

  I make my way to the mirror again and hold up my dress, but my reflection looks…tired. I snatch my phone from the bed and call Randy. Tonight I’m bringing sexy back.

  * * * *

  Hours later I am showered and on my laptop reading the dossier Tina sent. Tonight I’ll be interviewing Evan Cain, former corporate lawyer now entrepreneur. Mr. Cain is thirty-four years old, born in San Francisco, a major contributor to several children’s charities…blah blah blah. USC undergrad and Berkeley law school pepper his profile. There is a black-and-white head shot that must have come from his last firm. A very clean-cut man with dark, slashing brows and a tight grin is looking back at me. He’s cute in a nerdy, preppy sort of way. Not quite a chick magnet. He probably built the nightclub to get girls.

  I have no doubt I can get Mr. Cain to give me some information on his bestie, Jared Waters. I’m conducting a web search when a barrage of successive knocks rattles my hotel room door.

  There is only one person this obnoxious.

  Steadying the towel on my head, I quickly shove my feet into the new black open-toe lace-patterned booties I bought during lunch. Hipster my ass. Spreading my legs wide, I bunch my white robe around my thighs, whip open the door, and channel my best Marilyn Monroe.

  “Do you think these shoes make me look…slutty?” I ask in a high, breathy whisper.

  Tall, dark, and skinny, Randy gasps and clutches at his V-neck tee. He has a huge garment bag flung over one lanky arm. “Are those what I think they are?”

  “If you are thinking expensive, then yes.” Shifting onto one foot, I flash the bloodred sole of the other.

  “You do look slutty, but it works!”

  “It was an impulse buy—a painkiller for a shitty morning. I don’t even know what I’d wear them with,” I say.

  “Um, everything.” Randy nods, following me inside. “You need to wear these every day.”

  With a dramatic turn, I sashay on my booties to the bed, stretch out on my stomach, and bend my knees to swing my heels in the air like a pinup girl. “I am going to wear them every day. You know why?”

  “Whyyy?” Randy’s Southern drawl comes out as he hefts the bag over the desk chair.

  “I met the board of Viper Media today, and I’d rather die than hand Fierce over to them.” I give Randy the short version of the meeting. “If I don’t pull this off, I may have no choice but to become a hooker.”

  Randy sucks his teeth and shakes his head. “We’re all going to be out on our asses, and you’re buying shoes?”

  “I needed something to cheer me up, and Tina hates my orange dress.” I hold it up.

  “So do I,” Randy murmurs under his breath. “But have no fear,” he says, pulling out a slew of glittering, colorful dresses from the garment bag. As if handling glass, he carefully drapes them on the bed and unrolls a small cloth full of accessories, all ending with a sweep of his arms and a jazz turn. “Randy…is here.”

  For four years, Randy has shaped our Fierce style section into a digital mini Vogue. I’m pretty sure I can find him another style editor job if it comes to that, but I need to make sure it doesn’t come to that.

  Randy pulls one more dress from his bag of tricks. Before I can see it, he turns his back to me and lets out a whoop, holding one hand up to praise the Lord. I suck in a breath when he whips around, holding a black fitted dress draped across his body. The pale gold front panel is covered in a sable-colored lace pattern that teases the neckline, which is cut straight across to accent bare shoulders and collarbone.

  “This is it,” Randy says in an intense whisper. “This…is…the one.”

  Wide-eyed, I sit very still, as if any sudden movements would scare away the dress. “Is that…?”

  Randy nods, looking like a live mannequin.

  “That must be two thousand dollars.”

  Three thousand, Randy mouths.

  I look warily at the dress with its body-hugging fit that stops just above the knee. “I don’t know… It looks small.”

  “It’s an eight,” says Randy

  “I’m a ten,” I say.

  Randy narrows his eyes. “You are an eight; you just think you are a ten. Your skinny jeans are loose!”

  I ignore Randy and slide my gaze from orange faithful to the designer one in his hand.

  In a flash, Randy snatches the orange dress with his free hand and holds it behind his back while shielding himself with the fitted one. “I don’t care which dress you choose, but big orange is not going out tonight,” he says.

  “Gimme that. I am your boss!”

  H
e cocks his hip and bats his eyelashes at me in answer.

  I grab the black-and-gold dress from Randy and charge into the bathroom.

  “You better leave in that tag!” I hear him shout.

  Chapter Four

  It’s almost midnight when our town car pulls up to the curb into what can only be described as pure chaos. A mob scene is gathered in front of a massive two-story warehouse with rows of tinted windows. Ribbons of multicolored light that spell MUSE scale the gray concrete walls.

  Amid honking and flashing headlights, Randy and I jump out of the car and are suddenly immersed in the sea of people gathered to watch who is appearing on the red carpet.

  “There is supposed to be a VIP entrance,” I shout.

  Standing on the tiptoes of his velvet loafers, Randy pops his head up over the crowd and begins scanning right and left. He can sniff out VIP like a dog sniffs out kibble.

  “Hold on to me!” Randy shouts. I reach under his pinstripe vest, grab the waistband of his sable slim jeans, and we start moving through the crowd. The velvet rope of the entrance is manned by five large bouncers in designer suits. I wave over six-foot-five inches and 250 pounds of dark-skinned muscle, who steps up with a clipboard in his hand. Randy’s shoulders go back, and his chest pops out.

  “How you doing, beautiful?” the bouncer says in a deep, smooth voice. Randy swoons, and I give the bouncer my business card. After a quick check on the list, he unclips the rope and motions for us to follow him. I catch him eyeing my booties, now accented by my red lacquered toes. I smile, hoping my red lipstick is still perfect. I feel like a million bucks…or three thousand bucks.

  We follow him down a dark hallway, through a velvet drape, and into a romantically lit carpeted lounge area. The full-force hip-hop beats fill my chest. I can’t remember the last time I was at a club. Plush furniture is arranged in front of a stone wall that holds a crackling gas fireplace, and a small private bar sits in the corner, manned by a beautiful Asian bartender.

  The bouncer takes us up a few steps to the main floor, where gloss-black walls are covered with neon tags and graffiti art. A purple mist hovers over the dance floor, making the crowd look like they are dancing on a cloud. Randy and I slide into a semiprivate booth by the bar.