“I’ve been busy, too.”
“Saving the world?”
“One amateur hiker at a time.”
There’s a nervous beat before she speaks again. “Is this a good time to talk?”
“Yeah. I’m at home.” I rock back in my chair. “About to make myself dinner. How about you?”
“I just got home.” She yawns. No shit—it’s two hours later there than here, and I’m already eating late because I lost track of time in the prospectus.
“Have you eaten?”
“No.” Another yawn. “Can you somehow make food happen through the phone? Is that part of your secret superhero skillset?”
“Sadly not.”
“Meh. I’ll make coffee and have a protein bar.”
“Late night ahead of you?”
She sighs. “I haven’t filed another story since I got back. Lots of leads, lots of words, but nothing has quite pulled together. Gotta get something done.”
“What you are working on?”
“Um…” Another nervous beat. Should it be awkward between us? Maybe you don’t know her that well after all. “Actually, I’m doing background for another Department of the Interior story.”
Ah. I rub my jaw. “Lots of the stories there, I guess.”
“Marcus, I won’t—”
“Do your job, Poppy. Always.”
She makes a little sound, like a stubborn sigh, and changes the subject. “I’m also working on a piece I’m going to shop around about the high-end escorts on Twitter.”
I laugh. “That’s unexpected and different.”
“Maybe you’d be able to help me with that.” I can practically hear the smile in her voice.
“Yeah? What do you think I know about high-end escorts—on or off Twitter?”
“Come on.” Now we’re both laughing, and this is more like it. Spar, baby, spar. “Are we pretending that you aren’t a man of some means?”
Some. Yeah. At some point, I need to share more with her about that, but not in the middle of a conversation about hookers. “Continue with your wild assumptions, Reporter Girl. But I want it on the record I’ve never hired an escort.”
“I have no trouble believing that, Ranger Boy. But you know people. You’re observant.”
“Now you’re just flattering me.”
“Is it working?”
“Sure. Tell me about your angle. What’s the headline?”
“That’s the problem. I don’t exactly have one. I mean…there are high-end escorts on Twitter. Technology has shifted an industry. It’s an interesting factoid, but beyond that? Dunno.”
“But you feel like there’s a story there.”
“Yeah. I’ve followed a bunch of them on Twitter—”
“What?”
“On a secret account. My research account, it’s fine.”
I fire up another browser window. “Want to bet I can find that before we end this phone call?”
“There you go again, making me think you’re more than meets the eye.”
I’m already running a couple of scripts, looking for generic Twitter “egg” accounts that followed Poppy’s official account first. There are…more than I expected. “Have you ever had a stalker?”
“Why?”
“No reason. Tell me more about the escorts.”
“Marcus!”
I chuckle. “I’m looking at your followers. You have fans.”
“I’ve had a couple of tweets go low-level viral. I get a burst of followers each time I do that, but it’s pretty low-key.”
For the most part. I see enough Pepe the Frog pictures to worry that she also gets some negative attention, but that’ll have to be looked into in more detail when we’re not on the phone. “Okay.”
She hesitates, but then goes back to her original focus. “So the real question for me is whether or not this shift to social media has had any other significant effects—has it opened sex work up to women who previously didn’t have access to clients, because they didn’t want to work with a service, for example? And those numbers aren’t reported to government agencies, obviously.”
“Are there escort services going out of business? Some of those would have government data you could request. From definitely-not-personal experience, my understanding is that they like to report taxes like good citizens.”
She gasps. “And that might be an angle, too—social media cuts out the middle man, but it also cuts out the tax man.”
“I’m hardly a newspaper expert, but that sounds like a headline.”
“I could kiss you.”
“I’ll take a solid rain check on that. How does Thanksgiving sound?”
“Like it’s a long ways away.”
Yeah. I know the feeling. “Maybe we’ll have a good excuse to cross paths before then.”
“If I can get a good series of in-depth Interior pieces going, maybe.”
I shouldn’t give her any leads on that, but…what the hell. “Find someone in Washington to ask about plans for next year’s entrance fees.”
There’s a long stretch of silence. I wait for her to ask me if they’re going up, but she doesn’t.
Good. I’d have to pretend I don’t know, and I don’t want to have to lie to her.
“Thanks,” she finally says. “I’ll find a way for that to come up.”
I smile. “Are you going to be just as busy over the next four days?”
“Should I make more of an effort to keep in touch?”
“Yes.” Simple as that. “I know we just met, but …” I want you more than I should. I want you more than makes sense.
And simply, I want you.
“Yeah.” Her voice catches. “I know.”
“Are you going to make that coffee now?”
“I should.”
“Can I call you tomorrow?”
“Please.” A whisper. A promise she feels somewhat the same.
“Good luck with your stories.”
When we hang up, I feel disconnected on more than just the literal level. I’ve tasted this woman. Held her in my arms. Fought with her and fought for her.
It was great to hear her voice. And it wasn’t nearly enough.
We talk again the next night, and two nights after that. I text her a picture of the treed area just outside my office, and she sends back a cute-and-sexy selfie of her biting her lower lip.
We have phone sex the next night.
I make it a priority in my head to find a long weekend I can take off, but it may not be until September. Six weeks has never felt so long.
When Toby video calls on the weekend to run some ideas past me, he doesn’t waste time after we conclude our business chatter. He rocks back in his chair and gives me an amused look. “You sound less grumpy than the last time we talked. Anything to do with Poppy the Reporter?”
“Maybe. We’ve talked a few times this week.” For hours. “I like her. She’s smart.”
“That’s a good sign. When was the last time you liked another human being?”
“I like all sorts of people.”
He laughs.
“It feels like the real deal, though, crazy as that idea sounds,” I confess. “I want to make her a mixed tape.”
“Yeah, that’s not a thing anymore.”
“I know, I know. But like…a mixed CD. USB stick?”
He shakes his head. “Pretty sure kids these day just instant message each other a link to a Spotify playlist.”
“That takes zero effort.”
“Make a custom album cover for it.”
“You’ve ruined this idea.”
“Don’t blame me. And don’t blame the millennials, either, they’re the future.”
Stubborn optimist. “I regret telling you about Poppy.”
“So it’s not exactly casual?”
“I don’t know.” We got to third-base on a mountain top a few hours before she flew back to the east coast. And I haven’t seen her since, but the sound of her shy little orgasm i
s still ringing in my ear. “It’s complicated.”
“What’s the problem?”
“Distance.”
“Jesus, man, there’s an easy solution for that.”
“I don’t want to pressure her.”
“I’ve married the world’s least commitment-friendly woman, and even she liked the surprise appearance. Even if it’s just for a night or two of hooking up…everyone likes orgasms.”
“It’s not just hooking up.” I frown. I’m ninety-nine percent sure we’re on the same page there. “And I don’t want to talk about orgasms with you.”
“Oh, you’re serious serious.” He sits up straight, him and his chair both snapping to attention.
“I didn’t say that.” I let a half-grin escape at the corner of my mouth. “But yeah, maybe. I mean, I want to fly across the country to see her.”
“Do it. I did.”
“And you got married. That might be a little too fast for Poppy.”
He grins at me. “But not you?”
No, I don’t want to marry Poppy.
Not yet.
But the idea is not completely horrible. It’s actually very, very tempting.
Yeah, I need to get on an airplane and round that last base with my favorite reporter before Toby’s inappropriate strategies take hold and I do something stupid like buy a ring for a woman I’ve only known for a week and only spent a few hours with at that.
“I’ll fly out to see her soon, and that’ll solve that problem.”
“What are you waiting for?”
“Some of us have actual jobs, you know.”
“I have a job.”
“That can follow you on a plane.”
“Surely you get time off. Wasn’t that the whole point of joining the park service?”
“Not exactly. And it’s complicated.”
“You make it more complicated than it needs to be.” Toby cuts straight to the point, as he always does. And normally I’d blow him off, because I live the way I do for a reason.
But maybe my priorities can shift a bit.
“You have the means to go to her,” he asks. “Why aren’t you?”
Yeah. That’s a good fucking question.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
POPPY
“THIS PIECE on the National Parks rate increases is excellent,” the editor at The Washington Record says into my ear. I’m standing outside the Department of the Interior’s giant concrete building in D.C., waiting to finish up this call so I can get in line at the hot dog stand.
“Thank you. I just got another quote from a local staffer at Interior, so that’s three separate sources.”
“Can we say senior staff confirm?”
“Mmm.” I chew on my thumb. “Not really. Administrative level, lots of eyes on papers, if that helps.”
“High-level access?”
“Yes, that works.”
“Put that quote in and fire the final version over to me. We’ll run it tomorrow. If it clicks, you can do another two in the same series. I want more the unintended consequences angle, that’s unique.” I do a fist pump in the air. “Plus people love park rangers.”
I roll my eyes, but he’s not wrong. The higher-concept a story, the more eyeballs we get on it. That’s just how the world works. Plus…more stories… Screw it, I’m going to ask for what I really want. “I might need to conduct more research. Get back out there on the ground.”
“Angling for another trip to Colorado?”
“Just a flight. Split the difference.” I’ll have a place to stay, I’m quite certain of it.
“Sounds good. Get on the next flight. After you file your story, of course.”
My heart slams into my rib cage. “Of course.”
He gives me a top three list of story ideas he could maybe get closer to the front of the paper, then I end the call and go and get myself a well-deserved hot dog.
I eat it on the way to a coffee shop, where I finish the article and fire it off. Then I dig into my emails. As part of my commitment to listening more than writing, I’m putting daily questions out there on Twitter. Asking people to DM or email me their stories, and I share them on their behalf, protecting their identities. Less reporting through a filter, more like a…narrative conduit.
Or something. I don’t want to make it a bigger deal than it is. But it feels good. Today’s question struck a nerve. I shared my own reality of having to work two and a half jobs, and asked people to share their own stories of struggling to make ends meet.
The answers are raw. College lecturers who need to use food stamps. A single mother who takes her son with her to nanny other children overnight because it’s the most hours she can get. But through most of the answers, there’s an unexpected thread—one of pride, like, this is insanity but they do it anyway and survive. Today feels like I’m finally figuring out what questions to ask. That they don’t always fit with how I understand the world to be is disconcerting, though.
I grab ten more answers and schedule them to tweet out over the next hour, then I hop over to Expedia and search for flights to Denver. Another hit to the credit card, but I find a sale, and pray for the expense form to be approved sooner than later.
The cheapest flight is the last one that night. I call Marcus, but his phone goes straight to voice mail, so I throw stuff in a bag and decide to surprise him instead.
On the flight, I get an idea for a question of the day—how far people have traveled from where they live, and where they were born. It needs some polish, though. I don’t want to weight it with my own bias. I’m still chewing on that when I land.
Marcus is still out of cell range, so I grab a free shuttle to the cheapest hotel around the airport.
I ask the driver about the furthest he’s traveled from where he lives. He says probably Florida, for a family trip to Orlando. I ask him if I can tweet his answer, and he laughs. “Sure, lady. Whatever floats your boat.”
Maybe that’s not the best question of the day.
Dig deeper, I remind myself. It’s easy to write the simple stories. But they don’t grab readers by the guts and shake them hard. That’s what I want to do.
Easier said than done, like almost everything worth doing.
I check in and fire Marcus a text to call me.
He does ten minutes later, and it’s ridiculous how happy I am to see his name on my screen. “Hi,” I say, pressing a hand to my belly to make the butterflies stop rioting. “Do you have any plans for breakfast in the morning?”
“Uh…” He clears his throat. “I was going to ask you the same thing.”
“You were?” I slowly push off the worn floral duvet on the double bed, the butterflies all flopping hard. “Where are you?”
“Dulles Airport.” He groans. “Why, where are you?”
“The Motel 6 on I-70.”
“You’re in Denver.”
“Yes?” I laugh because it’s ridiculous. “Oh, shit, Marcus! How long are you in Washington?”
“I’ll be back by the morning. This breakfast date is happening. Hang tight. Do not move. I’m coming to get you.” He growls something under his breath that sounds like one more night. I know the feeling.
I laugh weakly. “So much for a surprise, huh?”
“Yeah. Well…” He grunts, and I picture him shoving a hand through his hair. “How long are you out there?”
“A week, maybe. I can write from anywhere.”
“I have to work day after tomorrow, so that’s good. This is good.” He groans again.
“I’m sorry. You only had two days off and you flew across the country to see me?” Now I feel like shit.
“No, it’s fine. Really. Don’t worry about it.”
“Well, I do worry about it. Price of being my friend, is having me worry about you.”
“Friend?” He sounds amused. Like this is no big deal, but we’ve both flown in opposite directions because of a failure to communicate. This is a big deal. Why is he laughing? “Thank you for your
friendly concern.”
“You sound like…” I trail off. Fine if he wants to be a man of mystery, that’s fine.
“Hey,” he says softly. Marcus in a nutshell. He’s so big, so strong, and yet gentle, too. My mountain man, literally. But still there are other layers I have no idea about.
Okay, maybe it’s not fine.
“I’m not asking as a journalist,” I whisper as I flop onto my side. “But why is this funny?”
“It just is. It’ll be easier to explain in the morning.”
“Do you remember what I asked before I left here?” Who are you? He’d given me a vague answer then, and suddenly I wonder if I’m being played for a fool somehow.
He sighs. “Why does it matter who I am?”
“It doesn’t.” It really doesn’t matter, but it is relevant. How do I explain the difference? “But if I’m flying back and forth across the country to hook-up with someone—something that is a considerable expense for me, but totally worth it—I kind of want to know who he is.”
“Oh, shit, Poppy. Of course, that’s fair. And I don’t want you to spend money to come see me. We can sort something out about that.” He sighs. “I want you to know me. I do. Tomorrow, okay? I’ll show you everything you need to know about me in the morning. Text me your room number. I need to grab some sleep before I head back.”
“Okay…” I look at the clock. Jesus, he’s going to try to catch the first flight out in the morning, which I think is at five. “Don’t worry if you don’t get a ticket. I’ve got work to do.”
His laugh is muted. “I’m not worried. I just want to see you.”
And the butterflies are back. Apparently they’re immune to doubt. “Yep. Me too.”
“Sleep tight?”
Hardly.
This is like sex Christmas Eve.
And just like while waiting for Santa, I do manage to drift off, then jolt awake at five, my heart pounding.
I drag myself into the shower. The steam feels good, and when I get out to a text message from Marcus, I feel even better.
Marcus: There in twenty. Wake up, sleepyhead.
That was ten minutes ago. I quickly dry my hair and put condoms in an obvious place beside the bed before firing back a response.
Poppy: I’m wide awake. And naked.
Personal Disaster (Billionaire Secrets Book 3) Page 6