by Abby Knox
"I would love to write a story about the missing girls of Dockside, and I have a pretty good place to start." She liked that all the reporters, editors, and staffers stood at their workspaces for these meetings. Harper knew better than to tell anyone these meetings reminded her of that show, TMZ.
She already felt as if she had too much to prove, being the only reporter on staff who had neither a journalism degree nor equivalent experience. Greg had taken an interest after the editorial board published her guest opinion piece last month.
Thinking that Greg had just sought her out for another quote, she had been taken aback at the offer of a job.
And on her first day, she dove in headfirst by asking for the biggest story there was in her mind.
The other reporters all stared at her: some like she had grown a second head, others like she was stepping on their toes, and still others gaped like they were scared for her.
Greg smiled sympathetically, with his concerned big brown eyes and crow's feet. He was both a modern dad and a modern-day newspaperman in his button-up shirt with the sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms covered in tattoos. She read the words "We the People" on one arm and on the other arm, she could only make out what looked like newsprint and the face of some old dude she didn't know but felt like she probably should know.
"That's a super-important story, and I'm glad you brought it up, Harper. Ainsley has been working on it for some time, and we can talk about you contributing at some point."
Ainsley looked at Harper as if she had just run over her dog and fled the scene of the crime. Inside, Harper felt like she'd stuck her foot in it. On the outside, she stared back at her until she looked away. Harper wasn't one to tolerate dirty looks for no reason.
Just then, a tall, reedy woman with platinum-blonde hair and severe lipliner interrupted the meeting. The nasal sound of her voice was rivaled only by her aggressive gum-chewing. "Greg. Sorry for barging in, hon. I meant to drop this on your desk, but since you're having a meeting…" She handed him a folder marked "press kit." She gesticulated as she continued, and as she spoke, her energy reminded Harper of somewhere between Nanny Fine and Janice from Friends. "I know, it's a little bit of a conflict of interest, but I'm just so proud of my little side business. Anything you can do to help spread the word!"
Greg nodded, but Harper caught the tick in his jaw. "While you're here, Opal, meet our newest reporter, Harper. Harper, Opal is our latest hire in the advertising department. The parent company just poached her from the New York Post."
Opal thrust out her hip and said, almost flirtatiously, "Greg, hon, you make it sound like they trapped me like big game," Opal said, giving an exaggerated guffaw, although Harper didn't quite think it was that funny. Opal then turned and quickly glanced down at Harper's shoes. Harper, feeling self-conscious, feebly crossed her ankles. She stared back at the woman. Opal's diamond ring could blind someone. Her lash extensions were so thick and lush, Harper thought the Girardi crime family could hide a body in there. "Nice to meet you," Harper said, tentatively.
The platinum-haired woman's face broke into a disarming smile, and she approached Harper with her hand out. As she sashayed across the room in hot pink stilettos, the numerous gold hoops that hung from her ears clattered against each other. "Sweetie, you can always pop by my desk if you're looking for story ideas. I've always got plenty to go around." She may have worn more makeup than a party clown and smelled like a perfume counter exploded, but Opal's handshake was warm, and her manners overall outshone the greeting that Harper had received from her colleagues.
Greg seemed slightly annoyed but polite. "Thanks for stopping in, Opal."
She turned and winked at Greg on her way out. "Anytime, sweetie."
When the door closed behind her, Harper sensed strange energy from Greg. The vibe was there and gone in a flash, and she doubted anyone else noticed. But, just for a moment, his knuckles of the hand that held the press kit folder turned white.
She recognized that reaction. Lynwood Dashell Fitzgerald, or "Dash," as he was commonly called, exhibited the same tenseness whenever Harper opened her mouth. One time, when she'd walked into Crow Bar, where he worked as a bouncer, to collect signatures for the "Save the Sea Birds" petition, Dash had busted a beer stein. Yep, Harper was that annoying, and she owned it.
Why was she thinking about Dash at the moment, anyway? She allowed that jerk to take up way too much real estate in her head. I am evicting you from my psyche, Dash Fitzgerald. And you owe back rent, she thought to herself with a smirk.
Ainsley appeared impatient to keep the meeting moving along. "You were talking about finding a safer niche for our untested reporter, I believe?"
That was a bit of a wild interpretation of what Greg had been talking about before the interruption, but Harper let it go. She felt she was already on thin ice with the other newsies before she'd even been giving a chance.
She spoke up. "I have a few sources in the street-based sex worker community, and I think they'd have some input."
Some of the male reporters in the room snickered. One of them remarked, "Now that's something to consider. Got any prostitutes in your Rolodex? I don't suppose the Dispatch will reimburse us for that expense, huh Greg?"
Greg ran a hand over his face, clearly frustrated he had lost control of the meeting.
Ainsley, to her credit, shot the other reporters a look of death. "The preferred term is 'sex worker.' Can you knock off the shitty comments?"
Some of the guys shrugged, while others answered with an eye roll or a shake of his head.
"All right, children. Meanwhile, we have to come up with copy for the evening edition. Since it's your first day, Harper, we'll go easy on you. We have some gaps in the business section, and we could use you to cover the grand opening of a new business in Dockside. Here's the press release."
Greg handed the press kit in his hand to her, and she looked it over. The words "Wild Ex-Scapes," jumped out at her right away, and she knew immediately what this meant. She just got handed a fluff piece.
Harper kept her eyes locked on the press release and refused to acknowledge the heat flooding her cheeks. As the rest of the staff busied themselves by grabbing notebooks and bags or making phone calls, Ainsley brushed past her, quipping, "We all have to pay our dues."
Chapter Three
Dash
* * *
Leave it to Declan O'Donnell to mandate a team-building exercise.
The new owner had bought the business the previous month and had been working nonstop to implement changes to attract a more moneyed clientele, had a management style that the staff considered to be a bit too fancy pants. Declan's ever-present newsie cap and his affinity for old-fashioned suspenders tended to make the established clientele suspicious. They were a constant source of ridicule from some members of the staff.
Declan had not done himself any favors. He'd started off on the wrong foot, trying to establish a hard rule against any extra-curricular activities between customers and the bouncers. Mavis, the previous owner, had let most things slide, as long as they kept the rowdy customers under control.
He'd fired longtime bouncer Billy Sullivan on the spot for taking a disrespectful tone just a few weeks ago. Now that Billy was back, Declan was trying a more hippie-dippie approach to managing the bar.
"Escape rooms are a ridiculous waste of t-time," said Billy, his teeth chattering in the cold. Although short for a bouncer, Billy was the meanest and scrappiest of the bunch. He was also full of shit most days. About team-building exercises, he was correct.
Dash hopped from one foot to the other to keep his long legs warm as the group waited for the doors to open. Billy ranted on, "In comparison to being buried alive, this is nothing."
All eyes went to Billy. Declan had only yesterday granted Billy his job back at Crow Bar after firing him for insulting Declan's mother in an argument.
Billy's rehiring condition was that the entire staff had to participate in an escape room together
to "build a better bond between employees and manager." The bartender, Griff, and the wait staff were exempt as they had already proven themselves the most stable and reliable of all staff members.
Dash spoke first, never able to keep his mouth shut when Billy spouted off his random garbage. "You've never been buried alive."
"Kindly go fuck yourself, String Bean, and yes, I have," Billy answered.
Ricky Smith piped up, then. "Tell us, Billy. Was it a child-size coffin or adult-size?"
"Always the short jokes. Screw you, college boy," Billy harrumphed. Although Ricky had long ago graduated and was by then a popular adjunct professor at the community college, Billy could never think of a better insult than that. Everyone liked Ricky.
Holden Murphy, the gentle giant of the group, could rein Billy quicker than any of the others could. "Quit telling stories, Billy."
Declan, with his newer, softer approach, gently reminded the team not to insult each other. "Does that sound like teamwork to you? Insults and arguing will be the downfall of our team if we let it," Declan said.
Levi, the group's oldest bouncer, squeezed his girlfriend in close as she shivered against his side. "Insults and arguing are the glue that holds this group together, Declan," said Levi.
Dash shook his head and looked up at the sign above the awning. X-otic Ex-Scapes had to be the worst name he'd ever seen.
"Corny shit like that? This place will be closed in about two weeks," Dash grumbled. "Who even came up with spelling like that?"
A familiar but unexpected woman's voice cut across the group dynamic. For Dash, the voice had a jarring effect of a ship's hull scraping against an iceberg. It was a voice that he never wanted to hear because it conjured up a sense of urgency inside him that he didn't like. She disrupted his calm. "Looks like I'm paying my dues twice in one day," said the voice.
Dash's whole body flinched at the sound. He spun around to see Harper Ross glaring up at him, her mop of red curls and blue eyes peeking out from behind a bulky scarf. Dash regarded her as if she were a feral red panda, ready to knock down all his building blocks and reassemble them into something unrecognizable. Her petitions, political causes, and loud-mouthed opinions were the bane of Dash's existence. He did his best to try to keep her away from Crow Bar, but she always seemed to find a reason to pop up.
If she would simply learn to stay away, he probably wouldn't hate her so much.
As a rule, the Fitzgeralds hated the Rosses, and vice versa.
Dash didn't know why, but why do any two families hate each other? He assumed it had been a political disagreement from way back. Harper's mom, Lora, was exactly like her daughter; she'd been a community organizer from way back. That family also had slightly more money due to their mildly successful family business, Ross Distillery.
He'd heard his mother, Marianne, mutter something about the Horace Ross Whiskey that the bar served, referring to it as cough syrup. Another time, Marianne had turned up her nose at a modest donation from the distillery to her husband's medical debt fundraiser. "Show offs," Marianne had said. Dash didn't understand why a widow would turn down any kind of donation that would go toward her late husband's medical bills. But if his sainted mother decided their family didn't like someone, then that was good enough for Dash.
He noted how frigid Harper's fingers must be in those fingerless gloves she wore. What was the point of those, besides looking cute? Not that she looked cute in them. "Well, looky who we have here. Sorry, Ross. I do not have the will to sign any petitions today," he sneered. He was freezing and really should have zipped up his coat all the way. But some profoundly primal machismo took hold, and he didn't want to look like a wimp in front of her. Or anyone.
Eyeing the pen in her hand, he waited for the latest screed about injustice. Or gentrification. Or gerrymandering, whatever that was.
But then he noticed she wasn't holding a petition in the other hand. Her signature blue clipboard was gone, replaced with a rectangular reporters' notebook.
She looked at his shirt, unbuttoned to the mid-sternum, then glared up at him, "Nobody's asking you to sign a petition today, Lynwood," she sneered.
He returned her sharp look. "It's Dash. My name. Is Dash."
Her smile made him clench his fists. "Whatever you say, Lynwood Dashell."
"Shut it," he growled.
Why was she fluttering her eyelashes like that? They were long enough. No reason to show off.
"I'll shut it when you calm your panties. I'm not here to see you. I'm here to do my job."
"What job?" Billy said.
She turned to Billy and waved her little notebook in the air. "I'm here to write a story for the Dispatch," she said. Then she whirled around and entered the crowd of people waiting for someone—anyone—to show up with scissors to let everyone inside already.
He knew that look on her face. She was up to something, and it wasn't just about writing a story about a fucking grand opening of a cheesy escape room for The Dispatch.
"Wow, our little activist got a job at the paper. That's cool," Levi said with genuine pride.
"It was only a matter of time. They quote her in their city council stories at least once a week. Now she'll have a lot more resources at her disposal to go after all those crooks," Ricky said.
Everyone looked at Ricky. He stared back, incredulous. "You guys read the paper, right?"
The chorus of "no" seemed to take him by surprise. "Not even online?"
More blank stares.
Dash knew Ricky was on to something. Harper's real goal—her giant white whale—was to dig up dirt on the missing Dockside women, among others. If she didn't watch her ass, she was going to end up dead. Did she not realize that?
Dash watched her walk away in her overly tight stretch jeans and her short little parka. No way she was warm enough without a coat covering her ass.
When she disappeared into the crowd, he felt a hot poker in his stomach. Everyone was here. The mayor, the police chief, the new neighborhood councilman, county supervisors, and Fiona's mom—local business mogul and heiress to Newcastle Tuna. Dash even spotted a couple of guys who had all the marks of being mobbed up with jailed mafia boss Ralph Girardi; those guys had recently started hanging around Crow Bar, and Dash did not like that.
Dash nudged Levi and pointed with his chin. "See that?"
Levi muttered, "Yeah. Shit. What are they doin' here?"
"Who knows," Dash answered.
"Want me to take one of 'em aside for a friendly chat?" Sometimes Levi was just itching for a fight.
"Nah. Save it. Just keep an eye on Harper. Well, I'll keep an eye on her; you keep an eye on Fiona and everybody else."
Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Levi staring at him like he was babbling incoherently. Dash ignored it and stayed vigilant. The gold pinky ring of one of the supposed-wise guys glinted in the sun as he texted somebody. The other one adjusted his necktie to prove to this crowd of city leaders that he belonged there.
Then, Dash saw something odd. A tall woman wearing a fur coat and a platinum blonde ponytail was winding her way through the crowd, shaking hands and laughing loudly like she was attempting to impress. She possessed the bold energy of a Dockside girl trying to dress like a posh northsider. Her coat, makeup, and earrings were too much for the River Drive set. But no broads in this neighborhood wore fur coats. As the woman tried to breeze past the two wise guys, Dash saw one of them low-key grasp her by the crook of her elbow, forcing her to stop short. With a rush of raw protective instinct, Dash nearly launched himself at the man. But he stopped himself when he saw the woman pry the man's sausage fingers away from her arm. She was speaking venom at the man, her teeth gritted. Dash lipread a string of cuss words that could make the Brute Squad blush. She wasn't even attempting to plaster a smile for anyone else's benefit while she spoke. Yeah…that was a Dockside girl under that fur coat.
Fuck those guys, Dash thought. They could arrest all the city council members on corruption charges; the
FBI could freeze all the local boxing league assets for fixing matches. But the city had much more significant, much darker problems than corruption. What were they doing here? And why were they mingling with this crowd of political glad-handers?
Dash's feelings weren't any more generous toward all the important-looking people at that event. He found himself wishing he'd paid more attention to all of Harper's hyper-political lectures because he couldn't name a single person apart from the mayor.
They should be fixing the organized crime problem, Dash thought, so people like Harper wouldn't feel it necessary to stick their noses where they didn't belong.
Dash had the physical advantage of towering over everyone in the crowd. Shifting around, he could somewhat keep an eye on that mop of red hair.
That's when he spotted her talking to the mayor, and it did not look like a breezy conversation.
"What is that woman doing?" he muttered.
Finally, someone showed up to get the show on the road. To his surprise, the platinum blonde lady in the fur coat was introduced as Opal Ambrose, the place's owner, and the two wise guys stood behind her as she spoke. He committed the name to memory, confident she had some shady connection with the two men who watched her like a couple of jailers. The whole thing felt off, but as Dash scanned the crowd, it didn't appear anybody else sensed anything was wrong. Her introduction was followed by certain muckity-mucks giving meaningless speeches about the neighborhood's revitalization. Finally, the fur-coated lady stopped talking and invited the first five teams to a complimentary escape room session.
As the team shuffled inside to get their room assignments, Dash commented to Declan, "Complimentary, huh? You'll spring for artisan ice that nobody wants, but we have to stand in the cold so this mandatory team-building session can be free?"
Declan shook his head and adjusted his newsboy cap, keeping his attention focused on the instructions. Opal, squinting at a pamphlet, didn't seem all that clear on the escape room instructions herself.