Dirty Headlines by L.J. Shen

“Go shorty, it’s your item.

We gonna party like it’s your item,

And you know we don’t give a fuck it’s actually Kate’s item…”

Grayson was twerking on his stool by the bar, sipping his Bacardi and generally acting like a cheerleader in a horror flick mere seconds before she gets chopped into lamb kabobs. Ava knocked back her third martini, fluffing her thick black curls and staring at me from behind the rim of her empty glass. They were both celebrating my first real journalistic accomplishment. Even when I’d pointed out that someone had died and maybe we should hold off the celebrations, they weren’t convinced.

“That pop star tried to rape a chick,” Gray pointed out. “We are allowed to celebrate.”

“Sure you don’t want anything to eat?” Ava quirked a brow. “You look a little pale.”

We were at Le Coq Tail across the street from the office. I was dying for that roast beef sandwich. In reality, I was drinking a glass of tap water and faking a headache, because I couldn’t afford anything more, and maybe it was my poor girl’s pride, but I couldn’t stomach anything Ava and Gray were going to pay for, even though I knew they’d be delighted to treat me after I’d successfully fulfilled my first assignment.

Seeing as I’d kept mum about my situation with my dad and my debt, they both bought into my migraines excuse. Watching them get drunk and talk about their weekend plans—all of them involving spending money—sent jealousy nibbling at the corners of my gut.

“I want Grayson to stop singing 50 Cent. Can you make that happen?” I took a small drink of my water.

“Unfortunately, no.” Ava shook her head. “But I can tell you he’s one drink away from passing out, so the singing will be over soon. Are you coming with us to The Met tomorrow? We’re going to check out the Indonesian restaurant they wrote about in Timeout afterwards.”

I wish I could, but I’m probably going to help my father crawl into the shower, then argue with service providers on the phone to try to get them to give me more time to pay.

“Got plans with my dad. Maybe next time.”

Jesus had probably kept good on his word to keep God updated about all of my sins, because, of all the songs in the world, “Promiscuous” by Nelly Furtado and Timbaland blasted through the room. The place was bustling, and the scent of stale tap beer, deep-fried everything, and urban stench clung to our clothes.

Grayson was hiccupping and talking at the same time, and I tuned him out to people-watch, until he said, “Oops, Jude, yorbassazarr.”

“What?” I shouted over the music.

“Your. Boss. Is. Here!” He yelled into my ear. “And he is looking fifty shades of great.”

Grayson, I’d discovered, had the tendency to be cheesier than a Taco Bell enchilada when he was drunk.

“Where?” Ava looked around.

“Three stools down.”

I craned my neck, my face heating before I’d even spotted his broad back, still clad in the ink black textured wool YSL jacket he’d had on in the office. There was nothing saint-like about what this Laurent was doing, though. Even with his back to me, I could see the woman he was talking to clearly. She ran a pale-pink clawed finger down her neck, giggling like a schoolgirl, and purred at something he had said. Célian must have been in top form, because whatever came out of his mouth next caused her to have to right herself by clinging to his shoulders, she laughed so hard. They shared a quick, intimate hug, and I was a witch, burning at the stake from the inside, wanting to break free from whatever spell he’d put over me that made me feel so completely and unbelievably miserable.

Beautiful. She was beautiful, with hair a shade darker than his, sapphire-blue eyes, and a sunkissed tan. Célian obviously had a type, and it wasn’t a dirty blond, hazel-eyed woman who dressed like a headmistress in a British movie from the fifties, except with Chucks. Purple today, by the way. Dignity and pride. But I had a feeling I was about to lose both.

“Earth to Jude?” Grayson slurred, elbowing me in the chest.

Ouch. I shot him a dirty look. “Yeah?”

“Is it just me, or does it look like he’s flirting with another woman?”

“I don’t care.” I jutted my chin out.

“Yeah, we didn’t think you would. But his fiancée might.” Ava blinked, staring at me like I was a weirdo.

Which I was. Of course they’d meant Lily and not me. Suddenly, I felt very tired and very hungry—like the air was dense with misery, soaked with toxins. Every breath was lethal. I grabbed Gray’s Bacardi and tossed it back in one gulp, then slammed it against the bar. “My headache is getting out of control. I’m going to the restroom to wash my face and pop some Advils. Be right back.”

I wobbled my way on a path to the ladies room, which took me by Célian and the mystery brunette. Once I was close enough to them, I slowed my pace, hearing them speak in French. The words rolled off of their tongues, and my vindictive heart nearly burst into flames. Here he was, pulling the same old trick he’d used on me while his fiancée was sitting at home, making plans, dreaming about their future. Fake or not, he was still in a relationship. Parading with women in bars was in bad taste.

Since I didn’t actually need to pee, I settled for pacing in the bathroom, stewing in my own anger.

Did I need my job?

Yes.

Was I excited to be working in a newsroom?

More than anything else in the world.

I still hadn’t told my college friends, but I knew they were going to go crazy when they heard the job I’d snagged at LBC. None of that mattered right now, though, and maybe it was the Bacardi I’d gulped on an empty stomach, but confronting him seemed like a terribly good idea.

Emphasis on the word terribly.

I darted out of the bathroom and pushed through the crowd. Once I got to Célian, I tapped his shoulder. He turned around in slow motion, his smug smile undeterred, even when he saw my face, charred with agony. The woman next to him shot me an interested look, but didn’t say a word, cradling her glass of white wine.

“Humphry,” he said.

“Laurent,” I quipped, feeling bold. “Does she know?”

“Know what?” His lips broadened into an even wider grin, but that meant nothing. Célian was always nonchalant. A meteor could be speeding toward Earth at the speed of light, crashing and killing all of us in exactly two hours, and he still wouldn’t skip the foreplay when he took this girl to his presidential suite for their sexcapade.

“Any of the following things, really. One—” I jerked my thumb up. “That it’s your thing. You pretend to be a French tourist and take women to a hotel suite for the night, even though you’re American, born and bred. Two—” I pointed my forefinger at him. “That you have a fiancée waiting back home, and three—”

I gave him the middle finger, narrowing my eyes as I tried to come up with something… There was a three. I was certain of it. Unfortunately, I’d forgotten what it was.

He stared at me expectedly, his smile threatening to slice his face in half. I never realized he was so devastatingly dashing and boyish. His smile felt like a deep, lazy kiss under a perfect sunset.

“Three doesn’t matter right now,” I amended. “Does she know those other things?”

He turned to his companion and stroked his chin, looking thoughtful. “Do you know all those things, cuz?”

Cuz?

She offered me her hand, and I shook it, my mouth agape. “Hi. I’m Emilie, Célian’s cousin. I study fashion here in New York. First year. Célian is helping me… ah, what’s the word?” she said in her ridiculously enchanting accent. “Settle in.”

She squeezed his forearm, and I saw it in the way they looked at each other. Family. I began to look for a rock under which I could hide for the next decade.

I pretended to gravely consider this new information while stroking my chin. “Hmm, yes. Célian is definitely good at settling.” Someone shut me up. Anyone. Please. Bartender?

I was ripping into his relationship, and playing Russian roulette with my job.

“You’re too kind.” He ran a seemingly friendly hand along the back of my arm, his rough palm sending waves of lust to my lower belly, dampening my panties. “Humphry, in contrast, excels at looting.” His tongue moved across his upper teeth, like the bad wolf he was. “Practically stealing all the dirty headlines from our competitors.”

I took a cautious step back. Why did I have to be so impulsive? Why had I assumed the role of his fiancée’s keeper? I had a sick father to take care of at home. Luckily, Célian didn’t look even half offended by my antics. I wondered if it was because I’d slayed the South Korean pop star assignment. His attitude toward people did seem to stem directly from their performance in his newsroom.

“I think I’m going to go.” I swallowed.

“Good thinking. You should do it more often.” He reached for his whiskey casually. “Enjoy your night, Chucks.”

“You too, Mr.… Laurent. Boss. Sir.”

I wish I hadn’t been standing on my feet. Shoving one of them into my mouth seemed like a great way to put a lid on this conversation. I made my way back to Ava and Grayson. Luckily, they hadn’t noticed the Célian debacle. They were too busy arguing about the merits of saffron lollipops as a weight-loss method. They were so engrossed in the subject, they didn’t even notice when the bartender slid me a plate with a roast beef sandwich, a bottle of whiskey, and three glasses.

He leaned down. “From the gentleman three seats to your left. He said to tell you that you should eat your meat.”

My heart cartwheeled, finishing its flip with an Olympic bow.

It’s okay. I can’t fall in love. Mom said so herself. What I’m feeling right now is a mixture of nausea, heartbreak from Milton, and guilt over what happened with an engaged man. The Bacardi certainly didn’t help, either.

I didn’t know if I should be mad, flattered, or crushed by his gesture. But I was starving, desperate for a drink, and dizzy from low blood sugar. I was also oddly relieved to know Célian was going home alone tonight. I didn’t want to be a charity case. But Célian wasn’t privy to how bad things were at my home. He had no way of knowing how dire the situation in my bank account was. My decision was made when the smell of pan-seared roast beef crept into my nostrils. I tore into it like a wild animal. Ava and Grayson stopped the chatter and stared at me.

“Did you just order a bottle of whiskey that’s worth two hundred bucks?” Grayson slurred, launching into a fit of hysterical laughter. Ava was busy cracking it open and pouring each of us a generous glass.

“I…ah, I’m celebrating getting over my migraine,” I mumbled around a hot piece of roast beef and the lettuce in my mouth. “Not the untimely death of a pop star.”

“God bless Advil, right? And handsome bosses.” Ava swiped her eyes along my chest, like she could see the thing inside of it stumbling all over the place, drunk as she was. The way her lips curved knowingly made me wonder if she had caught some of my exchange with Célian.

“I’m just glad the headache is gone.” I filled my mouth with more food. Talking wasn’t doing me much good at this point.

“Your boss is about to be gone next.” She drank in my reaction, and I gave it to her, my curiosity getting the better of me. I tilted my head to the side, catching Célian helping Emilie into her jacket as they made their way to the door.

“Seems so.” I picked a cherry tomato from my plate and popped it into my mouth. I sneaked one last glance at him, even though it was wrong. Even though he wasn’t mine to look at.

Célian ushered his cousin into an Uber, kissed her forehead, and tapped the roof in goodbye. Then, as if my gaze was an invitation, as if he could feel it on his back, he turned around and stared directly at me from the bar’s window. Our eyes locked, and everything stopped.

I’m not for the taking, my eyes said.

That’s for me to decide,his hissed.

“You still want to tell us there’s nothing going on between you and Bossman?” Grayson taunted from the periphery, his voice crawling into me, rattling something I was trying hard to keep dormant.

I opened my mouth, ready to defend myself, but the lie wouldn’t come out.

Sundays were library days.

Days of echoed silence and old ink and yellow paper. Of munching on sweets and stealing glances at eager, young students, reading and writing away their future, one word at a time.

Today, Dad had practically pushed me out the door. He’d made some excuse about me getting some Vitamin D, but it wasn’t even that sunny. Nonetheless, I figured he wanted time alone. The apartment was small. Besides, getting some me-time to think wasn’t the worst idea I’d had. I also needed to read more about the Sudanese crisis. I’d felt a little unequipped and uninformed this week when we’d discussed it in one of our rundown meetings. Célian shot facts from his sleeve at a speed I could barely register. Not only did he have the general knowledge of Google, but he delivered it with the charisma and finesse of Winston Churchill. I’d wanted to curl up like a kitten under his desk at that moment and listen to him talk all day.

That sounded degrading, even in my head, but it didn’t make it any less true. Hell, at night, when I turned off the light and looked out my window, I imagined myself sucking him off as he wrote the latest newscast. The man’s mind was even sexier than his looks. He was an amazing sight to behold, in and out of the newsroom.

“It’ll be a long time before you stop thinking about my cock every time you masturbate at the end of a long workday under your cheap covers.”

God, I hated him.

And he was three-carat engaged.

I settled into a chair and chewed into a retro foam mix of sunny side ups and banana-shaped candy, flipping pages. Two hours passed before my head finally lifted from the magazine I was reading. I could have stayed like that forever, but a shadow had darkened the glossy pages. I snapped the magazine shut and stared back at a stranger’s face.

“Hello.” His smile was lopsided. Lazy, but kind.

“Uh…hello.”

He looked familiar, yet somehow I knew I’d never met him before. If I had, I would remember. Tall. Attractive. With blond curls, deep-set blue eyes, and a tan that could only be the result of endless days in the sun. He looked to be a little older than me, maybe late twenties, and a whole lot sweet, with life-earned creases around his mouth and eyes. When he smiled, he did so with his entire face, and I found myself smiling, too.

“Sorry to interrupt, but…you snagged the last copy of The Times.” His grin was dimpled, like I knew it would be.

I stuttered an apology and handed him the paper, which I’d already read. “Sorry.”

“Never apologize unless it’s warranted. Besides, we seem to be sharing the same interests.” He glanced at my desk.

“Mine’s work.” I felt the need to explain, as if my usual hobbies consisted of being suspended in the air by nothing but nipple clamps and swimming with sharks.

“Mine too,” he beamed. “Where is work?”

“LBC.”

“The coincidences continue.” He wiggled his brows.

Hey, Jesus? Did you send me someone to get over my obsession with CélianLaurent?

“Girl, I’m not even talking to you after the last few weeks.”

“Really?” I cleared my throat, straightening in my seat.

I mean, he could be working for the website three floors up. But he seemed like the kind of guy who didn’t have an office job. He took the seat in front of mine, leaning forward and thumbing through the magazine I’d just dropped. “Yup. Just got back from a stint in Syria yesterday. I’m catching up on things now. And, of course, eating my body weight in Katz’s cheesesteak.”

I laughed. “That good?”

“You never had it before?” His eyebrows shot to his forehead. “We’ll need to rectify that as soon as possible, before you get your New Yorker card suspended.”

“I’m Jude.” I offered him my hand. He took it and kissed the inside of my palm—which was ten times more intimate than doing it the right way—and the butterflies I thought could only flutter for my boss stirred in my chest, stretching their wings, albeit lazily.

“Phoenix Townley.”

“Just like James Townl—” I started, before pulling my head back to examine him thoroughly. So that’s why he looked so familiar. His father was the anchor, or Mr. Numbers for the high ratings he scored every night. Now I was the one beaming, and it felt strange, but good. Like someone had unlocked a new setting for my face.

“I can see the resemblance. I like your dad a lot.”

“Ditto. Well, most of the time.” He reached for my candy bag without asking and bit a foam banana in half. “Another hour of fine reading and then a trip across town for that cheesesteak?”

It was scary, the way I accepted the invitation with little to no additional thought. Jude Humphry was a calculated girl. She’d been shaped and molded through the heartache of knowing how unpredictable life could be. I wasn’t planning on dating anyone anytime soon, especially after the entire Milton fiasco. Part of me didn’t even know if I should. If I wasn’t going to fall in love, was there really a point in trying?

But Phoenix was nice, and he seemed to be easygoing and fun. He would make a good friend. And, not only was I single, but the man I pined after was engaged—full-blown about to marry someone else. Not to mention, he was into an open, uncommitted relationship, and I wanted more. I needed more. Maybe Phoenix Townley was exactly what the doctor ordered. Maybe he would rise from the ashes of my love life and defy my mother’s curse.

We read together, then left the library with arms swinging. And even though it didn’t feel like he could reach into my chest, grab my heart, and pull it from my body like a certain news director could, I still enjoyed my time with Phoenix.

“Can I ask you one question?” I stopped when we got to the deli.

He pretended to weigh that for a second. “Okay, go ahead.”

“Why did you come back?”

He looked down and pulled up the long sleeve of his shirt, and a tattoo of a girl I didn’t recognize smiled back at me from his inner forearm. “Time is too precious not to be spent with the people you love most. I learned that the hard way. Because of her.”