Filthy Headlines by Cassie Mint

Ten

Grant

Idon’t listen to her voicemail for three days. And good thing, too, because when I finally hear her say my name, her voice taut with sorrow—

I shatter.

One grueling run, one ice cold shower, and one fist through my office wall later, I make it through the whole message. It’s bullshit, obviously. More lies, nothing but lies, and I hang up with a bitter taste in my mouth.

I swig from my takeout coffee, bruised knuckles throbbing, but even the coffee is ruined for me now. It makes me think of her, and seeing her in that cafe with him.

The reporter. A friend, she’d said. And as it turns out, her boss. I thought his name was familiar, and now I know why.

I wasn’t paranoid—I was perceptive. Better than I’d given my injured brain credit for.

Too fucking good to be true.

Fine—so I listened to her message. I caved to temptation, to my addict’s need to hear her voice one more time.

Now I can move on.

Of course, I can’t actually forget about her. Not when this woman who lied to me holds the future of my company in the palm of her hand. So many of the small things I told her could wreck my future—the truth of my injury most of all. I’m at Sasha Jones’ mercy, and it sets my teeth on edge.

“Come on,” I find myself muttering every morning in the office, clicking through the business headlines. My heart is a festering lump in my chest. “Do it. Publish it all. Get it over with.”

Put me out of my misery.

Down the hall, my new assistant murmurs into her phone. She’s unremarkable, thank god. And I have a new head shot pinned to my monitor.

Even if I hadn’t told Sasha all those things, freely handing over pieces of myself like a love-struck idiot, the things I did are enough to ruin me.

Kissing her.

Touching her in the back of my car.

Spreading her open on that desk.

Fuck.

Those things didn’t feel sleazy at the time. They felt—miraculous. Like being struck by lightning, over and over, my veins crackling with energy and light. But I can picture the headlines, imagine what she’ll write, and I’m disgusted. With myself, with her… with it all.

“Well played, Sasha Jones.”

I can’t help but admire her cunning, if nothing else.

No one else ever got past my walls.

* * *

I break after two weeks. Two weeks of checking the headlines each morning, one eye screwed shut, a headache already squeezing my skull. Two weeks of nothing, barely a Google alert for my name, and I can’t take it anymore.

Whatever she’s got planned… it must be big.

It’s bright when I step out onto the sidewalk. A clear day, the first in weeks, and watery sunshine bathes the street. I’d planned on taking the car, but when the fresh breeze ruffles my hair, I shove my hands in my pockets and set off on foot.

Spring is coming.

When did that happen?

A few people recognize me as I pass by, and I remember too late why I usually take the car. They blink, nudging each other and whispering, a couple even digging for their phones; they snap photos like I’m some wild animal, a panther escaped from the city zoo.

It’s irritating. So stupid, I can’t help but glare, but it’s nothing out of the ordinary. They’re not life-ruining-headlines stares.

Sasha’s apartment is a half hour walk from the office. She walked this route so many times, in those merciless heels at first, and then in the sneakers I bought her.

It’s pathetic, but I can’t help picture it: her golden hair braided over one shoulder, or tied up in an intricate bun, glinting in the glass store windows as she strode along the paving stones. The scrape of her heels; that ridiculous bag weighing down one shoulder.

I imagine her hopping over puddles, weaving around streetlamps and bus stops, and without meaning to, I walk faster.

I’m going to speak to her.

That’s all.

It occurs to me too late that it’s past 9am on a Tuesday. She’s probably at her job, her real job, typing up an article to ruin me, or else digging into some other poor bastard’s business. But I’m almost there now, rounding the corner onto her street, and the only thing more ridiculous now would be to turn back without buzzing her door.

The steps leading to her building are pale stone. Washed clean by the rain. Black railings line the steps, wrapped in ivy vines. It suits her so well—classic but pretty—and there’s an ache deep inside me when I ring her bell.

She won’t be home, but I hover anyway, fists squeezing tight in my pockets. And as I rock on my heels, preparing to leave, there’s a click and her voice floats through the speaker.

“Hello?”

“Sasha.” Her sharp inhale makes me wince. Is she scared of me now? Was she always? “I’d like a word, if I may.”

“S-sure.” She unlocks the door with a buzz, but I shake my head, even though she can’t see me.

“Maybe you could come down.”

If I go up there, I’ll never leave.

It takes an eternity for her footsteps to drift through the front door. How many flights does she live up? Does she not have an elevator? I back up to the edge of the stoop, forcing my face carefully blank, and wait for my first glimpse of her in weeks.

The door swings open.

My stomach swoops.

Sasha looks… wrecked.

Dark shadows cling beneath her eyes, while her normally pristine hair is scraped back in a messy ponytail. She’s swapped her delicate blouses and pencil skirts for a paint splattered purple sweater and black leggings that wrinkle at the knee.

“Wow,” I say flatly. “Betrayal suits you.”

She doesn’t even frown. That’s how exhausted she is.

“What do you want, Grant?”

Sasha crosses her arms over her chest, leaning against the door frame like she can’t keep up the energy up to stand. She watches me with those big brown eyes, so resigned, and I hate it.

But I can’t fix this. Neither of us can.

“I want a warning. Call it a professional courtesy.”

Her forehead creases. “I don’t follow.”

“Your article.” I wave a hand between us, agitated. “Or expose, or profile, or whatever it is you’re working on. I’d like you to warn me before it comes out.”

She raises an eyebrow. It’s a flash of her old spirit. “So you can block it?”

“So I can brace myself.”

She sags then, falling further against the door frame, all the stuffing knocked out of her. “Grant. There’s no article. You can stop worrying.”

“You expect me to believe that?”

She shrugs one thin shoulder. Has she lost weight? Is she eating?

“You can believe what you like.”

And: no. That’s bullshit. There’s no way she’s going to just sit on the things she dug up about me. My grudge over my parents’ divorce—my brain injury—everything I did with her, all the while thinking she was my employee. It’s all been whirling through my mind, keeping me up at night, chasing my steps on the treadmill.

Sasha Jones could wreck my business and make her own career in one go.

Like hell is she not writing something.

“I can’t believe Simon—” I can’t help spitting his name, still jealous even now “—would let you waste two months undercover with nothing to show for it. He saw me holding your hand at the gala.”

She frowns at the street past my shoulder. “I told him you were leading me through the crowd. That was all.”

“And he bought that? It’s a terrible lie.”

She sighs. “Probably not. But he can’t force me to write something against my will.”

I stare at her, teeth grinding. Everything about her is so fucking sweet, even these lies.

“You look like shit.”

A tired laugh bursts out of her. “Yeah. Thanks, Grant.”

And I didn’t mean it like that—she’s still the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen—but she looks worn down. Broken and hollowed out. So when I reach for her, hypnotized by the movement of my own hand, it’s so easy to tuck her hair behind one ear. To brush her cool cheek with my knuckle.

Sasha’s face crumples, and that’s it. The tether inside me snaps, and I’m crowding her against the door frame, pressing our bodies together.

Her hands clutch at my shirt, dragging me closer, holding me near, and she buries her face in the hollow of my throat. Breathing me in. My jaw is clenched so tight my teeth ache, and her messy hair tickles my nose, and I’ve missed this so much. Her heat, her scent.

Sasha’s breath puffs against my bare skin. She waits for me to do something. Say something. But I’ve got nothing. I’m coming up blank.

My instincts brought me here—closing the distance between our bodies. But now we’re here, I’ve got nothing more to offer.

Sasha gives up first. She unwinds her arms from my waist, nudging me gently away. And when she peers up at me, her eyes are damp.

“There’s no article. Stop worrying.”

The door slams behind her, her footsteps creaking back up the stairs inside, and I stand rigid, the spring breeze kissing my cheeks.

No article.

Nothing to worry about.

I guess we’ll see.