by Amy Brent
Both men stopped in their tracks, neither wanting to move. “Well the bastard isn’t mine, I haven’t touched her in months.” Brad let her go then and she moved away from him.
Jessie was still looking at her, surprise on his face. She knew he had a lot of questions, most of which she would answer later.
“You know what Jessie; you can have her. She can never quite seem to get herself together. No matter what I do she won’t lose weight or give a shit about me.” He started to leave.
“You were lucky to have me Brad.” She didn’t turn or say another word instead she left into the night to find her car.
The police were there suddenly, easily placing the blame on Jessie. They cuffed him, and took him. Throwing him into a car as he was violently cursing about everything under the sun. She knew he had done nothing wrong, and he would be out in no time.
“Lynne, go make sure everything is fine.” He glanced down at her stomach and back up to meet her eyes. She never responded, she had chance to as they started asking her questions. It was the least she could do for him. She looked over, not surprised to see Brad laughing with one of the officers.
For now, she just wanted to go home. She moved shakily taking a step away from him, and closer to her car… and freedom.
Jessie
He was in a damn cop car. Of all places he had vowed to never find himself back in one of those. He kicked at the seat in front of him, furious. She was pregnant, and he knew it was his. They had spent too much time… He swore under his breath. Somewhere along the way he had fallen in love with her, and he had been a coward to never tell her before now. He had stood there while she sat alone and that alone killed him. He had learned more about himself over the last two months than he had in a lifetime of partying and vengeance.
He spoke to the judge, biding his time until he could go. He knew she would likely leave and he would then be forced to follow her until he figured out where she had gone. If he could just see her he could tell her how he really felt.
When the morning finally came he was out of the building like a light. He slipped into the cab that was waiting for him and went straight to her apartment. He knew she was gone, he felt it before he even knocked but he had to try. She was gone, and with her was his son or daughter. He sighed, he had resources, he had more money than he knew what to do with after all. He would find her just as soon as she settled somewhere. He hated the idea of her being alone, especially when she could be there with him.
Slowly he made his way down the apartment stairs. He wanted to make things right, he wanted her! He realized he had no car and would need to call for one, but for the moment he wanted to walk, to clear his head. He rounded the corner of the small strip mall by her complex. He never really paid much attention to what was there, always passing it by as he’d made his way to her. He looked up and smiled as he passed a bakery. She loved bread, and he hated how she starved herself in the beginning. He loved her now, healthy and beautiful.
He heard the tinkle of laughter in the store. He followed it, hoping to make what he wanted a reality. He saw her there, laughing nervously as the man behind the counter turned over a chunk to her. She was so beautiful it almost hurt him to look at her. He waited, knowing she would come out soon. When she did he watched her pause, waiting for him to say something.
“Wait… before you say anything please let me explain.” He jumped in first.
“Rachel was my friend; a neighbor I grew up with. Brad dated her for a year or so and when he was done he hurt her, badly. She never would tell me what he did but she was horribly depressed after that. I beat the shit out of him for hurting her that way and I did vow to take a girl from him. But the truth is I’ve done that 100’s of times. You are different, and you have been from the moment we first had lunch. I love you Lynne, I have for a long time and I want you to stay… to be with me and let me love you.”
She waited as he spoke and he noticed the tears flowing freely down her face.
“I’m so emotional all the time.” She wailed, but she nodded at him nonetheless and he wrapped her up in his arms.
“You make me a better person Lynne, you make me want to fix the past and focus on the future.” He whispered against her hair.
“I love you Jessie, and I want to be with you too but there I one problem.” She gazed up into his handsome face.
“What’s that?” He frowned.
“I’m going to eat a lot of bread with this pregnancy.” She smiled and he laughed loudly before pressing his lips against hers once more.
CARRYING HIS BABY
“This story isn't right for me,” I told my editor, propping a hand on my hip. “I'm not a sports writer!”
“This isn't a sports story,” Jim said. He sat behind his desk, looking rumpled, his tie half-undone and his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. “It's finance.”
“The guy's a football player!” I threw up my hands, frustrated at being stuck with this crap assignment. I reported on the events taking place on Wall Street, on the financial heights and pitfalls that shook our very economy. I had no interest in interviewing some smug sports player who probably thought he was the best thing ever to grace the face of the earth. Sports players acted like they were gifted, as if God would take the time to make sure they scored the big points at the end of a playoff game and lead them to victory, instead of worrying about the pain and suffering going on in the world. I couldn't see the point of sports, and I didn't want to waste my time, or my column with The Dawson Post, with a story about some athlete I'd never even heard of before today.
“He's also a billionaire,” Jim said. He picked up a page from the open file folder in front of him and skimmed the notes on it. “Not only is he one of the highest paid players out there, he's apparently also a genius when it comes to investing. Played football for Columbia University while studying financial economics. His bio says he was originally going to go into banking, but he was good enough at the game to get drafted. He makes millions per year now as a quarterback and he's invested a bunch of that in risky startup companies that became huge hits on Wall Street. And he just got traded, got a huge signing bonus, put the bonus into the market, and the payoff raised his net worth to over one billion.”
He put down the paper and looked up at me. “I want you to interview him for the finance page. Find out his secrets. Ask him what tips he can offer our readers on investing strategies. That sort of thing.”
I folded my arms under my generous breasts, frowning at Jim. “I don't need to ask him a bunch of fluff questions about winning the Superbowl?”
“Jane, I told you,” Jim said, rising from behind his desk and walking around it to face me. “This isn't a sports story. Hal Masterson has been interviewed a thousand times over the course of his career by every sports page in the industry. But no one,” he shook a finger in my face, “has ever done a story on him for finance. It'll be a hit. Trust me on this one.”
I sighed and lowered my arms to my sides. Jim had his heels dug in on this one, and it seemed like I didn't have much choice in the matter. Though at least, I figured, I could make an interesting story out of it, as long as Hal didn't spend the entire time talking about football.
Jim handed me the folder and I left, heading down the hall to my office. I wasn't happy about being stuck with the Hal Masterson story, but I figured I might as well get it over with as soon as possible. Then I could get back to reporting the real financial news, writing stories about the changing shape of the American economy and making predictions about upcoming shifts in employment trends. The types of stories I'd studied and worked hard at for years to make a name for myself with this paper.
I spent the next few hours in my office, doing research and making phone calls. I always believe in being thorough in my work, so I researched all the major news on Masterson, going back ten years to the day he was first draft pick out of college, on through his rise as a major sports star, and up to the more recent news about his financial windfalls.
Jim had been right about one thing: there was really no financial news on Masterson. There were some reports listing him among the top ten highest paid athletes in the NFL, with a few mentions here and there about his investments and the money he'd made on Wall Street. But all the reports were written by sports page reporters, who focused on his skills at the game, and only mentioned his wealth as a side note.
Once I had enough information to begin building a foundation for my story, I picked up the phone and called the PR office for Masterson's team. When someone answered I put on my most professional tone and said, “Hello, this is Jane Edison with The Dawson Post's Finance and Economics page. I'd like to set up an interview with one of your players, Hal Masterson.”
“Did you say finance and economics?” the woman asked me. Her tone sounded like she was as doubtful about this story as I was.
“That's right,” I said. “We'd like to do a profile on Mr. Masterson, in light of his recent financial success. Talk to him about his investment strategies, how he managed so much success, that sort of thing.”
“Hold on a moment.” The woman set the phone down, though I could hear muted voices coming through the line, as if she were whispering with someone nearby. After a minute she picked up the phone again and said, “I'm sorry, Ms. Edison, but I'm afraid the finance pages aren't really the sort of publicity we're looking for.”
“But—”
“I'm sorry,” she said again, cutting me off. “Thank you for your interest. Have a nice day.”
She hung up on me and I sat there, staring at my phone, a scowl forming on my lips. I didn't want to do this stupid story anyway, but I wasn't about to let this woman just dismiss me like that. I was going to find a way to talk to Masterson, no matter what it took.
I thought about how to proceed. I had some colleagues who had done crazy things to get interviews with sports stars, from stalking them at their homes to sneaking into the locker room after a game, pretending to be a towel boy. That sort of thing wasn't quite my style, however. I needed to approach this from the same angle I was approaching my story: the finance angle.
I smirked as the idea came to me. I looked through my notes until I found the name of one of the companies Masterson had invested in. He had a large number of shares in a company called Jonas General Merchandise Suppliers. GMS had started as a small, family-owned business before their smart online practices and their innovative marketing campaign, which blended social media, video advertising, and traditional marketing strategies, had launched them into a nationwide powerhouse. According to my research, Masterson had first invested in them because he had gone to school with one of the Jonas kids, who now, ten years later, sat on the executive board of their company. There was a connection that I could exploit in order to get my interview.
I located a phone number for Jonas GMS and told their PR representative that I wanted to do a story on their company's rise from a family business to a major corporation. They were only too eager to agree. I jotted down all of the details in my notebook and made the arrangements, then thanked them and hung up the phone.
I looked at the appointment notes and grinned. I'd be able to get a real financial story for my pages by interviewing someone from GMS, and at the same time I'd have the chance to milk them for a connection to Masterson. It was like getting two stories for the price of one.
* * *
My interview with Brett Jonas went smooth as can be. I got all kinds of information about their business, how they got started, and what they had done to grow into such a successful corporation. Masterson's investment had been a big part of their growth; he had dumped millions into the company with the money he'd made playing football, and they had used that money to expand the company and grow to new heights. It hadn't been tough to get Brett talking about Masterson and his role as an investor. Towards the end of the interview, I subtly slipped in the question that had been my real reason for coming here.
“So I know Hal Masterson is a big football star and all, but you say he's still involved with the company?”
“Yes,” Brett said. She was a pleasant woman, with long brown hair and a bit of baby fat still showing around her cheeks. “He's one of our primary shareholders. He doesn't get directly involved in things, of course. But he still has votes at shareholder meetings.”
“Do you think he'd be interested in speaking with me?” I asked, trying to keep myself from smiling too much and giving away my little game. “What with his sports fame and all, a few quotes from him about your company could be a nice way to draw in more readers. Make sure the story gets the attention it deserves.”
“Oh, that sounds like a great idea!” Brett said.
We chatted a bit longer, and Brett promised to contact Masterson personally and ask him to do the interview. I gave her my card and she told me she'd give Hal my number.
Now all I had to do was wait.
A few days later, Hal called me. As soon as I answered the phone, I could tell this guy was too full of himself.
“So,” he said after we made our greetings, “Brett tells me you'd like to do a story about me?”
“Actually,” I said, “the story is about Jonas GMS. But I think your input would be invaluable, considering your history of involvement with the company.” That was a lie, of course. I needed the interview with Hal himself in order to satisfy my editor. But I figured it would be easier to get the information I needed if I played it cool and pretended that Hal wasn't my real goal.
“Ahh,” he said. “Well, that's nice. Brett's a good friend. We were almost a little more than friends, if you know what I mean.”
I rolled my eyes, glad he couldn't see the disgusted look on my face. He was probably the sort of man who always had women fawning all over him. He no doubt thought he was God's gift and that he could get any woman he wanted. Not that I expected him to be interested in a girl like me. He probably dated supermodels. I was a big girl, and while I was comfortable with my weight and confident that I could be both big and sexy at the same time, I knew that some superficial types of men couldn't see past a girl's waistline and realize what a catch she was. My ex certainly hadn't been able to.
“Is this something we can do over the phone?” Hal asked.
“Actually, I'd prefer to meet in person.” Meeting in person meant I could corner Hal into answering whatever questions I needed without him being able to simply hang up on me. And I wasn't planning on being nice in my interview or catering to his stardom.
“Maybe we can do it over dinner?” he offered. “I know a quiet place where we can meet. Nice and private.”
I rolled my eyes. Was this guy really trying to turn our interview into a date?
“I'd prefer a more professional setting,” I told him.
“All right,” he said. “We're playing in Philly next week. We can meet at the hotel, in one of the conference rooms. How's that sound?”
“That sounds perfect.”
We ironed out the details and arranged a time to meet. I'd have the next week to keep digging up whatever I could on Hal Masterson. If there had ever been any dirty dealings or insider trading going on in his past, I planned to find out about it. I doubted that a football player could have become a billionaire without breaking some kind of rules, and if there was any kind of scandal to be uncovered, it would make this story more worthwhile. I just had to do my homework and dig up whatever dirt I could find.
* * *
I arrived at the hotel bundled up in the heaviest coat I owned, a thick scarf wrapped around my face. The snow had started early that morning, and the roads were already slick by the time I pulled into the parking garage. I was hoping that the bridges wouldn't be closed before I finished with the interview. If they closed both the Ben Franklin and the Walt Whitman, I'd be stuck in the city overnight.
I took the elevator up to the ground floor and spoke to someone behind the front desk. They sent me to the conference room Hal had reserved for us. It was big enough to hold a board meeting in, wi
th a long wooden table surrounded by more than a dozen chairs. Far more than we needed for the interview, but it would do.
Hal kept me waiting almost half an hour before he showed up. Apparently big football stars didn't have to worry about being on time. He strolled in like he had all the time in the world, hands in his pockets, a bit of a swagger to his step. He was wearing a silk shirt and pants that had probably cost more money than I made in a week. The sleeves were rolled up, revealing a few tribal tattoos on his arms. I'd never seen a billionaire with tattoos before. It made me wonder if Bill Gates had any.
“Jane?” he asked, extending his hand. I shook it, noticing he had a very strong grip. That wasn't a surprise, considering what he did for a living. “Glad you could make it. Sorry to keep you waiting. If I'd known I had such a lovely lady waiting for me, I would have hurried down here sooner.”
I ignored his flirting. I was here for business, not to get hit on. “Can we get started?” I asked. I sat at one end of the table, with my notebook in front of me and an audio recorder sitting between us. “This won't take long at all. I just want to get some details about your investments, what led you to your financial decisions, that sort of thing.”
He sat down and propped his feet up on the table, crossing one ankle over the other. “Nobody ever asks me questions about money,” he said. “Usually reporters want to know what sort of thing was going through my mind when I threw the touchdown pass that won us the Superbowl last year.”
“I'm not that sort of reporter.”
“I can tell,” he said. He eyed me up and down, his gaze lingering on my large, firm breasts. “You're far sexier than the last reporter I talked to.”
