Liar, Liar, Tabloid Writer

by Suzie Quint

  Marge’s eyes lit up. Her smile was almost shy. “I’m glad he’s not your type.” Then she dropped her gaze and, to Cleo’s amazement, blushed. “He’s not my type either.”

  “What do you think pod people eat for Christmas dinner?” someone asked.

  A swift answer, “Brains, of course.”

  “They’re not zombies, you moron,” the first voice responded.

  They sounded serious, as if they were having a real conversation about real things. It was breathtakingly appalling.

  Marge had lifted her gaze to meet Cleo’s. “Look. Sometimes the guys go to Dante’s after work for a few drinks. If you’d like to go sometime . . . I mean, it’s kind of a dive, but . . .”

  The hopefulness in the woman’s face touched Cleo. Marge obviously felt like an outsider here, just as Cleo did. Before she could accept the invitation, Linny’s shocked voice interrupted them.

  “Marge!”

  She stood five feet away, the file she’d promised Cleo in her hand. Marge shrank under her blazing eyes.

  “Aw, Mierda.” Alec stood behind Linny, taking in the tableau in front of him. He took a deep breath as though he were about to plunge into shark-infested waters and nudged Linny aside. “’Scuse me, Linny.”

  Linny moved just enough to keep from being knocked over, her accusing eyes never leaving Marge’s face.

  “Grab your stuff, Cleo,” Alec said. “We got to go.”

  Cleo wasn’t sure exactly what was happening, but elsewhere seemed like a good place to be about now. She pulled her purse out of the drawer where she’d stashed it. “Where are we going?”

  He didn’t answer, but when she stood, he put his hand on the small of her back and gave her a push to get her moving. In spite of all the distractions, she felt a zap sizzle up her spine. Her breath deserted her the way it did when she jumped into unexpectedly cold water on a hot day.

  The zap left her with no attention to spare for Marge and Linny as she moved past them. Within a few steps, she reached the end of the block of cubicles. Unsure of their destination, she slowed and looked over her shoulder.

  Alec’s mouth was drawn into a grim line. “Keep going.” The pressure from his hand steered her left.

  So she walked, trying to sort out all the things that were contributing to her building confusion. Where was Alec hustling her off to? Why was everyone overreacting to Marge inviting her to the local watering hole? Why in the hell did Alec’s touch sizzle through her as though she’d been tasered?

  She’d just figured out they were headed toward the elevators when Nigel stepped out of his office. “Where are you going?” he asked as they sailed past.

  “I’m getting Cleo out of here for a while.”

  “But it’s only her first day and she hasn’t―”

  “You’ve got other problems.” Alec’s hand on her back didn’t let Cleo slow down. “Linny caught Marge flirting with Cleo.”

  Flirting?

  “She was what?”

  Cleo glanced over her shoulder. Nigel looked like he didn’t want to believe it, then his shoulders slumped. “Oh, bugger!”

  Flirting?

  At the elevator bank, Alec hit the call button. Seconds later, the doors swished open and he propelled her inside and hit the button for the parking garage.

  She backed up against the side wall. The spot on her back where his hand had rested, prodding her on, felt chilled, but the brain fog his touch caused had lifted as well. She wanted to ask about his claim that Marge was flirting with her, but he was leaning against the opposite wall, his appraising gaze pushing her question right out of her head. That look made her feel almost effervescent, as though she’d tossed back a magnum of champagne. The elevator doors swished open before she could sober up.

  He led her to a late-model Corvette. She’d noticed an inordinate number of cars in the garage sported bumper stickers. The one on his rear bumper read: Not perfect—just very very good. It hit her like a dash of reality. He was a reporter—no, not a reporter. How could anyone who wrote about Elvis sightings claim to be a reporter? He was a writer for a tabloid, and if the bumper sticker was any gauge, he thought that made him someone.

  It did make him someone, she reminded herself before all her frustrations built up and made her lash out at him. He was someone she needed on her side. She had to be careful. She forced a smile as he held the passenger door for her.

  For all its sleek looks, the car was a nightmare to get into gracefully. It was slung so low her narrow skirt nearly rose to her waist. She grabbed the hem and still barely managed to avoid giving Alec a free crotch shot.

  When he started the car, the pounding guitar riffs of Aerosmith’s “Train Kept a-Rollin’” erupted from the sound system. He turned it down to background volume before backing out of the parking spot.

  “Where are we going?” she asked.

  “I don’t know. I just needed to get you out of there.”

  Reminded of their hasty exit, she had to ask, “Marge wasn’t really flirting with me. Was she?”

  He shot her a disbelieving look as he shifted into first and headed for the exit. “Are you kidding me? You didn’t notice her practically drooling all over you?”

  “No. I mean, I thought . . .” She should have known. Her only excuse was that the bizarreness of the conversation going on around her had overloaded her synapses. She wasn’t sure he’d understand even if she explained—this was after all his natural habitat. He’d probably heard far stranger conversations.

  She decided looking like an oblivious ditz was the easier choice. “Okay, so I misread the signals. I don’t know why everyone overreacted. I could have handled it.”

  He laughed. “It’s not that simple, honey.”

  Honey? She opened her mouth to tell him she wasn’t his honey, but he forestalled her.

  “Marge is not the problem; it’s Linny you can’t afford to piss off.”

  “But why would Linny care if Mar― Oh. Oh, no.” She really was a ditz for missing that.

  “Oh, yes.” He mimicked her tone as he eased into the street, careful not to scrape the undercarriage as the car cleared the exit. “Marge is Linny’s main squeeze. And Linny doesn’t share worth shit.”

  “But . . . But Linny’s so . . .”

  “Attractive? Sexy? Feminine? Yeah. She’s a lipstick lesbian. They’re harder to spot than the dykes. You’re not homophobic, are you?” He sounded as though he hoped the answer was yes.

  “No, of course not. I . . . well, I . . .”

  “Come from a heterosexual world?”

  “Actually, no.” Not even close. She knew enough to be able to distinguish a lesbian who really meant it from the ones she’d known in college or met in places like the Bahamas and Cabo, who were just playing at it and had every intention of going back to men when they were done with their illicit flings. She even knew a few who were bisexual. A little too well, thanks to the Vegas Strip and her mother’s avant-garde lifestyle. But beyond occasional half-hearted, just-in-case come-ons, she’d never been hit on by a woman before. She’d always assumed they didn’t bother because she redlined the hetero end of their gaydar. “But I don’t swing that way.”

  “Glad to hear it.” He grinned at the road, and she could practically see the thought bubble over his head as he wondered if there was some other way she did “swing.”

  It wouldn’t matter how she swung, she wanted to tell him, because she was never swinging with him.

  Chapter 3

  “So are we going to drive around aimlessly or shall we develop a plan?” Cleo asked.

  “I already have a plan,” Alec said as he made a left turn. “It’s nearly eleven. I figure we grab an early lunch. Then I’ll call Nigel and see if the coast is clear. If it is, we’ll go back to the office. If not, we’ll find someplace else to work.”

  “Do I need to worry about Linny?” she asked.

  “No. When she calms down, she’ll figure out it wasn’t your fault. But she’ll calm down fas
ter without you there. What sounds good for lunch?”

  She didn’t want to eat lunch with him. Especially not out. Her budget didn’t stretch to nice lunches. Hell, her budget barely covered a bucket of fried chicken once a month. And then there was the suit. That she’d had a mental breakdown and worn the slut suit on the first day at her new job was bad enough; she didn’t want to be seen in some “happening” downtown restaurant wearing it. “You know, I’ve been craving pizza for a week―”

  He grinned as he reached for his phone. “Pizza you want, pizza you got. I know a great place.”

  “Why don’t we get it to go?” she said as he punched a number on his speed dial.

  He gave her a cheeky grin. “Don’t want to be seen in public with me, huh? Okay. Where do you want to eat?”

  Her nervous titter sounded phony even to herself, but she plunged helplessly forward with a denial anyway. “I’m not embarrassed to be seen with you. Why would you even think that? I just thought, since it’s such a pretty day”―and it was, especially after Tucson’s ungodly summer heat—“it would be fun to picnic in a park. Somewhere.”

  His eyebrows hiked in disbelief. “You’re not a vegetarian, are you?” But he didn’t wait for her answer because his attention shifted to the phone that had apparently been answered.

  Cleo leaned her head back on the headrest and gazed out the window as he ordered a large meat pizza with extra toppings. She mindlessly watched the buildings go by until his car eased off the street. According to the dashboard clock, she’d zoned out for nearly twenty minutes. She appreciated that he’d allowed her a quiet refuge for her mind when he could have grilled her about her decision to leave The Sun to work at a tabloid. Maybe he had more to recommend him as a human being than a killer tush and socks in his crotch.

  While he got the pizza, she stayed in the car and eyed the bank on the corner, wondering if she had time to run in and deposit the bonus check. She had no idea if he knew about it, but she didn’t want to give him a reason to resent her if he didn’t. She decided not to risk it. When he returned, he put a six-pack of soda behind his seat and handed her the box to hold while he drove.

  “It smells wonderful.” The aroma of tomato sauce and—was that bacon?— filled her nose. She was starving, which shouldn’t have surprised her since her nervous stomach had discouraged her from eating breakfast. She lifted the lid and filched a piece of pepperoni.

  “Hey!” he barked. “No starting without me.”

  She sighed and closed the box.

  Five minutes later, he pulled into a parking spot at the park. “Stay there.” He jumped out and came around to her side of the car.

  “For heaven’s sake, I’ve never met a guy who held so many doors for me.” He not only held the door, but took the pizza and offered a hand to help her out. When she took it, she discovered it wasn’t merely a gesture. His tug gave her the oomph she needed to get her center of gravity moving up and out of the car.

  “I’ve gotten enough grief from women about how hard this car is to get out of that I do my best to counter it.”

  “I can see why. After all, you wouldn’t want to give up a car that . . . compensates so well.” Argh. She was supposed to be nice to him, to get him on her side. Why was that so hard?

  Politeness dictated he step back once she had her feet under her on the asphalt, but he didn’t. He stood in her personal space, his eyebrows shooting upward. “Compensate? I don’t have anything to compensate for, honey.”

  “Keep calling me honey and you will.” The hell with acting nice.

  “Ooh. You’re one of those women, huh? You think me calling you honey keeps you in the pink ghetto?”

  “No. But it’s demeaning. I’m a colleague, not your ‘main squeeze.’” Standing so close, their gazes locked in some ridiculous test of wills, she caught the full impact of his dark eyes. Those damned bedroom eyes. The kind of eyes she wanted looking into hers in the heat of passion. They tempted her to fall into them, and she could almost feel herself sway toward him. She countered the impulse by bracing her feet and leaning away. “How would you like it if I called you ‘stud’ instead of your name?”

  His eyes half closed. Her pulse jumped. “I’m okay with that.” He was close enough that, when he leaned ever so slightly toward her, she could feel the heat of his body against hers. “I can be a lot of fun.”

  That wasn’t hard to imagine. “Have you got testimonials to that fact?”

  “I can get them.”

  What an ego. She couldn’t believe she’d fantasized about this guy for two seconds. “Well, until you do, my name is Cleo, not honey.” She placed a palm against his chest and applied pressure. He gave way and she started for a table.

  The sun was out but it had rained overnight, and the ground was still soft. Her heels kept sinking into the soil, resulting in an awkward gait that pretty much undermined walking away from him with anything resembling dignity.

  He caught up with her in time to see her wobble so badly she half expected to twist her ankle.

  His face tightened. “That’s good thinking, wearing shoes that aerate the soil.” He shoved the pizza box into her hands then, before she realized what he was about to do, he bent, and suddenly, she was folded nearly in half over his shoulder, staring at the grass as he carried her to the table.

  She shrieked and nearly bobbled the pizza box. Afraid her delicious-smelling lunch would end up on the ground, she tightened her grip. “Hey! Put me down!”

  “Quitcher bitchin’. I wanted to be a fireman growing up, so you’re helping me live out the fantasy.”

  She started to reach back and clamp down the hem of her skirt, so it at least covered her ass, but the pizza box twisted, and she had to grab it again to keep it stable. With her dignity already damaged beyond repair, she stopped protesting; he’d only ignore her anyway. That didn’t keep the heat from his hands where he held onto her legs from spreading all the way to her face as a whole different sort of fireman fantasy intruded on her mind.

  Her heart pounded as he carried her to the table. He shouldn’t have this effect on her. He was a frigging tabloid reporter. To her colleagues at The Sun, he was the equivalent of a whore.

  Since she now had the same employer, she’d been trying to avoid thinking in those terms, but not thinking about it didn’t improve the way she saw him. She feared she was a hypocrite for counting her extenuating circumstance as an excuse, but she wouldn’t let herself examine her exemption too closely either.

  Past the swings and slide and an area for skateboarders, the first picnic table was about fifty yards from where they’d parked. Alec didn’t let that he was carrying her slow him down. He’d pay for that, she thought, and she was right. Before they reached the table she could tell from his breathing that he was feeling the strain.

  He dumped her ass a little harder than absolutely necessary on top of the Crayola green table.

  “Is this the part where I swoon over how strong and manly you are?” she asked in a sweet-as-honey voice as she grabbed a napkin to clean the mud from her shoes.

  She suspected the noncommittal shrug she got in lieu of a response was because he was trying to recover his breath without letting her know she’d winded him.

  “I’m a big girl, Alec. I stand five-foot-ten in bare feet. My weight is, well, it’s proportional. So you don’t have to pretend I’m light as a feather. That you didn’t drop me on the way has me properly impressed with your manly virtues.”

  As though he’d been waiting for her permission, he bent forward, braced his hands on his knees, and drew in a whopping deep breath.

  While he got his wind back, she opened the pizza box. The pizza was slightly mangled from the trip, but the aroma wasn’t damaged at all. She took advantage of his disabled state and grabbed a slice.

  The flavor of perfect pizza sauce hit her tongue. “Mhm.” She closed her eyes in ecstasy. “This is fantastic,” she said through a full mouth. Whatever his other faults were, the man knew good
pizza.

  As they ate, he talked about the tabloid, its circulation, and the demographics of its readership.

  When they were nearly done, he said, “Nigel’s starting you out on celebrity stories,” as though she’d pulled the short straw and had to mop up after a drunken frat party.

  In recent years, tabloids had become gossip-centric, focusing more and more on celebrities. The Word had followed the others’ lead to an extent. To her, writing a sensational story about whoever was the flavor de jour instead of one about an alien love child made coming over to the dark side a little less dark. Clearly, Alec didn’t agree.

  “What’s wrong with celebrity gossip?”

  “It’s gossip.” His tone left no confusion about his distaste.

  Talk about the pot calling the kettle black.

  “But at least it’s real.” As opposed to another Elvis Lives! story.

  “That’s the problem.”

  She shook her head, frowning.

  “Didn’t your mother ever tell you not to gossip?” he asked. “That it’s not a nice thing to do?”

  Cleo couldn’t help laughing. Her mother? “Sorry. My mother thrives on gossip. In―” Cleo caught herself. “Where she works, gossip and backbiting are job skills. You can’t get ahead without them.”

  “That’s my point,” Alec said. Her blank expression clearly told him she still didn’t get it. He leaned away from her, giving himself the space to rake her up and down with his eyes. “How old were you when you got tits?”

  “What?” He hadn’t really asked that, had he?

  “With that rack, I’ll bet you weren’t even in high school yet.”

  Her face flushed hot. He had half the story of her life already nailed down.

  “Tough time for you, I bet.”

  She picked up a piece of orphaned pepperoni lying in the box, focusing on it so she wouldn’t have to meet his gaze.

  “Did the girls spread rumors about what a slut you were? I guarantee the boys lied about having felt you up. Some probably even claimed they slept with you. Unless, of course, you really were―”