Dirty Laundry

by Lauren Landish

  Donnie smiles at Elise like she's prey he's preparing to devour, but even though he's insulting her, I’m the real target here. I know that with every bit of dread running through my blood right now. My fingers tighten on the arms of the chair, and it’s only thirty years of self-control that prevent me from grabbing him and jacking him up right now.

  Francesca interrupts, puffing up even more as she giggles, but the sound is more mean-girl than sweet. "You really should be more aware. I followed you for days . . . to Keith's, to the cabin, to dinner, to the mall. The cabin was a little hard, but nothing a good telephoto lens couldn’t fix. And you never suspected a thing!"

  “You backstabbing, dirty little bitch—” Elise says, starting to get up, but Donnie claps, getting our attention again.

  "So, as Francesca was following you, looking for the dirt you were supposed to be finding, we discovered something rather interesting. It didn't take long to figure out that you two are sleeping together. A bit salacious to fuck the talent, Elise, and definitely a bit of slumming on your part, Keith."

  "Fuck you, you fucking dirt-peddling slimeball,” I growl. “So what if two consenting adults are having sex? Is this what passes as shocking news these days?"

  Donnie laughs, looking at me like I'm dense. "Well, it could be a good story. Trust me, as they say, sex sells. But more important is what it led us to discover. It seems that in addition to fucking a tabloid reporter, you seem to be doing it to buy her silence . . . about your twelve-year-old daughter."

  I can't stop the growl that tears from the depths of my chest, and I hear Elise gasp next to me. I'd known walking into this tonight that this was probably what was coming, but hearing it straight from this asshole’s mouth is more than I can take. I’m going to tear his heart out and shove a crystal bowl of jellybeans in its place.

  "Whatever you think you know, you'd best keep your fucking mouth shut about it," I threaten, my lip curling.

  Donnie steeples his fingers, regarding me coolly as he opens a file folder on his desk, spreading out picture after picture, along with detailed reports of our outings. "If I had a dollar for every person who’s threatened to kick my ass over what I find out, I’d be rich enough to get out of this gig and retire,” he says, pushing the photos toward me.

  They’re sharp, hi-def, and show a variety of things. Sure, there are a few of me and Elise getting romantic . . . but what’s even more hurtful is me hugging Carsen. Of us at the restaurant. Of me with my little girl. There are others too . . . of Carsen by herself, or with Sarah when she’s getting picked up. “There are a couple of possibilities here, but what happens is totally up to you."

  "What do you want?" I snarl, only the thought of ending up in jail and Child Services taking Carsen away from me keeping me in my chair.

  "Well, this can go one of two ways, and I'm being gracious enough to let you choose,” Donnie says greasily. “Option one, you will pay me a half-mil each year that you want this secret to stay quiet. My understanding is that Carsen’s twelve. So probably, you’ll want to wait until she's at least eighteen. So let’s say $3.5million to make it easy?”

  “You son of a bitch,” Elise rasps, but Donnie plunges on.

  “Option two, I'll publish an exclusive story breaking the news of your secret child and the relationship you had to keep it quiet. Either way, I win. I get money from you directly or I get notoriety for breaking a huge story and make money on clicks and sales. Win-win either way for me."

  I'm furious, and it's taking every bit of my control to keep from jumping over this desk and pounding this weasel's face. Elise is mad too, but not nearly as controlled as I am.

  She's like a screeching wildcat, vaulting out of her chair to slam her hands down on the desk, sending Donnie’s jellybean bowl tumbling to the carpet where it bounces. "What the fuck, Donnie? You can't go around blackmailing people! You cannot publish this story. She's just a little girl!"

  Donnie laughs mockingly, his voice pitching high into a screeching falsetto that’s clearly a mockery of Elise’s voice. "You can't blackmail people! She’s just a little girl!" He laughs again, leaning back in his chair. "Of course I can. You think this is the first story to get squashed this way? If only you knew the celebs and their secrets in my little black book of dirt. So many juicy stories, all ready to be hung out like dirty laundry for everyone to consume. Or, for the right price, washed and sanitized and never to see the light of day. Why the fuck do you think I stick around this shitrag of a ‘news source’ with the shit pay and bennies? I get ten times that off the books. You can help the Save the Donnie Foundation . . . or the world can find out about you. Your choice."

  I clench my hands in my lap, trying to get ahold of myself. "I'll sue you and this piece of shit tabloid you're running. I’ll burn this place to the ground and piss on the ashes."

  Donnie shrugs, unconcerned. "Go ahead. But since what I'm reporting is the truth, you'll lose. It won't matter by then anyway, because I'll have already published the story and gotten the sales and the money off your secrets. You'll just add fuel to the fire by suing.”

  “And in the meantime, I’ll make sure every sleazy paparazzi I know is at your house. They’ll follow Sarah, try to get interviews and pictures with Carsen. What she’s wearing, which boy in school she thinks is cute. Do I need to continue?”

  He's right, and I hate that he's thought of this from every fucking angle, obviously experienced at doing this while I’m stumbling. Like he said, this isn't his first round of blackmail, and I bet he’s got a basketball team of lawyers ready to cover his ass.

  I feel outplayed. He's planned ahead, and I'm still reeling, hoping this is a nightmare I'll wake up from any minute. All I can think of is kicking Donnie’s ass, and while that might be worth it for a few short seconds, it’ll just land me in a lawsuit. Seeing the resolve on my face, Donnie offers a consolation. "You don't have to decide right now. I suspect getting those kinds of funds prepped is time-consuming, even for someone like you. I'll give you some time to decide. The article is already written, ready to be public with one click if you don't have the money ready to transfer to my account . . . oh, let’s see. Today’s Saturday . . . so how about by five o’clock Monday? Understood?"

  I dip my chin once, knowing I'll need to evaluate the risks of this proposition carefully. I’ve got roughly forty-eight hours to figure out what the fuck to do, and I figure I’ll need every minute. “Fine. Elise, let’s go.”

  “See you at work Monday morning!” Francesca calls out nastily as we leave the office. We say nothing as we get in the elevator and leave the office.

  The truck ride is awkward until Elise breaks the silence, rating. "I can't believe this! I knew Donnie was a sleazeball, but this is beyond what I'd ever imagined."

  She’s pissed, which helps, but I’m furious, and my mouth is running away from my brain. "Just like a paparazzi, always looking for juicy gossip even it ruins people's lives."

  I see Elise flinch, knowing my comment about Donnie likely hit a little close to home for her too. I clench my teeth, biting back the rest of what I wanted to say as she looks down into her lap, cringing. "I never ruin people's lives,” she says, so quietly I can barely hear her over the noise of my engine. “Just report stupid shit about them. Nothing like this."

  "But even that stupid shit hurts people, Elise,” I growl, watching the road ahead. “Even what you think is stupid can be important to others. All of this started because you reported something seemingly inconsequential, but look what's happened. My buying some fucking maxi pads for my little girl’s first period has turned into a $3.5 million blackmail proposition."

  She makes a small sound, hurt by my words, but I'm angry, lashing out. "I should've fucking known better,” I mutter, shaking my head as I get off the freeway and head toward my house. “Should've done the fucking articles and sent you on your merry way and you wouldn’t have found out shit. I told myself I wasn't going to get involved while Carsen was young. She's my number-one priority
and I let myself get caught up.” I bang a fist to the steering wheel, frustration and anger bubbling past the boiling point in my veins. “I knew better, I fucking knew better.”

  "Keith, I'm sorry!” Elise cries out, her voice choked with anguish. “Really, I am. But this isn't my fault. Maybe we should've been more careful, but it was bound to come out eventually. You can't keep her a secret forever!"

  "Like hell I can't! I've kept her hidden for ten fucking years!” I half yell, pulling over and glaring at Elise. “We were doing just fine until I thought I could have more, and look what's happened! I hurt the one person I’m supposed to protect!"

  Elise blinks, her eyes looking like I just slapped her. Her eyes brim with tears, but she’s too strong to cry, and instead, her face hardens. "I think you should take me home."

  "Fine."

  Neither of us says anything as I turn at the next light, pulling up to the curb by Elise's apartment five minutes later. She's out before I even put it in park, stomping toward the door, her hurt morphing into fury.

  I’m so angry I don’t even watch her go inside, just peeling out from the curb to get away from this nightmare that’s become real. The ride home is maddening, my mind replaying everything Donnie said about my options and then hearing everything Elise and I said when we fought.

  Yeah, I know I was in the wrong to say she started it. But I’m not exactly in my right mind. I’m not pissed at her. I’m a grown ass man and it was my decision to let Elise in. I’m just pissed about the situation and that I can’t rewind time and figure out a way out of this.

  Getting home, I walk inside and am instantly surrounded by silence. Sarah’s at home, Carsen’s at her sleepover, and Elise . . . isn’t here. I have a momentary thought to have Sarah pick up Carsen early, just to be safe, but I hold off knowing that if her world is about to implode, she deserves one more night of innocent fun.

  Sitting on the couch, I put my head in my hands. The quiet void surrounding me echoes the emptiness in my heart, which is quickly filling with anger. Not at Elise, not at myself even, but where it should be directed . . . at Donnie and his scheming. How did this get so fucked up?

  Chapter 23

  Elise

  What the fuck just happened?

  In the thirty minutes I’ve been home, I feel like that question keeps coming back into my head, like I’m stupid drunk or something and the world just isn’t making any damn sense.

  Donnie wants to blackmail Keith. And according to what I heard from the slimy, jellybean scarfing son of a bitch, he’s done this before. Maybe lots of times. I always knew Donnie was an asshole, but every good editor has a strong streak of that in them. Can’t get to that job without it.

  But there’s being an asshole . . . and there’s this. And while I’m so disgusted with Donnie that I’m not even thinking of going to work on Monday, I'm hurt most by Keith.

  He blames me for this shitstorm, or at least for starting the snowball down the hill. And from a certain point of view, he’s right. But I've done nothing but help him hide Carsen since I found out about her, actively lying to Donnie and putting my job in jeopardy by not reporting it in the articles. Hell, I went to him with ideas for out and out lies to use that he could live with so that he could keep Carsen a secret!

  It doesn’t matter. Even if he's mad at me, I'm going to help him. I have to. I love him and Carsen, and I'll do whatever it takes to help them. That’s what love’s supposed to be, doing the right thing and taking care of those you love, even if it hurts you.

  So that means I’m going to step up and do anything. Except pay the money, obviously. I don't have that kind of cash. I never really even considered whether Keith did either.

  His fame, his wealth hasn't been a factor in our relationship at all. I love him for the bossy, intense, protective way he loves me and Carsen, not because of some sordid angle he’s manipulating like Donnie insinuated.

  I spend hours lying on the couch, not sleeping but just tossing and turning as I think, testing and discarding every idea my brain comes up with, my frustration growing as I think through the whole situation from every angle.

  I flip-flop between anger, raging at the empty room around me, to crying in frustration, hot tears slipping down my face. It’s just not right, it’s not fair. Somewhere around midnight, I have an epiphany.

  I need help, someone to bounce ideas off. And Keith doesn't want to talk to me right now. But right and fair . . . innocent ideas in a sadly dark world. I know someone brilliant who might be able to work some magic for me. Someone right, a little innocent, and whose sense of justice and fairness will make sure I might actually have a chance to conjure up righteous justice out of thin fucking air.

  With crossed fingers, I call Maggie. She picks up after three rings, the background of her call telling me what’s up even before her falsely abrasive voice comes on.

  "This better be good because it's the middle of the night and I’m at work."

  "Maggie, I need your help. Can you come over?"

  Maggie’s voice immediately changes, going back to the kind, open voice that I know and adore. "Elise, are you okay?"

  "Yeah,” I reply, glad I didn’t take a left turn into Crazy World where Maggie’s a jaded bitch like she sounded at first. “I just need your brain. Can you come?"

  Maggie sighs, and I know the answer. "Not for a while. Closing’s at two and then I have to clean up. Want to come to the club? It might actually help my cover, if you don’t mind. Otherwise, I won’t be able to get there until three thirty at the earliest.”

  I look down at myself, already schlubbing in sweats and knowing my face is red and splotchy from the tears. What the hell, it’s not like anyone’d expect me to be going to see Maggie . . . not where she’s undercover. “Yeah, it’ll take me a bit to get presentable. But I’ll meet you there. I’ve never been to a strip club, Maggie. What should I wear?”

  Maggie sounds happy, and she probably is. “Nothing flashy. You’re better off if you don’t take attention from the working girls. They’re . . . touchy. Just jeans, something casual and comfortable. Tell them you’re looking for Megan.”

  I nod, then remember she can’t see me. “Okay, I’ll be there in a few.”

  After I hang up, I take her advice and keep it simple, just jeans and a t-shirt, not dumpy but not flashy. My hair and face are a lost cause, though. Five minutes of scrubbing only makes my cheeks and eyes look like I’m tweaking out or something. I pull my hair into a poufy messy bun that takes advantage of a freshly fucked look and slick on little bit of lip gloss. Looking in the mirror, I know it’s barely passable, but fuck it. It’s all I’ve got in me right now, and I head down to catch a ride over to the club.

  The Uber driver gives me an odd look when he pulls up, verifying the address. I smile. Guess he doesn’t drop off many single women to a female strip club at one in the morning.

  The bouncer at the door looks like a monster, muscled and tattooed and looking more like an MMA fighter than a late-night doorman. His biceps are bulging against the crisp white button-down shirt he has on, his black jeans are slung low on narrow hips, and his boots look heavy enough to crack a skull with a solid kick. He’s intimidating. Every pore of his body exudes a dangerous coolness that lets you know up front that he could fuck you up and walk away without a scratch. Oddly, it reassures me. There’s no way shit goes down in this club without Mr. Chill here taking care of it. Maggie couldn’t be safer, and in re-evaluating him, I guess you could call him handsome in his own way. Kinda the way a lion is pretty . . . from afar, and when it’s not looking at you like dinner. I’m not sure how this guy is looking at me though. His eyes are hidden behind mirrored shades, probably for the intimidation factor.

  He obviously notices me though, raising an eyebrow just enough that I can see it over the rim of his glasses as I approach. “You here hunting your man?” he rumbles in a voice that promises violence if someone pushes him too far. “We don’t want any old ladies causing problems.”
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  I shake my head, giving him the most reassuring smile I can muster right now. “No, just meeting a friend. She works here . . . Megan? Short, pretty, and sweet as pie?”

  The smile he gives is so fleeting that if I wasn’t watching his face intently, I’d never know his mouth had even twitched a quarter-inch at the edges or that his chin dipped maybe a half-inch. “Meg’s here, all right. I’ll waive the cover for you since you’re her friend.”

  I nod my thanks and step inside, uncertain about this but desperate for help. Inside, it’s dark and smells like a mixture of stale beer and floral perfume with an undercurrent of cigarette smoke that immediately scratches at the back of my throat. When Maggie told me she was working at a strip club, the first thought that came to my mind was sleazy, but the tasteful decorations and the women I can see are way too high-quality for that label. Maybe . . . erotic? I’d need my thesaurus at home to really get it right.

  The music is thumping, the heavy bass pulsing through my chest as a stunning woman wearing black heels, lingerie that basically consists of a few skinny strings, and a seductive smile is twirling and working up and down a pole on stage. It’s an amazing display of strength and grace, and the acrobatics momentarily stun me, but when someone bumps me from behind, I remember to move and work my way toward an empty table off to the side.

  There’s no way I’d want to be close to the action here, looking at the leering faces of the jackals surrounding the stage. It’s a shame too, because for all of the sexual arousal hanging in the air, the dancer’s routine is as beautiful and elegant as it is sexy.

  Randomly, a thought pops in my head to check out a pole fitness class, but before it can solidify, Maggie struts up. She’s glittery still, but at least she’s wearing a top and clothes, although I don’t think I’ve ever imagined Mags in a black bustier top and miniskirt before. “Hey, honey! You made it, you must really need some help. Want me to grab you a beer, or do you need something a little stronger?”