by Lee Winter
“I have friends.” Ayers folded her arms. The room temperature seemed to drop about ten degrees. “Not at the Daily Sentinel, true. Most are back in Washington.”
“I thought no one wanted anything to do with you after your career went ass up.”
“Charming.” Ayers’s cool gaze latched onto Lauren’s in the shadowy candle light. “Well come on—you’ve been dying to ask. Everyone is. Get it off your chest.”
“I know about that big story you wrote,” Lauren studied her pensively. “The crooked judges and politicians. It was incredible.” She paused. “Until it was all revealed to be a lie.”
“Yes.” Her voice was harsh and cold. “A lie.”
Lauren felt pinned under the gaze and decided it was too late now to back out.
“I was told everyone you knew immediately ditched you as toxic.”
“No,” Ayers said, lips thinning. “Not everyone. I admit it was a curious exercise discovering who would stand by me behind the scenes and who would instantly throw me to the wolves.”
“But no one openly supported you?”
Ayers regarded her. She looked at her meal and pushed her plate away with a sour look. “No,” she said finally. “None openly.”
“Right,” Lauren said. “So they’re not really your friends.”
Ayers leaned forward. “You don’t understand all that happened. Or why.”
“No I don’t. But does that make me wrong?”
Ayers said nothing. Finally she picked up her fork and played with the food on the plate she’d pushed aside, expression flat.
“So is the real reason you don’t make friends anymore is that you don’t trust friendship now?”
Ayers nailed her with a sharp look. “Now you’re making assumptions. It causes problems.”
“Is that what happened with your story? Did you make assumptions about something? Or someone?”
“I’m not going to discuss how it happened.”
“Why not?”
“Don’t push it, King. I mean it.”
“I’m just trying to understand.”
“No, you’re not,” Ayers said and dropped her fork onto her plate. “You’re just like the rest of them. You want your curiosity sated. You want to know how the high-and-mighty Caustic Queen could fuck things up so badly.”
“I—”
“I’m a cautionary tale, or an object of scorn. Or worse, someone to pity. And I’m over it. Then and now. This topic is closed.”
Lauren took a steadying sip of her wine, then placed it gently on the table. “I’m not just curious,” she said. “And I’m not them. I also think you got completely screwed.”
“Of course I did,” Ayers snapped. “When was the last time you saw a male bureau chief publicly humiliated the way I was? Put on gossip writing for god’s sake! Given that mocking column name—Ayers and Graces. Name one man treated like that in the history of journalism!
“I’ll save you the trouble, King. There isn’t one. Anyone in the good ol’ boys club, their paper would have had their back. Would have issued a statement saying it was my first significant mistake in an exemplary career and that they supported me a hundred percent.”
Her eyes flashed with indignation. “You wanted to know why I never resigned? Why I didn’t just crawl away somewhere else and do any job but this?”
“Yes,” Lauren whispered.
“Because it’s their shame, not mine. Theirs. My mere existence in that job rubs their noses in what they did and tells everyone in the industry what sort of man our new publisher is. His misogyny and cruelty are on display to the entire industry every time my byline appears on some shallow party story.
“And even if he doesn’t care how it looks, and even if the entire industry doesn’t judge him for it, there’s another reason. I know what the Boy King really wants, and I’m damn well not going to give it to him.
“Harrington wants me to resign so he won’t have to be remembered as the imbecile who fired the journalist who broke more stories than all his other reporters combined. My demotion was designed to force me to break my contract—the extra humiliation was just a bonus for the bastard. Well to hell with that. I won’t give him the easy out. And I go when I say. Not before.”
She glared, daring Lauren to challenge her.
“I get it,” Lauren said quietly. “And good for fucking you.”
Ayers started.
“I mean it,” Lauren said. “Screw all the ungrateful bastards who loved you when you were bringing in scoop after scoop and selling tens of thousands more papers on the back of your award-winning scandal series.
“And you’re right. Why should you run away and make them feel better? This is, like, some awesome long game you’re playing there. I had no clue at all. So like I said, fuck ’em all.” She paused. “Oh, hey, you want the last slice of garlic bread?”
Ayers shook her head; her eyes revealed her surprise.
“Okay,” Lauren said and snagged it. “Can I ask you something about your contact, though? That guy who got us the meeting with Bourke?”
“What about him?”
“Is he one of those friends you mentioned that you secretly have in Washington?”
“He is.”
Lauren chewed on the bread.
“Well?”
“Huh?”
“You have no poker face, King. What is it?”
Lauren swallowed. “I could be outta line, but I think he helps you because he feels shitty that he didn’t openly support you when the crap hit the fan. He’s like a guilt-ally.”
“You know nothing about him. And people do what they have to in order to survive in politics. I get that.”
“You’re still their shameful secret. It’s wrong.”
Ayers angrily folded her napkin and tossed it on her plate. Lauren studied the downward pull of Ayers’s mouth.
“Look, I just meant that the support would count more if it was done in public. It wasn’t fair what they did.”
“Well…” Ayers said. “The world is rarely fair. You finished?”
She looked at her intently. Lauren nodded, and Ayers waved for the bill.
She took out her credit card.
“Thanks,” Lauren told her.
“No need. I’ll charge it to Frank.”
With the bill settled, they headed to the car. The air was cool as they walked back to the car in silence. They’d just passed a nightclub bursting with thudding house music when loud, boozy shouts shattered the night.
Lauren felt a sharp jolt of fear electrify her, and she lengthened her stride as she blindly reached out to pull Ayers closer to her and shield her from the direction of the shouting.
Three drunken men loomed in front of her. She gripped Ayers’s arm tighter as the men staggered past and headed down a side street, yahooing and laughing at the top of their lungs.
They were harmless, she told herself. Harmless. And nothing like the two at that truck stop yesterday.
“You can let go of my wrist now, King. You’re cutting off my circulation.”
Lauren stared in confusion at the forearm she was clenching and let go instantly.
“Shit! Sorry. I thought…” She shook her head. “I…it’s been a long day.”
“Let’s get to our hotel,” Ayers said gently. “I can drive if you’d prefer?”
“No,” Lauren said. “I’m…fine. Let’s get going before…” She gestured to the now-empty alley. “You know.”
“Yes,” Ayers said as they reached the car. “I do. And I appreciate your concern for my safety.”
Lauren glanced up, expecting to see her usual mocking gleam. Instead she saw a steady gaze and a genuine expression. She nodded in relief then bent down to unlock the car. Yeah. Underneath, women all knew that one fear.
The street l
ights whizzed by in golden blurry strings, and the car radio hummed in the background. Country music? She hadn’t turned that on.
They were only a few minutes from their hotel, but it took that long for Lauren to remember how to breathe normally again.
“You okay?” Ayers asked.
“Yes.” She forced herself to relax her pincer grip on the wheel.
“Still feeling jumpy about those truckers yesterday?”
“What?”
“Eyes on the road, King.”
Lauren snapped her attention back to the asphalt.
“Olencha,” Ayers continued. “The truck stop. In the bathroom, the walls were thin. I heard every word. Every threat made. On both sides.”
“But you never said anything,” Lauren whispered.
“Neither did you. I kept waiting for you to bring it up.”
Lauren shivered. “Why should we both share the nightmare?”
“King?”
“Yes?”
“It’s only been a day. You’re bound to be a bit jumpy. Like at SmartPay when the horn went off. Give it time.”
“Okay.” Lauren stared vacantly at the darkened area.
“You know that was probably the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard in my life. You confronting those men.”
“Thanks a lot.” Lauren pulled into the Grand Millennium’s parking lot and stopped.
“Also the bravest.”
“Oh.” She took in Ayers’s concerned expression. “Not brave. That’s just what people do for each other.”
Ayers shook her head sharply.
“Not all people. Next time, get some backup. Just—don’t do stupid stuff.”
“Thanks for the pep talk.” Lauren undid her seat belt.
Ayers put a stilling hand on her arm.
“What I mean is—thank you for being there. It was unexpected, given how you feel about me.”
Lauren shrugged in embarrassment. “A friend in need and all that.”
“Indeed.”
“Was that a pun?”
“I don’t pun.”
“But are we friends?”
“Like oil and water.” Ayers smiled.
“Flatterer.” Lauren scowled.
“I will admit that you are refreshingly unpredictable when you’re not trying to annoy me.” Ayers studied her for a moment before she suddenly reached over to tug up the mashed collar of Lauren’s borrowed Kors jacket and straightened it. She stared at Lauren intently. “You know, I think my jacket looks better on you than me. You really do it justice.”
Her fingers rested near Lauren’s throat, softly stroking the fabric. Lauren could feel the warmth from her skin.
Ayers’s fingers slid away from the collar, down her arm, and paused on the sleeve.
She gave Lauren a hint of a smile, then slid away, and exited the car. She looked back through the open door and paused before she closed it. “Good night. Lauren.”
Chapter 8 –
In the Crosshairs
Lauren woke early the next day. Between having the crap scared out of her by drunken revellers and Ayers’s strangely tactile moves in the car, she’d tossed and turned for about five hours as her brain churned and tried to make sense of things.
She could have done without her own embarrassing meltdown. But Ayers’s response had been unexpected and perplexing.
But then that was Ayers. Lauren rolled out of bed and headed for the shower.
Warm water coursed down her body, and she let her forehead rest against the cool, frosted glass.
Lauren considered what she’d learned over dinner. Ayers had been prepared to endure the most vapid job in newspapers just to flip the bird to the publisher who wanted her gone but was too cowardly to fire her.
Ayers’s sheer ballsiness was breathtaking. So was the deep well of anger that had to fuel it. She clearly hid her true feelings well.
Everyone knew about her snarky side. But her rage? Was her anger at her demotion the reason for her vicious tongue? Or had she always been this way? Lauren wondered who’d know. Maybe Mariella?
She scrubbed some shampoo through her hair as her thoughts drifted.
Soon Ayers would move on from the Daily Sentinel. She had, what? A month? Maybe two left to serve of her contract? What then?
Despite her fall from grace, she had an impressive resume and experience a number of editors would value. She’d find a new job, a fresh purpose. Maybe not in DC, but far away from LA, probably.
An unexpected pang struck, and she paused her vigorous rinsing. Underneath all the barbs, their one-upmanship had made her crappy job a lot more entertaining. She’d miss that if she was being completely honest.
The thought of Ayers’s burning gaze in the car the previous night flashed into mind. The hand against her collar, stroking it. Calling her by her first name for the first time. That strange smile on her lips. What the hell?
Lauren squeezed her eyes shut and leaned her head forward against the glass again. Jesus. Some days were just too hard.
Fifteen minutes later, Lauren was dried, dressed, and still confused. Ayers knocked and poked her head around the adjoining door. “Breakfast,” she announced. “It’s just arrived.”
She turned, not catching Lauren’s nod, clearly assuming she would be right behind her.
Lauren picked up the Kors jacket she’d borrowed yesterday and followed. She placed it carefully on the back of a chair in Ayers’s room.
“Thanks,” Lauren said and gave it a pat.
Ayers offered a nod and reached for her coffee.
Lauren dropped beside her onto the sofa in front of the coffee table laden with food and plucked a slice of toast.
Ayers cleared her throat. “This came with breakfast.” She pushed a piece of paper toward Lauren. “It’s as expected.” She forked an orange segment from her fruit salad and watched.
Lauren unfolded what appeared to be a fax, with a logo from the Office of the Governor of Nevada prominently on the left hand corner. She read to herself.
An internal investigation is underway into the apparent theft of $100,000 from a Nevada Legislature account. Governor Freeman and his office are co-operating fully to bring the matter, which they had no prior knowledge of, to a swift conclusion. No further comment will be made at this time.
Lauren placed the press release on the coffee table.
“Butt covering,” Ayers noted. “Putting it on the record that they knew nothing. You see they haven’t once mentioned the police? Or how the funds somehow just walked, bypassing bank security?”
“Who are they co-operating fully with then if not the police?” Lauren asked.
“Their internal investigators.”
Lauren shook her head. “I thought they were the blameless victims in all this? But no cops? Really?”
“They probably will go to the police once they’ve worked out what damage minimization strategies to put in place. They’re still getting ready. And I’m sure they’re praying we won’t publish our story until they know exactly how to spin this in a way to leave them fallout free.”
“So why send out a media statement at all?” Lauren asked. “Isn’t that only alerting everyone? Have we just lost our exclusive?”
Ayers smiled.
“Bottom of the page, in five-point type.” She tapped a line. “It’s just for us. See? DSentl.doc? As in Daily Sentinel. And the time stamp on the fax shows this was put together after we met Bourke. This is a personalized press release for a party of two.”
Lauren exhaled in relief.
“Well, I suppose we’re doing something right if we merit an official comment—even a crappy one like this. But where does this leave us?” she asked, spreading her toast with peanut butter.
“We have a confirmation now of the amount stolen,” Ayers said. “And the
y’ve confirmed they also suspect it came from Nevada government money. I’m sure they’d love to have dodged that admission, but you were so adamant to Bourke about seeing government documents they must have decided not to risk an outright denial.”
“You know,” Lauren said, “I think if we just find the account the money came from, we may work out what the hell is going on.” She bit into her toast and began to chew thoughtfully.
“Perhaps,” Ayers said. “But we’re still in the dark until someone decodes those account numbers on that champagne order. We need Sands’s help.”
“On it,” Lauren said, dropped her toast to her plate, and dug out her cell phone.
She called the state of California switchboard, and asked for Jonathan Sands. His phone rang and rang. Just as she was about to hang up, the line clicked, rang once more, and was answered.
“Payroll Department. Mr. Rondell’s office, Kaye speaking.”
Lauren shot a surprised look at Ayers.
“Uh, hi. Kaye? Not sure how I got you. I’m looking for Jonathan Sands?”
“You and everyone else,” the woman said tartly.
“I’m sorry?”
“You one of that Nevada crowd?”
“Well yes, I’m in Nevada and…”
“I thought as much. Listen, ma’am, can you tell the rest of his friends that I can barely get any work done with you all calling now that I’m stuck answering his phone as well as my boss’s.”
“Uh, but I’m not—”
“Ma’am, to be really plain, for the hundredth time, we don’t know where he is or why he ran off. And, no, we have no idea when he’ll be back. All right? Because of the break-in Detective Rankin is making further enquiries. Why don’t you talk to him?”
“Wait, Sands is missing? What break-in?”
Ayers froze and stared at Lauren curiously.
“Who is this?” Kaye’s tone shifted to suspicious. “You don’t know he disappeared a week ago?”
“I’m a journalist with the Daily Sentinel. Lauren King.”
“A journalist?” the secretary repeated. Sounds of scribbling could be heard. “Ms. King, we have no comment about any of this.”
