by Lee Winter
Lauren stared at her phone. They’d been through hell and back, been chased and terrorized, and shared one night of smoking hot sex, and Ayers had distilled it all down to the word indeed.
She peered at the text, waiting for a follow-up. Five minutes went by, then ten. At twenty minutes, and with her buoyant mood starting to flag, she gave up and called Josh to dissect their previous evening’s celebrations. And to find out how she wound up with glitter and confetti in her shoes.
Her phone never did beep again from Ayers.
Frank told Lauren to spend the day doing interviews, promoting the Daily Sentinel, and generally getting the most buzz out of their scoop. She saw nothing of Ayers, but when she turned on the news that night and saw her giving her own interviews on a few other networks, she realized he’d given her the same instructions.
She studied her, watching the way she held herself. She wore a smart charcoal skirt suit, her hair was swept elegantly behind her ear to reveal drop pearl earrings.
So dignified.
Well, that was one word for her. Hot mess were two more, as Lauren recalled her writhing against her, fingernails biting into her shoulders as Ayers gasped for her release while rolling her slippery center against Lauren’s thigh. She remembered that heated gaze devouring her, lips parted a little, sipping on air, as watery rivulets curled a path down her breasts. She could still hear the soft, shuddering moans of Ayers coming apart against her.
Lauren crossed her legs and stared at the cool face. She seemed tired, and she was toying with the ring on her right hand—something she did whenever she was uncomfortable or bored.
She decided to agree to Max’s suggestion for a night out, given the security guard had promised to show her a celebration to remember for crushing the Douche King. That Ayers had been the one to pull the trigger on Harrington Jr. had seemed to matter little to Max, who declared Lauren the “Badass of the Century.”
Thursday, May 30
32 Days Remaining
9:03 a.m.
Lauren shuffled into work the next day with a hangover so vicious it made a mockery of her supposed badass status. Frank, as if somehow sensing her moment of greatest pitifulness, summoned her to his office.
She sat gingerly so as not to jar her head as he shoved a fat, ugly plaque across the desk at her.
“Here,” he said. “Consider it yours. Arrived today.”
Lauren picked it up and read the engraved words. Best Investigative Journalism, California Journalism Awards.
“How could we have won anything so fast?” she asked.
The news editor twirled his finger, indicating the back.
She turned it around and read the inscription and snapped her head up. “Frank! This has Doug Daley’s name on it!”
“Yeah, it does. Look, I know that Doug won it under false pretences for your parking tickets story, claiming it was all his work. So, technically, I s’pose it’s yours.”
“Did you have to pry it out of his cold, dead hands?”
Frank actually cracked a smile at that. “Nah. Never gave it to him.” He shot her a sheepish look that probably passed as an apology in Frank’s world.
Lauren pushed it back across the desk. “No thanks. Shockingly, I don’t want some secondhand trinket. Use it as a doorstop or something.”
Frank shrugged. “Suit yourself. Besides, you’ll probably get a wall full of these before the year’s out.”
“I didn’t do the story for that,” Lauren grimaced.
“Yeah, I know, kid. But do yourself a favor and remember that some kind of healthy ego will help you a lot in this game. You’ll understand that once you do a year or two on Doug’s beat.”
“Uh, what?”
“Ayers didn’t tell you?”
“Tell me what?”
“It’s been decided Doug’s getting reassigned to special projects.”
Lauren tried not to show her shock. It was career suicide. Special projects was the only section lower than her own. No one sent to write advertorial crap about boating and RV shows or trade conventions ever recovered their standing.
“Why?” Lauren asked.
“The old man has certain views about people who steal other people’s work without giving credit where it’s due.”
Old man? Oh, right. Their returning esteemed publisher.
“Why would Catherine know anything about this?” she asked.
Frank leaned back and laced his fingers over his ample gut. “It was her idea. She nominated you as Doug’s replacement.”
“She what? When?”
“Yesterday morning. Old man did a phone hook-up at crack of dawn. Damn I wish he’d keep regular hours. I mean six is barbaric. He asked Ayers to take part because he wanted to offer her old job back. He’s reopening our DC Bureau. Needs her to be our chief there again.”
Lauren digested his words. So Ayers had recommended Lauren for a job knowing full well it would keep her in LA. The message was clear. She didn’t want Lauren trailing after her like some over-eager puppy.
She tried to smile. She suspected she looked constipated. “Okay,” she said tightly. “When do I start?”
“We’re doing a shakeup of a few positions, what with Ayers leaving in…” he frowned and looked at his calendar “…thirty-something days. So when she goes, we’ll move you off entertainment, too. Fresh blood across the board. Right?” He waved his hand toward the door.
Dismissed, Lauren rose. “Thanks Frank,” she said.
“You earned it.” He squinted at her. “I’d have expected a few more cartwheels from you.”
Lauren forced a grin. “Oh I’m excited,” she said. “Just surprised you’d pick me.”
“Well, it wasn’t just up to me,” Frank said dryly. “Anyway, Ayers made a compelling case.”
Lauren’s mood sank further. I’ll bet.
“She did?” she asked neutrally.
Frank studied her. “She really didn’t tell you? Called us all a bunch of blind asses if we didn’t see how much raw talent you had. Okay. That’s it. Go write us up more froth and nonsense, and I’ll see you back here for the real news at the end of the month. Close the door on the way out.”
Saturday, June 1
30 Days Remaining
9:48 p.m.
Lauren looked around the Dynasty Ballroom in annoyance, half wishing it would burst into flames and spare her having to stay for the speeches. It wouldn’t be hard to ignite with so many rustic naked torches around. Mariella had indeed outdone herself for Fire Swarm’s blockbuster launch. She returned to shooting daggers at a clutch of elegant women arranged artfully by the drinks table. Two women in particular.
Her long-suffering date rolled his eyes.
“Honestly, hon, you are no fun tonight.” Joshua pouted. “And if I’d known your girlfriend wasn’t going to bring my boyfriend, I wouldn’t have bothered dry cleaning my good tux.”
“She’s not my girlfriend,” Lauren objected, staring at Ayers in her stunning black dress with a scandalously plunging neckline. It boasted a glittering necklace designed to draw gazes to her cleavage. And one of the gazes she was drawing was her plus one for the evening, a bigwig cable TV executive from Washington. Cynthia something.
Cynthia Something was fucking gorgeous, and Lauren hated her with a loathing she usually reserved for dictators and telemarketers. And right now Cynthia was wooing Ayers with all the fervor of a rottweiler going after a tennis ball.
Speaking of rottweilers…
Cynthia touched Ayers’s silk clad arm and parted her lips prettily as Ayers talked to her. “I think she’s actually panting,” Lauren muttered. The brushing fingers appeared accidental, but Lauren knew better. “It’s obscene.”
“Obscene is the shade of green you are this evening,” Josh observed. “Was she really that good in bed?”
&n
bsp; “Stop fishing,” Lauren said still staring at the pair. “You don’t see me asking you about your bedroom antics with Tad.”
“So you are in a relationship,” Josh said with a triumphant gleam. “Since you just compared yourself to a couple. And by the way Thadeus is glorious between the sheets, thanks for asking. Surprisingly flexible for all that muscle. It’s the Pilates.”
“Ugh, too much information.” Lauren scowled. “And still no comment.”
She stiffened when Cynthia Something’s hand drifted to the small of Ayers’s back and she indicated the door as she whispered in Ayers’s ear.
“Oooh,” Josh said. “Was your lady of the luscious cleavage just propositioned?”
“Eyes off her cleavage,” Lauren snapped. “And don’t be dramatic. She doesn’t mix business and pleasure. Apparently.”
As she spoke, Ayers nodded, placed her glassware on the table, and headed toward the exit, hot on the towering heels of the media executive.
“What the hell?” Lauren gasped. “She isn’t!”
“Oh I do believe she is,” Josh said, eyes just as wide. “And people call gay boys fickle.” He popped a small salmon bite in his mouth and swooned. “God, I have to get Mariella’s caterer on speed dial to make me a batch of these.”
Ayers turned near the door and scanned the room. Her gaze settled on Lauren and paused. Time stopped as she regarded her. Lauren held her breath. Cynthia glanced toward Lauren, then whispered something in Ayers’s ear and drew her attention back to her. That intense gray-eyed stare dropped, and soon both women were swallowed up into the crowd of finery clustered by the door.
“Now I hate them both,” Lauren said, seething.
“I very much doubt that, sweetie.”
“She looked at me like I’m…” Lauren shook her head, trying to find the word. “Nothing?” She gave a bitter laugh. “She didn’t even need to steal my story. She just used it to get herself back on the hot list with the in-crowd. And who am I compared to them?”
Josh studied her for a moment and leaned in. His breath ruffled her hair above her ear as his voice dropped to a whisper. “You are a woman in love with Catherine Ayers.”
Lauren snapped her mouth open to deny it but found the words stuck in her throat. She flushed deep red and looked down, studying her Manolo Blahnik knock offs she couldn’t even remember buying.
“Hey,” he said kindly. “Don’t worry, I’ll never tell. And neither will Tad.”
“How could he know?”
“We’ve talked about it. It turns out that he’s been watching you watching his aunt for many, many social events. Long before your fabulous, groundbreaking story.”
Lauren’s eyes shot up. “But I was still in hate with her then.”
“Were you? Really?” he asked earnestly. “Because Tad seems to think you came alive every time you were in her orbit, following her around, taunting her. It all looked like foreplay to him. He never breathed a word, though. Apparently that family of theirs isn’t huge on sharing anything related to The Gay. But if it makes you feel better, he thought kitty Cat enjoyed being hunted by you, too. Although anytime he mentioned your name, she hissed.”
“Yeah, I can see just how deep her affection runs,” Lauren noted, “since she just left with someone else.”
“Maybe it’s just networking,” Josh shrugged. “We both know she’s back in DC soon. She’ll need contacts. Probably all it is. A get-to-know-you thing.”
“What if it isn’t?” Lauren said carefully, biting her lip.
Josh sipped his champagne thoughtfully. “Then Ayers is a complete heel, and you deserve much better.”
Lauren nodded, not sure what she thought about the idea of Ayers being a heel. She glanced around the room. Mariella and her team of assistants floated about, talking to guests and discreetly manoeuvring the handsy director so he was only ever stuck talking to men. He was starting to look quite frustrated.
A-listers were thick on the ground, dripping with bling and self-importance. But they had not been the center of attention. Nor had Mariella’s incredible 30,000 fireflies under a dome. No, this evening no one had been able to tear their eyes off Ayers.
The breathtaking Donna Karan gown was only part of the allure. The aura of success she now exuded was like a flame to Hollywood’s ambitious moths, and she had been drawing everyone in the room.
Lauren felt a stab of jealousy. She’d had Ayers to herself for weeks. Well, a lot longer if she was being totally honest. No one had even wanted to be seen around the disgraced Caustic Queen. Now Ayers was at the top of everyone’s list as someone to be near. Hollywood and the media both loved a good comeback it seemed.
But one among the thick crowd of admirers had done more than just shower her with compliments for her incredible scoop—and it was funny how many people forgot she hadn’t written it alone.
Lauren stared unseeingly at the exit Cynthia had just whisked Ayers through and realized three things in quick succession.
She missed Catherine—a lot.
She possibly did love her. And had for some time.
And she really hated Cynthia Something.
Sunday, June 16
14 Days Remaining
Lauren really really hated Cynthia Redwell. She’d found out the blonde’s name due to the fact she’d been photographed with Ayers at about four events now, and had made every Spotted column for A-listers. Every photo showed the stunning TV executive closer to Ayers than in the previous image. That morning, Lauren noted with supreme dissatisfaction, Cynthia had managed to be snapped with one arm wrapped around her waist. Her ring finger was also in the image, and it was definitely unadorned.
With a peevish snarl Lauren tapped out a text and sent it to Ayers.
Does Redwell actually ‘read well’? Or is her name ironic? She is in TV after all.
To her surprise, a response pinged back almost immediately.
She has written three books on the global financial crisis and fixing the US economy. How many have you written?
Ouch, Lauren thought. Fucking ouch. She texted back.
Took her three to get it right, huh?
There was no reply.
She resumed going through her emails in an even fouler mood. One from the Washington Post leapt out, and she opened it with interest.
Saturday, June 22
8 Days Remaining
It took Robert Redford to do it, but Lauren had actually come within three feet of Ayers. Although it was probably accidental on Ayers’s part, given she’d turned around just as Lauren stepped past a pillar at the actor’s lavish new cologne launch.
They both noticed each other at the same time.
Redwell was by her arm as usual, chatting to a tall man with a face made for infomercials. He was nine parts fake tan, one part teeth whitener. Orange is the New Blech, she thought as she recoiled from the carrot glow to his skin. Lauren vaguely recognized him as a TV motivational guru but couldn’t remember his name. Because, well, she was within three feet of Ayers.
“Hey,” she said cleverly, before she remembered she was still supposed to be furious with her.
“King.”
“So formal.”
Ayers’s gaze flicked to Cynthia and back.
“Your date looks just fine,” Lauren said.
Ayers ignored that. “You look well.” It had just enough of a question in it for Lauren to remember why it was a question.
“No thanks to you.”
Ayers’s eyebrows shot up. “Oh? What, pray tell, am I to be blamed for this time?”
“Really?” Lauren asked. “Here? You want to do this now?”
A look of consternation shot across Ayers’s face, and just at that moment, the TV executive finished getting her life tips and swivelled back to her companion.
“Everything okay?” she
asked, regarding Lauren like a roach plague.
“Existentially, emotionally, or economically,” Lauren snapped, annoyed at being treated like one of Ayers’s ever-increasing number of groupies.
“How about economically,” Redwell suggested with a dangerous lilt. “Since so few seem to understand the concept.”
“Maybe some of us just find the concept of money boring,” Lauren shrugged.
“I find most people claim they are bored by things that they can’t actually grasp.”
“A 6000-year-old Ponzi scheme with a value worth less than the paper its promissory notes are written on?” Lauren asked innocently. “I know that much. Although I get the appeal of drinking the Keynesian economics Kool-Aid as a solution for all our woes. It’s just so gosh-darned simple.”
Redwell stared at her incredulously. “You’ve read my books?”
Lauren shrugged. Actually she’d Googled her books. And it didn’t take a rocket scientist to work out the woman’s simplistic spend, spend, spend theories to grow the economy were wildly unsustainable. Unless you were a politician, in which case they were voter catnip.
“Who is your charming friend, Cat?” Redwell asked.
Lauren saw the faint wince as Catherine reacted to the nickname.
“Lauren King,” Ayers said evenly. “She co-wrote the SmartPay exclusive you so admired.” Her eyes narrowed at Lauren, warning her to back off.
Lauren wondered why this woman’s opinion even mattered to Ayers. Unless it was the woman herself who mattered? Part of her almost hoped they were banging because that had to be better than Ayers admiring Redwell’s pitifully thin veneer of intellect.
“Ah,” Redwell said and pointedly shifted her hand to Ayers’s arm as she studied Lauren intently. “Your co-writer who flitted about Nevada with you. I see.”
And Lauren realized she really did “see.” Their gazes met, and there was a triumph in Redwell’s eyes as she idly kept her hand on Ayers’s forearm as though she owned it. “Aren’t you the perky little socialist?”
