Dirty Seal

by Harper James

I’ve got my eyes glued to the computer, watching the stock prices of Prerogative rise and picture that money going in my pocket. It’s a good day to be me.

  From the corner of my eye I see a figure walk in through the door and sit in one of the sleek leather chairs in front of my desk. I pull up this person’s resume on the computer and look through her (very limited) credentials.

  Without looking up I say, “Mia Cassidy?”

  “Yes, hi,” I hear her say. “That’s me. It’s, um, nice to meet you.”

  I grumble. She won’t think so by the time she leaves this office.

  “Looks like you have very limited experience in journalism,” I say, eyes glued to the computer.

  “I was the editor of my school paper,” she says. “And I was the lead reporter for the story that exposed high levels of sodium in school lunches in the county.”

  “Sodium, huh?” I say, and I feel like I have to check myself—I just might laugh out loud. “Well, it is the silent killer.”

  “Actually, Mr. Bridges,” she says, and I look up at her. “That’s hypertension.”

  I’m staring at this woman and for a splash of a second, I forget myself—but only for a second. She—Mia is a real, live hottie. And…is that sweat on her forehead? There is something about a woman sweating that is hot as hell. Maybe it’s because I can picture her fucking when I look at that sweat beading on her forehead.

  She’s got on some silk blouse that is open low on her chest, exposing her demure but beautiful cleavage. I don’t need a lot, just as long as it’s proportionate to the body, and this girl’s got it. She shifts in the chair, crossing her legs, which are smooth and tanned. Unfortunately I spot the cheap shoes on her feet. From across the desk I can see the wrinkled plastic of the shoe, meant to fool people into thinking it’s leather, and the scuffed heel. I may have grown up on a farm with a son of a bitch of a father, but he taught me one useful thing: If you’ve got a little money, spend it all on one good pair of shoes.

  “Get yourself a good pair of boots,” he’d say, “and they’ll last you ten years.”

  Clearly this Mia doesn’t even have little money. Or a little experience. Sodium levels? Oh, man. This is going to be so easy.

  “Well, Mia,” I say, looking her right in her eyes, “we’re not here to write about hypertension. We’re here to write about sex.”

  “I’m sorry, what?” she stammers.

  “Blush is getting a new angle,” I tell her. “A sexier angle. Does that make you uncomfortable?”

  “No,” she says, but her voice quivers on that one syllable. She tugs on her skirt, her eyes darting away from mine.

  “If I were to assign you a story with a sex angle, what do you think you’d write about?”

  Talk about blush—her face and chest immediately turn a deep pink, washing across her skin like ink in water. I have to casually move my hand across my mouth to keep from laughing.

  “Well, um,” she begins, looking around the office as if a clue might appear. “Maybe I could do something on the dangerous number of young—”

  “Stop,” I say. “Listen to me. The only way I want to hear the word danger in a story about sex is if it’s about spicing up a sex life. Doing naughty things agreed upon by the couple. Did I not just say that Blush is getting a sexier angle?”

  “Ye-yes, sir,” she says. Sir. God, I love it. She’s squirming like crazy and probably can’t wait to leave. I give her three more minutes before she runs out of here.

  “So?” I say, not letting her off the hook. “What else? Pitch me something else. Something sexy.”

  I sit back in my chair and wait. Mia tugs on her dress again, shifting in the chair.

  “Um, in college I did a lot of human interest stories? That focused on people?”

  Oh, boy. I shake my head no. My eyes bore into her, waiting for something better.

  “Maybe something on different types of condoms?” she says.

  “Mia,” I say, leaning forward and resting my elbows on the desk. “Think sexier. Surely you can do that, right? No disrespect, but I’m looking at you and I know it’s in you.”

  She furrows her brows and asks, “What is?”

  I raise my palms up like it should be obvious. “You had experiences in college I assume?”

  “I’m not sure you can assume much of anything about me, Mr. Bridges,” she says, and I’m taken aback—in a good way.

  I can’t help the small grin crossing my face. “Is that so?” I ask. “Well, then. I apologize. But I do still need to hear some stronger ideas.”

  “Of course,” she says. “But I’d like to hear more about the angle you’re taking the magazine. Surely there’s more to it than sex.”

  “In my experience,” I say, “everything always comes back to sex.”

  “That’s just not even possible,” she says. She’s clearly getting more comfortable—or braver, at least. I’m happy to hear her bat it back with me. The flush on her cheeks has faded and she’s finally making clear eye contact with me. Just her eyes alone are gorgeous, the way they look into mine. She licks her lips, waiting for me hit her back and now I’m the one shifting in my seat, looking at those plump wet lips.

  “One thing I never want to hear another person say, Ms. Cassidy, is that something is impossible. We could do a makeup column, and that makeup column leads back to sex. Everything the magazine prints will have a sexy angle to it, even if it’s subtle.”

  “Is that what you think women care about? I mean, only care about?” she asks.

  “Sex? I think they care about it a fair amount. You don’t?”

  She shrugs one shoulder. “I spent my college years being more concerned about grades and getting ahead, doing a good job.”

  “And that’s what I want you to do here,” I say. “Get ahead. Do a good job.”

  “But with sex,” she says.

  “With a sex angle,” I clarify.

  She’s quiet for a moment. She looks at me as if she’s waiting for me to tell her I’m just testing her, that of course I want her to write that story on hypertension. But I like keeping silent while she squirms. If she doesn’t leave, I’ll know she’s willing to do the work needed to take Blush to the next level. Not to mention it won’t be so bad having her around the office.

  “I’ll be honest, Mia,” I say, acting like I’m placating her. “As I’m sure you’re aware, the magazine industry isn’t doing so well. It’s been in decline for years. Some would say it’s a dying industry, and to compete with online media we need to go sexier.”

  “I understand,” she says.

  “I’m not sure you do,” I say. “Your little hypertension story would only work if someone collapsed during sex. Do you get it now?”

  Finally she says, “I mean, yeah. I can do that. I can keep the angles sexy.”

  “Because if you’re uncomfortable with the direction I’m taking the magazine you need to say so now. It’s not going to get any easier.”

  She rolls her lips in on each other. “No. It doesn’t bother me.”

  “Great,” I say, suddenly getting an idea. And it’s a doozy. “Before I hire you I’d like to see you out in the field, see how you handle getting a story. Does that sound fair?”

  “Sure,” she says.

  “Wonderful,” I say. “Then I’ll see you tonight.”

  “I’m sorry—what?”

  “Tonight. We’re going to investigate a story. I can’t hire you based on these college stories,” I say, waving to my computer that has PDFs of her silly but well-written pieces. “I’ll pick you up at nine. And Mia? Wear something sexy.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “That I can’t tell you.”

  “But why do I have to dress…sexy?” she says, as if the word is confusing to her.

  “Because,” I tell her. “Sex sells. And I intend to make Blush the best-selling magazine on newsstands. I assume this address on your resume is current?”

  “Yes,” she says. She’s got he
r chin defiantly up, but I can tell she’s nervous.

  I stand up, and then she does as well, tugging on that damn skirt. I can finally take the whole of her in, seeing her at her full height with a full view of her curves, that skirt hugging down her hips and thighs. It’s not bad, the clothes, but I know she can do better—especially for where we’re going tonight.

  I offer my hand to shake and say, “Mia, it was a pleasure meeting you.”

  “You too, Mr. Bridges.”

  I take her hand in mine, small and delicate, and give it a shake. I want to hold it a moment longer than is necessary but refrain.

  “And I’ll see you at nine sharp, okay?”

  I watch her every step as she leaves my office, the way her hips sway and her calf muscles flex in her (cheap) heels.

  When I took over the company this morning, I didn’t think things would go as well as this. As much fun as I’m having at the office, now I just can’t wait for the day to end so that I can see Mia again.

  I tell myself I’m just having fun, pushing this Mia girl to see whether she can fulfill some of the potential I sense in her. Maybe she could be a top-flight writer if she loosens up a bit…

  But then another part of me knows that there’s more going on than I want to admit to myself.

  Something about Mia draws me in, makes me want to focus on her to the exclusion of everything else. And the last thing I need right now is a distraction, not when I just made the biggest deal of my career.

  I can’t afford to lose the plot.

  And yet somehow, I think maybe Mia isn’t the only one about to have her life turned upside down.

  Mia

  Once I’m in the elevator I lean my head against the cool steel of the wall. What the hell just happened? How in the world did I just get an interview with the Weston Bridges?

  I had no idea how hot he is. It was hard to concentrate. He’s like some billboard model or something, his dark hair perfectly combed with the slightest bit of curl, and his suit that just fit him flawlessly. For some reason, every move he made grabbed my attention. Just leaning on the desk made me feel like I wanted him to take me and kiss me, which is so not like me, especially in a professional setting.

  The elevator dings and I walk out onto the hot streets of the city. People stream by me, not noticing me, and I just want to yell at them that I had a meeting with Weston Bridges…and we have another meeting tonight!

  I know this guy’s reputation. Player, totally arrogant, richer than God, and completely full of himself. I’m sure he just loved that so-called interview he did with me. And what happened to the trusty human resources person who was supposed to interview me? That’s what I was prepared for—not the absolute head of the entire corporation. And worse, he seemed to be having fun with me, egging me along, telling me how naïve I am about sex.

  And maybe I am, a little bit at least. But I’ve been more concerned about doing well in school and getting away from my mama and small hometown than worrying about dating or guys in general. None of the boys in high school interested me, and I was too focused in college to date anyone.

  And just that easily I became a twenty-one year old virgin.

  I imagine what would happen if Weston Bridges found out I’m a virgin and my heart starts beating rapid-fire. He would probably fire me on the spot for incompetence.

  But just because I haven’t had sex doesn’t mean I can’t write about it. Some of the best sports commentators never played ball.

  As I walk up the three flights to my apartment, the air getting thicker and hotter the higher I go, I realize I have the afternoon to get myself in shape for tonight, mentally and fashion-wise.

  What I want to do right now, though, is take off my shoes and stand in front of the a/c window unit for about an hour.

  What Mr. Bridges doesn’t seem to realize is that I do know a little about sex. Maybe not sex as in intercourse, but my mama taught me how to “gussy up” as she’d say. I know how to look like I’ve spent a lifetime reading sex articles—and practicing their tips.

  To her, looking good was much more important than being good. So tonight, I’ll have to use her tricks and tips to look the part of sexy journalist while having no idea where we’re going or what we’ll be doing. I’m assuming he’ll take me to some fancy dinner and tell me all about his vision for the magazine.

  Or maybe I’m being delusional.

  Frankly, I have no idea what he wants from me, but I feel pretty great knowing he saw something in me that made him want to spend more time with me. Maybe he was giving me some flack about my resume but he clearly saw something that showed potential. Otherwise I’d be staying home alone tonight, counting out change so that I can have some breakfast tomorrow morning.

  Later in the evening I go carefully through what few clothes I have and choose a short skirt and a different, sexier pair of heels than I wore today. They’re red and strappy and from my mother. “All girls should have a great pair of red heels,” she’d said. “Black just won’t do it.”

  Part of me wants to look sexy for Weston Bridges. The pictures I’ve seen online certainly don’t do him justice. And the fact that he’s so young and has already achieved so much is also pretty sexy. I wonder what he sees in me that made him want to take me out for a test tonight?

  I pair the skirt and red heels with a fitted tank top since it’s so damn hot out, even once the sun has set. When I check myself out in the bathroom mirror, I think it’s definitely sexy—maybe too much? But I am my mother’s daughter, so I adjust the tank a bit, pulling it lower to show more of my cleavage. Weston Bridges has had the best cleavage in the world, if his playboy stories are to be believed, and so showing more of mine probably won’t impress him too much. But maybe.

  When the sun has almost set, the apartment door shuts and my roommate enters, dropping his backpack on the floor with a thud.

  “Hey, Brody,” I say, peeking out from the bathroom. “You’re home late.”

  “Hey, girl,” he says. His hair is mussed and his eyes are glassy. “Listen to me closely—there is one thing you should know about life: there is a happy hour, and you should it enjoy it. Preferably for more than an hour.” I realize he’s slurring his words slightly. I chuckle. He’s clearly had a drink or three.

  We’ve known each other almost since the moment I arrived in town. I answered his ad for a roommate not realizing he was a guy, but we hit it off so well that I realized it didn’t bother me. Brody is like a brother, a protective good guy who likes to look after me.

  Brody works in the mailroom at the corporate headquarters for some big financial institution. He says he’ll work his way from the bottom up, old school–style. Like me he doesn't know anyone and has no inside contacts to his industry, so we’re both getting in any way we can.

  “God, my hands are so freaking dry from handling envelopes and boxes all day. Did you know that cardboard has a real smell to it? It’s like—whoa,” he says, stopping to look at me. “Where are you going?”

  I tug down my skirt and say, “I had that job interview this morning.”

  “Dressed like that?”

  “No, of course not,” I say.

  “Oh, good,” he says, going to the refrigerator. He takes out the water pitcher and fills up a glass. “Fuck, it’s still so hot out there. Monument Press, right?” he asks me, then takes a big gulp of water.

  “Prerogative Media.”

  “Right,” he says. Brody has a scrappy look to him. He’s from a small town like I am, so we got each other—and our sense of wonderment at the big city—right away. “How’d it go?”

  “Well, it’s kind of still going on,” I say.

  “Huh?”

  “The guy who interviewed me wants to take me out tonight.”

  Brody pauses and looks at me, one eyebrow raised in question. It makes me uncomfortable.

  “It’s like, research,” I say. “Part of the interview.”

  “What are you researching?”

  �
��I’m not sure yet. He didn’t say.”

  “Mia,” he says, shaking his head. He walks toward me and sets down his water glass on the scuffed coffee table. He told me he got it from the sidewalk down the street. “The guy who interviewed you is taking you out. Did you hear yourself?”

  “Of course. And it’s fine,” I say, and I do believe it. Mr. Bridges is being thorough in his interview, and I appreciate that. I’m fine with being tested in my abilities as a writer and reporter. Brody is just protective, even when he really doesn’t need to be.

  My phone pings a text. When I look at it, it’s from an unknown number. Downstairs, is all it says.

  I go to the window and look down at the street. There’s a black limousine parked illegally in front of our building.

  “Dang,” I say.

  “What is it?”

  “My ride,” I say. “In a limousine.”

  “Seriously?” He stands next to me and looks out the window. “That’s pretty douchey.”

  “It’s classy,” I say, and he makes a grunting noise of disapproval. “I’ll see you later, okay?” I grab my purse and keys.

  “Hey, wait!” he says as I open the door.

  “What?”

  “Just, be careful. Okay?”

  I roll my eyes. “I will. I’ll see you later. Don’t wait up.”

  When I get to the limo I can’t see inside and no one steps out to let me in. I’m not a hundred percent sure this is Mr. Bridges’ car, so I kind of stand there waiting for something or someone. Finally the driver, a big burly guy, steps out.

  “Good evening, Ms. Cassidy,” he says, nodding politely at me.

  “Um, hi. Thanks,” I say as he opens the door. When I duck into the car, I see Mr. Bridges there, looking at his phone with a scowl on his face. But when he sees me shifting across the seat in my short skirt and cleavage-baring top, the scowl disappears.

  “Good evening,” he says. “It’s good to see you again.”

  “Hi. Um, you too,” I say. The door shuts behind me. Mr. Bridges has changed from the sleek navy suit he wore this morning into a black jacket and pants and black button-down shirt. I don’t know what this means, but he looks gorgeous nonetheless. His collar is unbuttoned enough to show his chest, a small bit of tanned skin.