He’d asked her this question that first night he’d put her in a cab. Last night, he’d put her in a cab without saying a word except to the driver. “‘Shake It Off.’”
“Is that a song?”
“You’re lucky it wasn’t ‘Bad Blood.’”
He grunted, but it was a sound cut with humor. “Question six, Honeywell.” He gave her a near-blinding grin. “I feel we’re making progress.”
Progress was a dog with a limp chasing its tail. Jackson Haley smiling was bastard measure, slay ’em in the aisles, and damn the cliché. “‘Question six. If you were able to live to the age of ninety and retain either the mind or body of a thirty-year old for the last sixty years of your life, which would you choose?’”
“I have no idea. You go first.”
“It’s a tough question. I used to play this game with a friend called Would You Rather. Would you rather lose a leg or an arm, or would you rather live on an island all alone without power or running water, or in a luxury hotel but be bedridden with an incurable disease.”
“Did you not have cable and video games in this fresh smelling, growing things place where you grew up?”
“Of course I did. Didn’t you ever play made-up games?”
“Only as an adult and only ones not suitable for discussing with a colleague or the paper’s readers. Answer the question.”
“I’d rather keep my mind.”
“I want to be dead before I’m ninety.”
“That’s not the question.”
“That’s my answer.”
When progress bit its own ragged tail, it hurt, and to think they had to do this twice more before she could write the final story. “‘Question seven. Do you have a secret hunch about how you will die?’”
It was too easy, it was a closed question, he’d say no. Note to whoever wrote this, closed questions were junk.
He said, “No. And you’re planning on dying in your sleep at a ripe old age, in the great family tradition.”
Industrial espionage grade listening. She’d said that to him on the street last night. “Was that a cliché?”
He dismissed that with a quirk of his head. “Question eight. I can smell the end of this, it’s sweet, a rush.”
“Don’t mock me. And this is only part one.”
He closed his eyes, and slumped back in his chair. “Dear God.”
“‘Question eight. Name three things we appear to have in common.’”
He snapped them out. “Profession, place of employment, this ridiculous experiment.”
That about covered it. How the heck was she going to write this up? “You’re not being helpful.”
“Cute that you actually thought I might be.”
How could he kiss so warmly but be so stubbornly difficult to get along with? “Curmudgeon,” she muttered. Not a word she’d use to describe anyone else she’d ever met.
“Never use a ten dollar word where a two dollar one will do, Honeywell.”
The only good thing about last night’s ravishing was that Jackson Dinkus Haley no longer intimidated her. He exasperated her, but he’d groaned into her skin and he’d cradled her head and he’d chased her tongue, and some of his forbidding nature, his aloof dominance, had dissolved in her mouth at about the same time as bruises from his fingers blossomed on her thigh. She was free to imagine him wearing standard tighty whities.
“Why did you agree to come?” She swept her arm out to indicate her notebook, the café.
“You guilted me into it.”
And now she wasn’t proud of it. “Guilted isn’t a word.”
“Language is a living thing. Did you have any trouble understanding what I meant?”
Ignoring that. “Question nine.” It was a disastrous question. “‘For what in your life do you feel the most grateful?’” He’d say for the fact this questionnaire is nearly done. “I’m grateful for the chance to be in the city.”
He eyed her speculatively. “What went wrong with your hometown life?”
“That’s not one of the questions?”
“No, but I’m interested. You left the sun and the birds and the bees for concrete and steel, swapped stars for neon for a reason.”
“I was bored. I wanted more.”
“How’s that working for you?”
She made a rude gesture under the table, but kept her voice level. “Fine, thanks. I’m grateful for my move to the city. What are you grateful for?”
“That I can do what I do, that I can write about injustice and inequality and if not change things for the better, at least bring what’s rotten into the light.”
It was the first honest, straightforward piece of information he’d given about himself. It said a lot about Jackson Haley the reporter and something about Jackson Haley the man, but it was hard to marry that with the Jackson Haley who’d kissed her legs into noodles last night and was sarcastic and unsympathetic now.
“Question ten. Two to go.”
“Hallelujah.”
“‘If you could change anything about the way you were raised, what would it be?’”
He frowned and looked away. “You go first.”
“I wouldn’t change anything. I had a great childhood. I love my family. I’ve been very fortunate.”
He grunted. “Two more questions, you said.” He looked at his watch. “I wouldn’t change anything either.”
“But your father is a son of a bitch.” He blinked in surprise and then rubbed his eyes under his glasses. “Phil said it.”
“My father is a brilliant and difficult bastard who does not approve of what I do.”
She heard the bold type and underlining on the word not. Truly? What kind of parent wouldn’t be proud of the work Jack did? “I can’t image that.”
“What’s the next question?”
“What did your father want you to do instead?”
“Follow him into a respectable profession, his profession. Not become a hack.”
Like pulling teeth. A cliché, but it didn’t count if she didn’t say it out loud. “Which is?”
“He’s a surgeon. He saves lives. I only scribble about vulgar things like money and power. He’d have more respect for me if I made serious money or ran for office. He once did an interview with the Courier on an unrelated story where he described me as a radical experiment in parenting gone wrong. He’d said it to get at my mother after she asked for a divorce.”
“Your own dad?” Appalling. Derelie’s father would rather cut his own arm off than say anything so hurtful.
“My mother is not much better. Also a surgeon.” Jack rubbed his eyes again. “I need a smoke.” He glared at her. “I barely saw my parents. They liked work more than they liked each other or me. I suspect they secretly hated each other from the day they married. My granddad raised me, and stop looking at me like that.”
She rearranged her features into an expression different from whatever it was that’d irritated him. “I’m not judging.”
“You’re weepy-eyed, Honeywell.”
“Am not.” It was the smog, made her eyes watery. She was allergic to urbanization.
“You’ll only go and look it up, so I might as well tell you. He was my mother’s father. He survived reporting on a bunch of wars and conflicts, but had a heart attack in Walmart when I was fourteen. My parents never divorced but keep separate lives. They live to detest each other. I have no idea why and I don’t care.”
“You don’t really have a home, do you?” His life had been a war zone. He had no perfect place to go back to.
“Cardboard box under the expressway.” He tapped the tabletop with the edge of his cell. “You think this ridiculous experiment has uncovered some fundamental clue to my character and we’re bonding over my not particular
ly unique childhood.”
She compressed her lips lest they tell him anything at all about what she thought and give him ammunition to use. That she’d like to kick his parents, congratulate his granddad, cook him a meal, and despite Jack being a prize jerk, have him back her into a wall again as soon as possible.
His phone rang. He swiped it off the table and answered it. “Haley.”
He kept his eyes on her while he listened. She refused to fidget. They had two questions to go, but the chance of him agreeing to spend four minutes telling her his life story before he nominated the quality or ability he wanted to magically gain overnight was about as good as her chance of writing something Shona would agree to run. She was doomed.
“Got it. I’ll check. I’ll be there,” he said, already standing. He quit the call. “This is urgent.”
“Five more minutes and we’ll be done.” But he had to write up his part of the story too.
“I’m done now.”
“One minute. ‘If you could wake up tomorrow having gained one quality or ability, what would it be?’”
She braced for a predictable offhand comment about his ability to be free of ridiculous experiments, and he said, “Patience and kindness.”
That was two things, but they were like shiny nuggets of golden goodness, and she was so pleased to have them she gave him a free pass.
What would you rather, be patronized by Jack Haley while learning that he’d had a difficult childhood, or feel his heart thud too fast under your hand while he made love to your mouth?
She was going to need the discipline of a good dozen sun salutes before she knew the answer to that.
Chapter Ten
Gerry Roscoe studied Jack across the forest of paper and the two computers on his desk. He was one of the good guys. As the Courier’s senior legal counsel, he’d saved Jack’s hide on multiple occasions. He was the reason Jack was never troubled with legal fees and could go after crooked players without fearing for his own financial security.
“The story needs to be as tight as a practicing drunk, otherwise Bix will come after you and the paper for everything he can.” Roscoe transferred his attention to Madden, who sat on Jack’s right. “I don’t need to remind you that being sued makes our new owner a very nervous man.”
“But you’re reminding me anyway,” said Madden, as unpleasantly as possible.
It made Jack wonder if that was how he’d come across with Honeywell, as if he resented the very implication of her. Because he did resent her, from the paprika sprinkle of freckles across her cheeks that she didn’t cover with makeup, to the fact that she’d utterly lost her hesitancy with him and had stopped worrying about offending him. She was lonely and hated the city and he was half in love with how hard she tried to hide that and ashamed with himself for how he’d acted with her.
He should never have touched her. It was conduct unbecoming. The ridiculous kiss in front of Bix was reprehensible enough. It was inept, for one thing. She’d surprised him with her kittenish playacting and she’d saved the moment, but he’d kissed her as if he was afraid of catching girl germs. But on the street, on the street, when he could feel Bix’s downfall coming together, he’d kissed her like he was a sick man and she was the medicine that would restore him to life. She’d tasted like hot rain on a sultry night, lit with fireflies and perfumed with orange blossom and the promise of an endless blue-sky morning.
He could tell himself it was all for the story until he traded in his creaking body at sixty to retain his brain till he turned ninety, and it would never be less than a lie.
“I’m reminding you,” said Roscoe, “because on top of the current suit from Sungold Investments, we don’t need another. If you’re going after Keepsake and Bob Bix, Jack, be very clear you have the story and there’s nothing remotely libelous about your accusations.”
“I’ll have more than accusations. I’ll have proof Bix and his associates are deliberately defrauding people out of their insurance payouts,” he said.
“You said that about Sungold and they’re coming after you for criminal libel and emotional distress.”
“They were crooks stealing from pension funds.” That reminded Jack he had an unanswered email from Roscoe requesting additional background notes on the case in progress.
Roscoe checked one of his screens when it pinged. “America’s retirees thank you, Jack. Florida rejoices. They were crooks, but they exploited a loophole, and while you got the regulator to stomp all over them, they’re coming at us for damages to their good name. I signed off on the Sungold exposé and I’d do it again, but the legal fees the Courier spends to keep you out of trouble and the paper in business are not insignificant, and given the current climate of cutbacks—”
“We get you, Gerry.” Madden snipped the lecture about newspaper economics short and stood. Jack followed him upright.
They all knew the situation had changed in the last few years. It wasn’t that Jack was more or less aggressive in going after corruption, or the level of legal action had increased, it was that costs all round had gone up while advertising revenue had fallen, and legal fees were clearly something the accountants felt should be cut. Better that than reporters, and so many of them had already been trimmed away like excess fat.
“Make sure you do, Phil. I heard the Clarion was going digital-only.”
“It’ll never happen to the Courier,” Madden said. “Digital is an important part of our strategy, but the print edition is our heartland.”
Roscoe arrowed in on Jack. “If ever there was a time for you to tread carefully, this is it.”
“Are you suggesting we don’t go after Bix?” It would be the first time management had actively interfered with one of his investigations.
Roscoe sighed. “Fellas, I hate this as much as you do. If what you’ve told me about Bix and what’s happening at Keepsafe is true, I’d like to see the guy stripped of his assets and jailed for the rest of his life. I’d like to see you make that happen, Jack. All I’m saying is our owner is exceptionally cost-focused, and if the price of reporting the truth includes another tangled long-running legal expense, right now it could be bad for all of us.”
“You’re saying don’t get sued,” said Madden.
“I’m saying do your job, bring the bastards to account, but not until your story is a thousand percent watertight.”
“You know it doesn’t work like that, Gerry,” said Madden. “Big corps and rich assholes use the law to punish us for messing with their scams, making their investors run for cover and their kids get beat up in school. They don’t like it when they’re forced to explain themselves, and they blame us for being the pricks that ruined their perfect little worlds, even when we have the truth locked down tighter than a convent during a bacchanal.”
Roscoe pushed into his chair back. “The way it works when I call you into my office, Phil, is that I talk about how the law works and you listen so we keep the lights on around here as long as possible. When I want to know how to sack a quarterback, I’ll ask your advice.”
“Shit.” Madden banged his hand against the side of a four drawer file cabinet. A pile of folders resting on top of it pitched to the floor, and Jack bent to pick them up.
“We’re on the same team, fellas,” said Roscoe.
“Yeah, yeah,” said Madden. “But I want it to be a winning team and a team that wins backs their star players and takes calculated risks. They don’t pussy out.”
“So don’t pussy out,” said Roscoe.
“No intention of it,” said Jack. When it came to bringing down Bix and holding Keepsafe’s management accountable to all the injured policyholders they’d duped. But chickening out was exactly what he was going to do where it came to Honeywell. He needed her safely writing her clickbait pieces while he was doing his thing on opposite sides of the office. “
And stop using that expression, it’s as bad as man-up. It’s offensive to women, and cats.”
He caught up with Madden in the elevator well, impatiently poking at the down arrow. “Don’t screw this up,” he said, and poked the up arrow. “I want the paper trail, all the gory details, use whatever resources you need. Get the art department in to make graphics, tell them to do the whole interactive thing, and use that forensic accountant woman. Get photos, video too.”
Jack checked his cell—dozens of messages. Most he’d never return. They were from flacks trying to drum up coverage for clients, or defend them from something Jack had already written. Phil was describing what Jack normally did on a big story, the only difference being he didn’t usually go after video. He could’ve used a camera last night. Would’ve stopped him taking advantage of Honeywell. Footage of Bix, Whelan and Noakes at the restaurant would’ve made them look stunningly complicit. He’d have to talk to Henri Costa again, put some junior reporters on the case to interview the victims and keep a watch on Bix’s movements.
“I’m on it. All I need is the time to connect the pieces.”
The up elevator arrived and they both watched its doors open. There was no hijacking it for their own floor. It was packed with people holding sandwich bags and drinks. Someone had takeout Chinese and Jack’s stomach rumbled. No one made eye contact.
Madden lurched forward and poked at the lit down arrow again, just as another of the elevators in the bank signaled its arrival with a bing and a light indicting it was going down. “And don’t even think about blowing off that love experiment story. I want it to run right before the Keepsafe story.”
Jack stepped into the elevator and pressed the button for their floor. “Enlighten me as to how the two are connected. One is a puff piece and the other is the newspaper business.”
Madden stepped into the elevator car. “Eyeballs, Jack. Gives us a chance to get the city talking about you, so more punters buy the paper the day the exposé drops.”
“That’s preposterous.”
“It’s marketing.”
“You’ve already got my face plastered all over the place. I can’t buy groceries without someone wanting to take a selfie or tell me how I got it all wrong on page one. Women in the cereal aisle at my market hand me business cards with their sexual preferences and availability printed on them. Printed, full color with photos. It’s enough. It’s too much. I’m not doing the—”
The Love Experiment Page 8
