by Ava Ashley
The furrow in my brow deepens.
Piss people off?
“Publish an award-winning magazine,” I offer more politely.
“Wrong. We are waging a war.” A cold, blue fire flashes in Giselle’s eyes.
“A war?”
“Yes. A battle between ‘us’ and ‘them’. Celebrities who hide behind their wealth and fame and get away with things that would see most of us rotting in a jail cell. They say death is the great equalizer.” She shakes her perfectly styled head. “No. Press is. Here at Thirty we take our would-be heroes and humanize them. Rock them off their golden pedestals. Movie stars. Politicians. Athletes. We shine a spotlight on all their deepest, darkest secrets. And do you know why, Miss Armstrong?”
Because you have deep-seated daddy issues?
I took a deep breath. Giselle Nast may have thought she was the society columns’ answer to Michael Moore, but honestly? Honestly, she was just paparazzi in Prada. Was I really this desperate? My rice-sized copilot instigates a Boeing-sized wave of nausea, answering the unspoken question for me. I level a direct, motivated stare at the magazine editor.
“To level the playing field,” I respond.
Giselle’s lips purse, like they’re ready to cry foul, but, instead, curl into a slow, widening smile.
“Right,” she draws out. “Prove their twenty-four carat shine is no more than gold-plating and it empowers everyman, or in the case of most of our subscribers, everywoman. Let’s them know that their gods aren’t infallible, that they are as horribly flawed as we. Those are the stories my readers want. The stories they need. And I need people who are not afraid to go out there and find those stories. So, I ask you once again, Miss Armstrong. What can you offer me?”
I blink. My mind is as empty as last night’s pizza box. And I’m really regretting those anchovies.
A story. Student activism? The wage equality and tipping debate? The “free college” proposition? I could write any of them in my sleep. But, celebrity exposé?
Giselle’s blood-red nails start tapping on the photo proof sheet. My gut is really starting to roil. Ugh! Before his ABCs, the first thing I was going to need to teach this kid was scheduling. The only thing that’s going to tank this interview faster than the inability to come up with a killer hook is tossing my cookies all over the swimsuit edition.
Think, Sloane! Think!
Nast’s eyes narrow. She reaches for the phone. I am rescued from a delicious-smelling escort from the office by the sudden appearance of a blonde-haired African American young man in a black turtleneck.
“Giselle, I have next month’s layout and it is divine,” he gushes.
“I’ll be the judge of that, Darius” she responds curtly. The two busy themselves at a nearby drafting table. Giselle waves a marker around animatedly, making loud and judicious edits, much to Darius’ equally-loud objections.
I use the momentary reprieve to dig in my purse for crackers, a protein bar – anything that will settle my upset stomach. I don’t want a repeat of that night in Lennox Hardy’s Escalade. I push past the foreclosure notice, past my cell where Lennox had punched his digits in that night.
You have any problems, call me.
His buttery rich voice echoes in my head. I’m surprised at the sudden flush that works its way from the squeezing clutch between my thighs, up through the plain of my slightly rounding belly, and splotches a warming red fluster across my chest and neck. Suddenly, crackers are not what I want.
Get a hold of yourself, Sloane! Remember why you’re here. Remember what it is you want.
“Lennox Hardy!” I practically scream the name. Darius chirrups an effeminate yelp. Giselle pivots on a pointed heel. One perfectly shaped eyebrow raises.
“Lennox Hardy? The Cougars’ quarterback?”
I nod. Giselle takes several purposeful strides towards me.
“Nobody’s been able to get his story. He doesn’t talk to press.”
“He’ll talk to me.”
Giselle bites her lower lip. The appeal of the impossible was clearly tempting. “The best anyone’s been able to do is catch photos of him with this girl or that girl.”
“Or those girls,” Darius interjects cheekily.
Giselle nods. “His P.R. department is practically a recording set on ‘no comment’.”
“Maybe he’s just a private person,” I suggest.
“Private just means he’s hiding something, and the public has a right to know.” Giselle leans back against her desk. Her angular, pixie face looks pensive. “Huh. An exposé on Sacramento’s Golden Boy. I’ll tell you what, Miss Armstrong. You bring me a story on Lennox Hardy, a fully-realized, fleshed out article that strips Hardy to the bone, digs into every nook and cranny? You bring me that, and the job is yours. Darius, I want to see those changes before the end of business today.”
With that, Giselle swept from the room, leaving me sitting a little numbly, wondering what I’d just gotten myself into. My insides immediately insisted on being outside. I nearly made it to the waste can, but instead put my own personal stamp on the fabric samples.
“Omigosh! I’m so, so sorry,” I fumbled. Darius waved a dismissive hand.
“Congratulations, sweetie,” Darius offered as he collected his marked-up layouts from the drafting table. “Welcome to Thirty. Where everything comes out in the wash.”
Chapter 6
Lennox
Everything is in the wash. So, I guess it shouldn’t have surprised me when I reach for a towel, and find an empty shelf. Memorize the team playbook? Not a problem. Figure out the computer panel on the damned washing machine? Epic fail.
Note to self. Give Maria a raise and ask her start doing the laundry, too.
I give the shower handle a sharp turn, shutting off the boiling stream of water. Clouds of hot steam roll through the bathroom, slicking the floor tiles and fogging the mirror. I watched as my image clouds into something unrecognizable. Little details of me, my history, that dissolves into a sheen of beaded moisture. My hand trails over the transplant scar that ropes around my left side. It’s hardly noticeable under the fierce, black tribal tattoo over it. In fact, it almost disappears completely. But, as the mirror fogs from the bottom up, the camouflaging tattoo disappears as well. I place two flat palms on the vanity and lean forward, studying my face. It’s a good face. Strong lines. Determined jaw. I grinned maniacally. Perfect, straight white teeth. A fairly straight nose that had been bent into character a long time ago...and long before I’d started pursuing football as a career.
I pinched the bridge, giving it an ineffective wiggle back and forth, before it, too, started to fade in the steamed reflection. It was a good face. A roguishly handsome face that the ladies loved.
But, it was his face.
I made some guttural sound of disgust and looked away. When I looked back up into the mirror, the only part of me left visible under the covering condensation is my eyes. The warm, inviting brown is flecked through with hints of sea glass green. Mom’s eyes.
Then the last of me disappears just as a knock sounded at the front door.
Damn, she had gotten here fast!
And I was still without a towel.
My eyes drift to the hook of the bathroom door where the bathrobe of some long-forgotten date past hangs on a hook like a prized safari trophy...if bubblegum pink bunnies existed on the African savannah. I sigh heavily. I weigh the options of just striding, buck naked, into the living room, and answering the front door. I had nothing I was ashamed of. Well, nothing physically anyway.
What would the good reporter do?
A devilish grin teases the corners of my mouth. I have half a mind to try. I hadn’t seen her since the night I’d dropped her off at her place and given her my digits. Didn’t mean I hadn’t stopped thinking about her. She had looked so damned hot. The curve of her slim hip making a supple sway into the dip of her waist and up into her graceful neck. God, what I wouldn’t give to be nuzzling that neck right now.
>
But, that wasn’t the reason she had called. That wasn’t the reason she had asked to meet with me.
Logan, true to form, was being a douche.
I look up at the brightly colored robe and sigh.
“Time to save the day,” I think as I grab the small robe and wrap it around my still damp body.
Yeah? But, I’ll bet Superman never had to save Lois Lane in Pink by Victoria.
I pad barefoot into the living room where I had a welcome fire blazing in the fireplace. California wasn’t New York, so we didn’t see too many bitter, frigid winters. Thank god I hadn’t signed on with the Giants. But, there was definitely a late October nip in the air. The robe was embarrassing enough. No need to be worrying about, ahem, other things as well.
I tighten the belt on the robe.
A second, more insistent knock raps sharply on the door. I quicken my pace. Just a little. Okay. So, maybe I’m a little enthusiastic about seeing her, too. I just felt...better when she was around, even if it was just in my head. It’s a welcome change to the furious acid that’s been eating at me lately.
I open the door. She has her back to me. She’s looking nervously down the hall, like she’s concerned that someone’s going to see her on my doormat. She’s got one of those faux-fur earmuff bands wrapped around her head and her wild, golden-brown curls glow like a fucking halo in the warm light of the hall wall sconce.
“Wow.” The quiet exclamation is just loud enough for her to hear. She turns her head.
“Oh! I...” The rest of her statement is lost in a half-swallowed chuckle. She claps a hand over her mouth. I stand there, pretty in pink, with folded arms. “Holy crap! What? Did you lose a bet?”
The unabashed snark makes me grin. I can’t help myself.
She reaches somewhere deep to try and regain composure.
“Ahem,” she coughs. “Hi.”
“Hi.”
“So, um, thanks for agreeing to meet with me, Mr. Hardy. I wasn’t sure you’d take my call. Your brother sure didn’t.” She looks down and toes the ground. I can’t quite tell if it’s from anger or embarrassment. She sneaks another quick look down the hall. I feel like reassuring her that my neighbors have long-since learned to ignore what happens on my doorstep. “Can I come in?”
“On one condition. You’ve gotta stop calling me Mr. Hardy. It’s Lennox. Just Lennox.” She sizes me up, pursing the cupid’s bow of her mouth, and nods.
“Okay, then...Lennox.” She pauses, for just a moment, like the sound of my name tastes good on her lips. She sits slowly. “I suppose then, it’s only fair that you call me Sloane.”
I have to admit, I could have a second helping of her name, too. “Sloane. I haven’t met too many Sloanes.”
Even if I had, it’s doubtful I would have remembered. This one, though? This one I wanted to remember.
“Does it mean anything special?”
Her eyes widen slightly, as if she’s surprised I’m interested in anything but myself.
“It’s, uh, Celtic for ‘fighter’,” she replies hesitantly, reluctant to give up this little part of her. “My mom named me.”
A quiet moment of bittersweet memory hangs in air. A touch of sadness tempers the beauty in the good reporter’s face. I cock my head, trying to read the story written there. Her eyes catch my pointed stare. The uninvited study shakes her from her momentary reverie.
“Well, come on in,” I offer, stepping aside to allow her entry. “You want a drink? Beer? Wine?”
She casts me a dubious look then smiles softly.
“Damn. Yeah. Right,” I mumble, remembering the whole reason for our meeting in the first place. She pulls the earmuff free, loosing the mane of curls. She chooses a spot on the black leather loveseat across from me.
“So,” she starts hesitantly. “How have you been since I saw you last?”
“I’m fine,” I reply. “Really.”
“Really? ‘Cause your wardrobe hasn’t improved much.” She casts a dubious look at my current attire. A playful grin wanders back across her face. I look down at the pink challenge to my masculinity and purse my lips. I look back up at Sloane, her petite shoulders hitching in a giggle fit.
“Pink is the new black?” I offer. Her giggles spiral into a full-out laugh. It lights up her whole damn face. And it’s contagious. My own, baritone belly-buster rumbles to the surface. Tears start rolling down both our cheeks. It occurs to me I haven’t laughed this genuinely in a long, long time. It feels good.
“I like you, Sloane,” I offer honestly. “I feel like I can really let it all hang out around you.”
“Excuse me?” she counters, stealing a quick glance down at the robe. Her eyes widen to innocent saucers.
“Aw, hell!” I spurt. “That is so not what I meant.”
A graceful smile toys around her lips.
“So, you tried calling Logan? About the, uh,” I stammer. The playful smile on her face fades almost immediately.
“I did. Not so much as a ‘good luck’.” She pulled her legs up under her round bottom. “He’s your brother. I was wondering, maybe, if you could say something to him. I mean, I don’t have a problem raising this kid on my own. I’m ready to pull on my big-girl panties. That’s not it. I guess, I guess I missed having a father in my life. I mean, don’t get me wrong. My mom was great. She really busted her hump for me. But, I never really felt...complete.”
The raw honesty of her words hits me. My own personal puzzle’s been missing a few pieces for years. My hand travels subconsciously to the snaking scar. When I finally met Logan, you’d think I’d filled in one of those missing pieces. But, that’s not how it’s quite panned out.
Sloane brushes a stray lock of hair from her eyes. A tiny sliver of hope starts to poke through the dark inside me. But, I’m not quite ready to travel down that rabbit hole with anyone just yet. To do that, I would have to go to scratch at scabs that hadn’t healed, and bleed fresh.
“I want to give Logan every chance, every opportunity, to be a part in this child’s life,” Sloane continued. “So, I was wondering. Do you think maybe you could talk to him?”
Now it’s my turn to shift uncomfortably in my seat. “Sloane. I have a confession to make. I already did. Before you even called.”
I leave out the part that the conversation took place at central lockup.
Yeah. The team’s P.R. department worked overtime on that one. The reporter that snagged the money shot? Paid handsomely to forget he had even been at the party, let alone taken the picture. And Dante and Forrester? Let’s just say their contracts are lucratively in place for a few more years – salary cap be damned.
As far as the stiches in my hand? An unfortunate battle between my hand and a mosquito on a window was the party line. All the housekeeping has definitely cost me dearly. There’s no room for error now. Management has put me on notice. Toe the line, or I’m fucked.
Sloane leans forward, anxious to hear my report on my conversation with Logan. I take a deep breath.
“There’s something you have to understand about my brother. He’s focused. Insanely. I mean, I’m focused when it comes to football. When my head’s in the game, nothing else matters. But, Logan? He takes it to the extreme. For him, everything he does is part of the ‘master plan’, a cog that drives the Logan Masten machine forward. A blueprint designed to get to the endgame.”
“And I guess a kid’s not part of the plan,” Sloane states matter-of-factly.
“He’s hell bent on this whole congressional race right now. A kid’s not even on his radar.”
She doesn’t say anything, but I can see the glisten of tears around the rims of her eyes as she stares at the fire. I don’t have the heart to tell her about the tirade Logan went on – about how an illegitimate kid would destroy his wholesome “family values” platform. How it could ruin his chances at snaking Daly’s seat for Representative.
“This has to go away, Lennox,” Logan had insisted the night he drove me home from jail.
“I have to win this election.”
I turn my attention back to Sloane. The firelight dances over her perfect, but sad, features. She is so goddamned beautiful.
“You have to understand. Logan had it tough growing up.”
As upset as she seems, the reference to the past appears to perk her interest. Great. If it will distract the sadness from her beautiful face, I could let a few details go.
I take a deep breath. “Logan and I didn’t meet until we were in high school. We didn’t even realize we were twins. Why would we? My parents had never even hinted that I was more than an only child. We just thought it was cool that we looked so much alike. It wasn’t until he got knifed by some asshole and needed a kidney that bloodwork told the truth. I wanted to donate one of mine and the doctors said we were a dead-on match.”
“So,” Sloane begins. “Your parents had given Logan up?”
I nod. “You can imagine how pissed he was. And that’s putting it mildly. And when I realized what my parents had done, I guess I felt guilty. Like I had taken so much away from him. So, I’ve been watching out for him ever since. Every mistake he’s ever made. Every mess he’s ever made. Every corner he’s backed himself into. I’ve had his back.”
I move over to the loveseat and take a spot next to her. She looks up at with big, doe eyes, like she’s seeing me for the first time.
“And what about me, then?” she asks. “Am I one of those mistakes?”
I place a soft hand on her back. “My brother’s a fucking moron.”
I lean in and my lips brush softly against hers, tasting, exploring. My warm tongue breaches their unwilling boundary and flicks, teasingly, at the tip of hers. She levers two flat palms against my chest, and starts to push away.
“Wait! Wait! Wait!” she whispers breathlessly.
“What?” The flood of desire gives a sandpaper husk to the edge of my voice.
“I don’t want to do this.”
Now, it’s my turn to pull back. She sees the obvious surprise in my face. She shakes her head gently.
“No, no, no. This I want.”
