The Journalist: A Sexy Contemporary Romance

by Tia Lewis

  "Not to sound judgmental or impersonal or anything but your subject has heard of such a thing as student loans right? And scholarships?"

  "Sometimes, things can be a little more complicated than we see. But this was the only way she could survive, so she grabbed that opportunity and continued to live that life."

  "Sounds like a really good idea to me. But Paula would need something more than just a cause to help us see hookers in a better light. There has to be something intriguing about your subject."

  "Other than the fact that she has a CGPA of 4.0 and she is doing amazingly well in school despite the fact that people who take her to bed see her as nothing?"

  "4.0. Impressive. But yeah. Other than the fact that she is smart and is looking like she is quite a fighter."

  "But she is a fighter. She quit for a while after a terrible experience. But she's thinking of going back because she can't afford tuition anymore."

  "Now that's the card you'll play with Paula."

  "What card?" I asked, confused.

  "All of the above. What you are going to sell to Paula is 'The secret life of a Hooker'."

  6

  Alexa

  A pair of hands tugged at my duvet in an attempt to wake me up from sleep. I was not ready to accept defeat, so I turned the other way and wrapped the duvet tighter around me. The hands didn't seem to give up easily as they continued to tug at the duvet and hit me every chance they got. A voice yelled my name as the hands kept tugging. At this point, the voice was a shock, so I jumped up with a start. My head started to pound almost immediately. Patrice, a friend of mine, was glaring down at me like I had just killed her cat.

  "Alexa, get up!" she said.

  "Oh God! Patrice, what is it?!" I replied grudgingly.

  "I can't believe you're still in bed. What time did you get in last night?" she asked with a look I am sure does not portray half the disgust that she felt right then.

  "And why is your place such a mess?"

  For the first time since I woke up, I actually took a good look at my apartment.

  'Mess' was not the word that described this place. Empty beer cans, half eaten boxes of chips, pizza, and ice-cream littered different parts of the room. The dress I wore yesterday was sprawled on the floor some distance from my bed. One shoe was right by my side on the bed, and the other was nowhere to be found.

  I jumped off the bed thinking someone broke into my flat last night and decided to party while I was asleep. Probably not even one person because this mess looked nothing like a mess created by just one person. Oh my God! And I slept through all of this, I thought to myself. Immediately my feet touch the floor, it felt like my head was about to be split in half. At that moment, I realized this was done by nobody but me. I did this all by myself, and the headache is a painful reminder of what I did when I got home last night.

  After I had told Dylan about what happened that night, I felt a weight lift off of my chest. It was as though the experience had turned itself into a ton of cement and had decided to sit there. That night was the worst day of my life, yet I could tell no one about it. Not the cops, not my colleagues—not the pimps. I felt ashamed and angry at myself for letting that happen to me.

  I had been filled with so many questions that I couldn't answer. How could I not have seen the signs? Had I been too blinded by the money to see that this guy definitely had something up his sleeve? Had I somehow attracted him to me? Had I been the reason for the bad things they did and almost did to me? For a whole year, I was plagued by these questions and a lot more self-doubt.

  The trauma affected me so much so that I didn't even want to step foot out of the house, much less go back to work. It took a while, but I started to go out gradually.

  Work was what I decided never to go back to. I could never let myself go to that extent. I could never let any man touch me for even the most platonic of excuses, let alone actually sleep with me.

  Luckily, I had saved up enough for my tuition and accommodations. All that was left was my upkeep, and that didn't seem like that much of a problem. I could have gone home to my family, but I didn't want to. That was the very last thing I could do.

  So I decided to get a couple of part-time jobs to tide myself over.

  To an extent, I succeeded. I paid my tuition and got a relatively cheap apartment. I used the extra on top of accommodations to eat for a while until I got a job at a restaurant not too far from my place. Everything was going fine. Until the realization that it was almost time for another tuition. It was a hard decision, but seeing as there was no other way, I had to go back to my old ways.

  Dylan had been sympathetic to my cause. He had listened like he was a friend and it felt good to finally share. But along with the lightness came a kind of emptiness and sadness. It was as though telling it had made me lose a part of me. I desperately needed something to drink. So we had gone back to the bar, totally unmoved by the money wasted on the room that would see no use, and went back to the room to drink my sorrows away. I don't remember how much I chugged down, but I remembered Dylan telling me I had more than enough. I didn't even bother arguing. I headed home and continued my drinking, only this time accompanied by food. It didn't seem like so much last night, but now that I saw the carnage, I realized how much I indulged in.

  "So? I'm still waiting for that explanation." Patrice's voice broke into my reverie.

  "I have a terrible headache, Patrice. Your voice isn't making it any easier on me."

  "Oh really? I guess this would help your 'headache' better." She said, walked toward the window blinds, and pulled them apart.

  "Oh God! Patrice!" I cried and buried my head in my pillow. "Are you here to torment me? Jesus! Now my head and eyes ache like hell."

  "That will teach you to not get drunk again."

  "Huh, Patrice," I said raising my head from under the pillow, my eyes getting a little accustomed to the light, "It doesn't actually work like that, you know? This whole lesson thing never crosses anyone's mind when they decide to indulge again."

  "Don't sass me, young lady."

  "Oh Christ, Patrice. You're not my mom. Or anyone's at that. So quit the act. Why are you here so early anyway?"

  "So early?" Patrice said with a wicked chuckle. "You don't know, do you? It's 1 pm, madam." She said, and my eyes grew wild. Seeing the opportunity, she decided to capitalize on my misery. "Which means, dear, that you missed about two classes and one test."

  "Oh God!" I groaned. "Why didn't you call me?"

  "Your phone kept on ringing, and no one answered. Honestly, I was scared. I thought something had happened to you seeing as you've been so quiet of late, so I decided to check on you. Thank God you're only drunk, not dead."

  "Argh!!! I didn't know I drank so much."

  "No one ever does until the morning after."

  "What am I going to do?! I can't go and see Professor Williams in this state! What excuse would I give? He'd smell the liquor from the minute I step into the university premises. What am I going to do?!" I cried.

  "First off, clean this pig sty and your dirty self. And when you are done, we'll find you something to eat. You don't get to see Professor Williams until the day after tomorrow."

  "I don't think I understand how seeing the professor the day after tomorrow is supposed to be good for me. I just missed a fucking test!"

  "I spoke to him immediately after the test. I sort of told him you came down with something and had to be admitted to the hospital. He says you can see him once you get better. I don't think he would believe our story if you showed up looking great tomorrow. And, you're welcome."

  "Wow! Thanks, Patrice." I said and rushed to hug her.

  "God! I think we need to change the order of your tasks. You need to brush and wash up first. Your breath stinks," she said and covered her nose.

  "It's not that bad, Patrice. Stop being such a drama queen." I retorted and started to pick up some of the trash on the floor.

  "Oh, dear. Trust me, it is. It'
s not bad, it's terrible. Take my word." She replied and joined in picking up the cans and discarded cartons. "Why exactly is there half of everything again? I thought people actually finished one thing before moving to another."

  "Not when you're in a massive depressive state. Sometimes your cravings come one at a time, other times, they just rush at you without giving a flying rat's ass. I had that yesterday. I kept feeling like eating one thing and deciding it isn't good enough when I had just some of it. Then another craving comes up and then the circle continues."

  "Why exactly are you depressed? You were fine when I left you yesterday."

  "I looked like I was," I said and dropped the trash I picked up on the small coffee table. I sat down next to it.

  "Looked like? What's up, Alexa?"

  "I got to thinking again is what. I need to find a way to raise my tuition. So I went back out."

  "Went back out?" Patrice asked with a confused look on her face. "I don't follow. Went back out where?"

  "I went back to the streets," I replied to her, my shame nearly choking my voice.

  Patrice knew everything about me. Including my not so great past. I revealed everything about my life one night we did shots together. It had been a very emotional day, and I needed someone to talk to. The liquor was just the grease to keep me talking. We have talked about this once before, and her disdain for my going back, especially when I told her why I stopped was very clear the day we spoke.

  "Oh my God, Alexa!" she cried. "We talked about this and how it's such a terrible idea. Why would you even go back?!"

  "No. You talked about how it would be such a terrible idea and how I shouldn't do this. I told you how I have no other choice but to do this. They're two different things."

  "Oh for crying out loud, Alexa! You have a million and one choices. Too many in fact. But of all the choices you could pick from, you decided this one is best?"

  "Because it is best! Look, Patrice, I don't have the strength to fight you on this one. I swear I can't deal with a fight right now. Just trust me when I say this is my best option."

  "I don't want to fight either, Alexa, but I need to tell you the truth. That's why I am your friend. You know the other alternatives you have even if student loans are out of it, but you don't want to explore the other options."

  "Patrice!" I started to complain.

  "Why now, though? We're not even halfway through this session, and you're bothered with bills for the next."

  "Because I don't want to be stranded when it's time. I have to start working toward it now before I really need it."

  "But it's just one day, and it has driven you to drink. What would happen every day? You'll become an alcoholic!"

  "I didn't do anything this time. I couldn't bring myself to. Besides, the man I met wanted something else."

  "He wanted to take advantage of you again?"

  "No. He's a journalist. He wants to write about me."

  "He knows about…."

  I interrupted her before she could complete her statement. "No. He wants to write about the hooker that goes to Stanford."

  "Wouldn't that draw attention to you?"

  "He won't be using my name."

  "Is that a good idea?"

  "I don't know. It seemed like it last night. Nothing is set in stone yet. He wants to speak to his editor first before he gets back to me. I told him about those men that night."

  "Isn't that an awful lot to tell someone you just met? Especially seeing as he's a journalist and all?"

  "I don't know. Maybe it's time I started talking about myself."

  7

  Dylan

  Paula was one of the nicest, yet scariest people I knew. How she managed to switch between her two personalities always beat me. Chris and I sometimes joked around with the fact that she was probably pulling a Jekyll and Hyde on everyone in the office. We however never joked around with that kind of stuff when the office crowd was around. Chris liked the fact that Paula didn't seem to have a problem with him and I, on the other hand, was not ready to lose my job. My position here was hanging by just a thin strand.

  Sitting in her office, I was hoping and praying that it was the nice Paula I got to meet today. I was bursting with positive energy this afternoon. Talking to Chris and going over the idea until it was almost perfect was a good idea, after all. Paula's office was a sharp contrast to Chris' cubicle. Everything was perfectly arranged in the right place, had been since she started working here as the interim Editor-in-chief three months ago; books in the shelves were arranged first by height, then by their titles—the stack of our magazines were arranged by what seemed to be colors as opposed to dates—the MacBook sat in the middle of everything else with just about enough space for it to look like it was an island of sorts.

  The walls here were painted white, which complemented the hue ash furniture in the room. This place reeked of a perfectionist's taste, and that was exactly what the owner of the office was—a perfectionist. It was what made her so damned good at her job.

  Paula never left a stone unturned when it came to our work around here.

  Sometimes, she stayed up all night, going through every one of the articles that were supposed to go to print for the next edition even after the editors had read and re-read. From the planning phase to actualization, to follow-up, Paula always worked toward perfection.

  Which was why this idea I was about to pitch to her had to be just that. It was a huge surprise that she hadn't fired me yet. I was half-expecting when she called me into her office the other day that she was about to throw me under the bus.

  Relief and shock washed over me when I realized it was just a warning for me and not the actual firing. I just hope if she doesn't buy the idea it doesn't remind her of the fact that she was supposed to fire me the last time.

  So much depended on this and I couldn't emphasize it enough—my job, my career, my life and now someone else's life. I could feel Alexa's pain as she spoke to me yesterday. She was obviously shaken, and it made me wonder if this was the first time she was talking to someone about this or if she wasn't taken seriously when she reported it to the police. I have heard of cases like that where even the police think the girl deserved it or someone asked for it when a hooker was raped.

  Having her story out in print would not only help her, but it would also be a source of motivation to some of the other girls.

  Paula was still speaking to someone on the phone, and that gave me enough time to collect my thoughts. She raised her hand, waved slightly, and rolled her eyes at the phone in an attempt to apologize for the delay, and I nodded in response as if to say I understood perfectly how annoying it was to talk to whoever it was she was talking to. Paula scribbled something on her notepad and told the person she understood, but she also needed the person to understand where she was coming from. After rolling her eyes again, she told the person to make sure she got in touch if there was anything she could do.

  "I'm really sorry for that. Some people just don't understand how important some things are sometimes." She said by way of apology and sighed inwardly. It's nice Paula I was meeting with today. "It's quite frustrating when you need certain things, and they don't seem to know how important timing is."

  "Something I can help out with?"

  "What is the best gift to buy to apologize for forgetting your own anniversary?"

  She asked, and I sighed inwardly. Thank goodness, it was nice Paula. "I was so busy with work here that I totally forgot the date. In my defense, I didn't forget the date. I just forgot that that date was supposed to fall on a particular day. You understand, right?"

  "I do. It happens to the best of us. It's perfectly understandable."

  "And he's supposed to be in town this afternoon. I was trying to book a table at his favorite restaurant here in San Francisco, but the lady says they are all booked up. That is the fourth time I'm calling today. It's so frustrating. Now I have to think of the next best apology gift, and I hate to admit, I suck at thin
gs like this. I have no idea what to get for him."

  "How long have you been married?"

  "It's our first anniversary."

  "And you can't remember him mentioning something that he would give everything to have?"

  "There is one thing I honestly don't think that is possible, so I'll be sticking to the next best thing—food."

  "What restaurant is it you want to book a table at?"

  "It's Four Points."

  I sat back and tried my hardest not to smile. I didn't want to be smug. A friend of mine was the chef at Four Points, and he would give anything to have me owe him one.

  This seemed like a worthy enough cause to be in his debt for, and I am more than certain that Adrian would be able to do something for me.

  "I might be able to help," I said. "My friend is the chef there, and he owes me one," I added, twisting the truth a bit. Her eyes widened, and I saw I had gotten her attention. "Adrian and I go way back."

  "Oh you do?" she asked. I am almost sure she was resisting the temptation to ask how in the world I knew someone like that when I was practically scum of the earth. I don't bother to tell her that Adrian was more than just a friend and that he was actually my cousin. I would have gone running to him, but I didn't like to suck up to family when things went south. It didn't do well for my ego.

  "I do. I can call him when I get back to my cubicle. I didn't bring my phone with me."

  "You can use mine if you maybe have the number written down somewhere." She said eagerly. "I sound too pushy, right? There is no way you'll have his number written on your person if he's just a friend."