The Journalist: A Sexy Contemporary Romance

by Tia Lewis

  "Patrice, we aren't going to have this conversation. Please. I don't have the strength."

  "Sooner or later you're going to have to. We're going to have to. You can't keep avoiding this forever."

  "Patrice…"

  "Alexa! Listen to me for once! This is for your own good. You need to go back. I keep telling you every single time, but you choose not to listen to me. You really need to do something about these nightmares. At least see a psychologist if nothing else."

  "Why do I need a shrink when I have you?"

  "Don't patronize me, Alexa. I think it's time you actually faced this thing head on. These dreams are a constant reminder of your life, whether you want to admit it or not. Why don't you just give yourself a chance to heal properly?"

  "I'd rather just talk to you, Patrice."

  "What's the use?"

  "If I can't talk to you, Patrice, what is the point of you being a psychology major?" I said baiting her. I knew she was going to take the bait eventually, but I really hoped she did soon.

  "What in the world am I going to do with you?" Patrice asked in exasperation.

  She pushed her chair away from her side of the table and pulled it closer to me.

  Placing her hands on my thighs, she urged me to talk about it. When I was done telling her everything that happened in the dream, Patrice tapped my knee and rested back in her chair.

  "What about the one before this?"

  "Patrice, what is the point of this?"

  "Humor me, Alexa."

  "The one before this had only the three-year-old me. I was playing in the park with my stuffed animal and then just like that, in a flash, it was taken from me. I never did get it back no matter what I tried and no matter how hard I tried. And I did try hard to get it back."

  "Has this not told you anything yet? Have you not come to the realization yet? In all of these dreams, one message is clear. You lost something that means a lot to you. The stuffed animal….your mom. Is it until you…"

  "Patrice! Don't!"

  "You asked for my opinion. Yet you wouldn't even let me finish my sentences. Only you can make this decision, Alexa. The nightmares are only a reflection of your innermost thoughts and fears, and the more you continue to push them down, the harder it is they will strike. I'm going to say this only one more time, Alexa. I think it's time you made that call."

  12

  Dylan

  The commute from the office to Mountain View was one I dreaded a lot, but seeing as this was work related, I didn't have much of a choice. Before this story, I tried my hardest to avoid anything that had to do with the drive down. I usually would opt for the train ride. And of all the days I could have chosen to go by road, I picked today.

  Today with the terrible traffic and rather unusual heat. I still couldn't fathom how a day that started so chilly was so hot all of a sudden. So hot, I had to ditch my blazer at work, thankful for the fact that I had chosen a lightweight white tee instead of the black wool vest I wanted to wear initially.

  Making a mental note to take an Uber when I was returning home, I looked around me to see if I was the only one in this bus affected by the heat. I couldn't be.

  Except these people were not normal, they should feel the same level of discomfort I felt. I definitely had to take Uber when I headed back home.

  Everyone was occupied by one thing or the other. An old, heavy set man in a pair of slacks that seem too big was bent over his newspaper, mumbling something to himself. I guessed he was displeased by something he had read in the papers and since there was no one else around him interested in his complaints, he decided to talk to himself instead. Who knew, the excuse he might have given to himself was that he was a much better conversationalist than anybody else here so why bother? I used to know someone just like that who would keep talking to himself, and when he was asked, he would say he preferred to speak to a better class of people; simply put himself.

  Some distance away, two kids were completely engrossed in their public display of affection, to the utter chagrin of the white haired, old black lady seated beside them.

  She was staring at them like she wanted to lay them on her lap and give them a good spanking. If looks could kill. The kids were not bothered by her stares. They probably didn't even know that she existed. I was more than sure that this woman would go home and complain to all that would listen about how the world was a completely terrible place now if kids could do that in public.

  Something in my head said that the sitting arrangement here was wrong. If I had the powers to rearrange them, the old woman would be sitting right beside the newspaper reading gentleman. The kids would be sitting with that gentleman with the extremely tight jeans who had just gotten off his chair. How could he even walk in that? Were his balls even able to breathe in such a tight thing? Wasn't he even the least bit scared of blue balls? That, of course, was if he actually had balls. I continued to look around trying to see who else to move in this new quest of mine to rearrange the whole bus.

  As I glanced around, my eyes fell on this lady who was intently staring at me. She was seated just two places away from me with a lot of space between us. I looked away from her in the hopes that our eyes just met and she wasn't looking at me, but when I looked back in her direction, she was still staring. She smiled at me as if to let me know she definitely was looking at me. I smiled back, wondering why in the world she hadn't moved to cover the distance if she really felt the need to make conversation. That was the least she could do if she really didn't want to hide the fact that she was staring.

  Even as I looked in the totally opposite direction, I could still feel the stare on me.

  Turning back in her direction, she, of course, was still staring intently at me. The lady was not exactly what I would call a looker, but from what I could see, she had quite the sexy body. A pair of perfectly rounded, D-cups were poking slightly out from the top of her shirt and straining against the pink flowered chiffon top she was wearing. Droplets of sweat covered her toned arms and her face. This one was definitely a gym-buff—most likely a weight training junkie. She pulled out a handkerchief from her bag and dabbed off the sweat, her eyes not leaving me even for a second.

  I took it as my cue to approach. There was no point disappointing such a fine young lady who was ready to play now, was there? I scooted over to her side of the chair until our thighs were almost touching. The all too familiar scent of Chanel No. 5 filled my nose. She didn't move away. Perfect! If I played my game well enough, I might be able to get a little action without having to spend that much.

  "Hello," I said to her.

  "Hi." I sensed a slight accent in her tone. British maybe?

  "I couldn't help but notice you were staring at someone behind me. I just wanted to find out if he's that much of a looker. I hope you don't mind that I want to use you," I said to her with emphasis on the word use.

  "By all means," She replied, clearly amused. She was definitely British.

  I looked back in the direction I came from, and sure enough, there was no one behind me. I turned back to her. "Hmm. Except you were staring so hard at a ghost, there's no one there. Which means you were staring at me. Right?"

  "Was I? Maybe the gentleman I was staring at left when you approached me."

  "Which takes us back to the ghost story. Because I doubt anyone passed here without me noticing. You were staring at me."

  "Even if I was," She said defiantly. "Does this work for you a lot?"

  "What is 'this'?"

  "Do girls actually fall for this?"

  "Well, this is the first time I'm trying. I'm waiting for feedback before I return to my seat. So how'd I do?" I asked, feigning eagerness.

  She laughed, revealing a set of perfect teeth; sparkling white, perfect arrangement with just a little bit of a gap between the two top teeth. I wondered if she ever used braces when she was growing up. These teeth looked too perfect not to have been tweaked by some procedure. Her smile lite up her face in a way her mak
eup didn't.

  "Terribly at first but hey, you made me laugh, so that's a plus."

  "Well, that is amazing feedback. I'll find some other beautiful lady like yourself to try it on. I'm Dylan, by the way," I said and extended a hand in her direction.

  "Opal."

  "Opal. I guess you're not from around here. England maybe?"

  "Nice try, Sherlock. Everyone can tell I'm not from around here, so don't go ahead with trying to impress me with your 'observation' skills."

  "Fine, but don't say I didn't at least try."

  "You're trying has been very well noted."

  "So what brings you to the United States? Or have you been here for a while?"

  "Huh, yeah. Kind of. I am working toward a permanent move to California. Right now I'm still trying to get my bearings and anchor my feet deeply into these waters."

  "So what is it you do?"

  "I am a programmer. I just got an offer here in the US, and I am trying to see how that goes."

  "A what?" I asked in surprise. She looked nothing like the image of programmers I had in my head. Before her, the clichéd image I had of programmers was of geeky, dweeb women with round spectacles and messy hair. Here I was sitting in front of the exact opposite of what I pictured.

  "I see you're surprised. I tend to have that effect on people when I tell them what I do."

  "I'm just surprised. The notion I had…"

  "Is of ugly looking women who don't give a flying rat's ass about their appearance or bother to hit the gym or even bother to dress well," she finished for me. "That's how the movies paint us."

  "Those were not going to be my exact words, but they kind of reflect what I might have said. Hey, all the best in finding your footing here. I hope you find what you are looking for."

  "Thank you. You stay here in San Francisco?"

  "Yeah. I do."

  "So what takes you toward Mountain View? You don't seem to me like one of those who goes to gawk at the Silicon Valley."

  "I'm actually not going to the Silicon Valley. I'm meeting with someone for an interview."

  "Oh really. So what is it you do? Or are you job hunting?"

  "I'm a reporter."

  "Hmm."

  "Impressed enough to give me your number?" I tried my luck.

  "Maybe. You're quite interesting. Maybe when you're done with your interview, you could stop by my hotel for a drink or two."

  "Maybe," I said and pulled out my phone from my pocket. "I'll call you once I'm done?"

  "That would be lovely," She said as she collected my phone to enter her digits.

  There was no way in the world I was not going to score tonight.

  I arrived at the café right on time only to find out that Alexa was not even here. It wasn't until I called her that I realized she had been cooped up in her apartment all day.

  Some minutes later, she appeared at the café looking all shades of sick and exhausted. She hadn't even bothered with a proper dressing or makeup. It looked like she just got out of bed, pulled on a pair of jeans, and grabbed the nearest coat her hands could reach. Her hair was a total mess.

  "Are you alright, Alexa?"

  "Yeah," She replied weakly. "I was sleeping when you called."

  "Looks like it. Coffee or Pancakes? Maybe both?"

  "None. I'm good for now. I'm really sorry. I totally forgot we were supposed to be meeting today. I would have found a way around it."

  "It's fine. You could have just asked me to come over to your place if you weren't feeling up to coming out."

  "I needed the air."

  "You look really tired. What've you been up to in the 48 hours since I last saw you?"

  "Well, trying my hardest not to fail miserably. Because if I do, what's the point of selling myself out? I had to pull two all-nighters so that I could read for a make-up test."

  "So how was it?"

  "Thankfully, it was alright. The good thing is I don't have to bother myself with tests for a while. I just got in a few hours ago, and I went straight to bed."

  "Good to know. So is it okay if we start now?"

  "Yeah sure," she said and sniffed.

  I nodded in her direction and pulled out my portable recorder, notepad, and pen from my satchel. I set them on the table and drummed my fingers lightly on the table to draw her distracted attention.

  "You use notepads and pens?" she asked like I had just committed an abomination.

  "Huh…that's why it's called writing?"

  "No, no, no…that's absolutely not what I mean. Usually, your people go around with laptops typing away instead of writing. Some of my friends doing anything writing related say it's too stressful to have to write all that twice."

  "Well, I do use the laptop sometimes, but I prefer the old-fashioned pen to paper. It's calming. Besides, I can think and make things look better when I'm re-typing."

  "Oh," she said. I can read the tone in her voice. It's the 'oh' of 'I really don't get a word you just said, but let's pretend I do.' I said nothing on that. I just hit record.

  "Here we go. Are you ready?" I asked, and she nodded. "So, how long have you been in this line of business?"

  "I was at it for give or take one year before I stopped a year ago."

  "And how old were you when you started?"

  "I was legal."

  "Legal?" I pressed further.

  "I was old enough to make decisions for myself by the law," she replied without explaining.

  "Are all of you legal when you start?"

  "Not always. Some of us are. Others aren't old enough. Some are barely even grown."

  "And they're allowed to do this? To sell their bodies for some dollars?" I said a little harsher than I intended to. Hearing this hurts me, and I forgot that I was before one of them. "I'm sorry."

  There was a fire in her eyes that I had never seen since I met her. "There's no need to apologize to me. It's the truth. We sell our bodies for some dollars. Sometimes because we want to. Sometimes it's because we have no other choice. You said something about 'allowing' them. Who is supposed to 'allow' them or not allow them?"

  "The police maybe," I said.

  Alexa scoffed. "You really don't know anything about this, do you? No matter how many times the police raid the streets, it doesn't stop these girls from still returning. Not when they have debts to pay, and their lives depend on it."

  "Debts? What kind of debts?"

  "Money some of us owe because we want to buy our freedom. Not everyone on the streets is a free agent. Most of them are owned by someone and then pimped out."

  "You say owned like this is the slave trade era."

  "That's exactly what it is, Dylan. Some of these girls were kidnapped from their homes and brought here to serve. Some were tricked into coming. Some were unfortunate enough to be relatives of those who owe some pimps money, so they asked them to work for it. You've probably heard of things like this before, or read it or seen it a movie, or something like that. Don't act so surprised."

  "I've heard and read of things like this before, but that is very different than hearing it from the horse's mouth. It feels so surreal having to hear it from someone who has lived the life and saw all these things first hand. It's all just so shocking to me."

  "Well, welcome to our world," she said as she leaned back in her chair.

  13

  Alexa

  I didn't know what to make of the shock that he felt that some people actually lived the life I just told him about. Why was it so hard for him to accept when his colleagues and the movie people have written about stuff like this before? I guess it was true what people say about not knowing the life until you actually lived it. He was hearing from someone who had lived it, so his eyes were a lot more open.

  "So if these girls say they are not interested in hooking?" he asked me naively.

  "They are not interested? Have they got more than one life? They can't 'not be interested.' They know their lives and a lot of other things depend on it. So the
y work their butts off repaying whatever debts it is they owe."

  "How do they get out?"

  "They either work their way out or have someone buy their freedom. In all honesty, that hardly ever happens, because who's interested in an overused property?"

  "So they have absolutely no hope of getting their freedom?"

  "By the time they have worked hard enough to repay their debts, their either too tired to want to start a new life, or they just can't begin to think there is another way. That's why you find a lot of them still out on the streets even after they have 'retired.'"

  "So how come you found it easy to get out?" he asked.

  "I was one of the lucky few. I didn't have a master who lorded over me all the time. I didn't owe anything, and neither were my relatives. That and the added fact that one of the things a pimp hates are cops. After what happened, he probably thought I was going to call the police or something. So when I told him I was leaving, he accepted it without that much of a fuss."

  "You really are one of the lucky ones."

  "Umm… can I ask something?"

  "Yeah sure," he replied.

  "How come you don't have a list of questions written down in your book? I thought the way it works is that you'd have a list of questions you want to badger me with and you just keep hitting me with them until you've exhausted them all."

  "Well, some work that way. I feel more comfortable working like this."

  "And this is?"

  "Have just some basic questions noted down somewhere, but mostly go with the flow. I find it works better that way. Do a follow up on what you initially say so that it's more of a conversation between friends than an actual interview."

  "So I can say something I'll regret?"

  "On the contrary. So that we both get maximum results from having this sit-down. You're so paranoid."

  "And is that my fault?"

  "Can we go back to the interview now?" he asked with a smile.

  "Not yet. I need to know what name you have picked out for me."