by Leisa Rayven
Now, he stands behind me and lifts my head away from the desk with his giant hands. “Okay, that’s enough.”
“You don’t understand.”
He comes around to sit in the other chair. “I do. You’ve inflicted the most heinous dickfungus from the dark side of your brain onto the unsuspecting interwebs. What else is new? It can’t be that bad.”
“It can. It is.”
“Show me.”
I sit up and slap at my mouse listlessly, until my latest three posts open on the screen.
Toby leans forward to study them. The first heading reads, THE SECRET SHOCKING PICTURES THE GOVERNMENT DOESN’T WANT YOU TO SEE!
He looks at me. “Let me guess. Fake alien autopsy?”
“Yep.”
“Lame. And old.”
“Yep.”
He clicks on the next post. It’s a video. PEOPLE WHO DON’T LIKE SPICY FOOD TRY SPICY FOOD! SEE THE HILARIOUS RESULTS!
He narrows his eyes. “You filmed this?”
“Yep.”
“Tell me it’s not those three dweebs from accounting who have zero personality but are up for anything if a pretty girl asks.”
“Okay, I won’t tell you it’s the Three Doh-migos.”
“But it is them, right?”
“Yep.”
He sighs and goes back to the screen where the third article screams, THESE ARE THE WORST SERIAL KILLERS IN THE HISTORY OF THE WORLD! TAKE OUR QUIZ AND SEE WHICH ONE YOU ARE!
When I put my head back down on the desk, he doesn’t stop me. “See?”
“Okay, no. It’s not your best work. I mean, it’s like you’re not even trying to destroy innocent folks’ productivity by enticing them to click on crap.”
“My heart’s not in it.”
“You heart doesn’t have to be. Just the greedy, selfish part of you that likes having money for food and rent.”
I sit up and push my hair out of my face. “That’s easy for you to say. You get to write about tech stuff and video games things you love.”
“Yeah, but I wrote my fair share of click-bait crap before Derek moved me into the IT core.”
“I was the editor of the Washington Square News, Tobes. I won the Hearst Award, for God’s sake.”
“I know. And you were down to the final two for a junior reporter’s job after you interned at the New York Times, yadda yadda yadda. But none of that means squat these days. The sad truth is, you can’t throw a cronut in New York without hitting an unemployed journalist, and a lot of them are just as qualified. You have to face the reality that your journalism degree is as useless as an ejector seat on a helicopter. The job market is like a war zone right now, but at least the pay here is above average.”
“So what do you suggest? That I keep doing a job I hate? Or quit to find my dream job and risk being unemployed and homeless?”
“I dunno, Tate. You need something to make Derek sit up and take notice of you. Are you working on any features to show him?”
“Actually, yes.” I sit up and grab my notebook. “Scam parking tickets are showing up all over New York. The fines look real, but the bank account listed for payment isn’t on file with the city. Some con artist is raking in the cash.”
Toby nods. “Not bad, but hardly Watergate. What else do you have?”
“Uh ...” I look down my list. “There’s a renegade street artist who spray paints huge penises on potholes, so the city is forced to fill them or risk offending passersby?”
Toby chuckles. “I like his style, but again, hardly enough for a full feature.”
“Okay.” I scan my sparse list of story ideas. Already, I know it’s a waste of time. If there were something here that was meaty enough to impress Derek, I’d have walked my ass into his office by now and suggested it. This is all dime-and-nickel stuff, when what I need is solid gold.
I put down the notebook and look up at Toby. “I have nothing.”
He gives me a condescending pat on the shoulder. “Well, that’s your problem, Tate. You need something to get somewhere.”
I’m in the middle of flipping him the bird when “Bootylicious” blares out of my phone. Toby immediately sits up a little straighter. He knows it’s Asha’s ringtone, and he’s had a crush on her ever since they first met. Whenever she’s around he’s like a giant Labrador being told he’s going for walkies.
I give Toby an apologetic look, and he heads back into his own cubicle as I answer. “Hey, Ash. What’s up.”
“He’s real.”
“Who?”
“Mister Romance. Joanna was talking to her cousin about him this morning, and the cousin was horrified Joanna had been eavesdropping. She said that everything about hottie-escort is super-secret. The only way you can get to him is through an introduction from an existing client. It’s like some hot-dude lending system.”
“Okay, that’s interesting. Is Joanna’s cousin a client?”
“No. But she knows someone who is. Hold onto your boobs.” She pauses for dramatic effect. “It’s Marla Massey.”
I suck in a breath. “As in the wife of Senator Massey? The ex-televangelist who holds up his Betty Homemaker spouse as the blueprint for all good wives? Are you serious?”
“Deadly. Seems while the good congressman is in Washington, his devoted wife has a sexy playmate. Can you imagine what would happen if this turns out to be true?”
Goosebumps break out over my arms as I register how big this story could be. If I do this right, it could give me the career I’ve always dreamed of. Screw Pulse. I could have my pick of jobs from any number of top-tier media companies.
“So, what do I have to do?” I ask. “Become friendly enough with Mrs. Massey that she introduces me to her professional boyfriend? Seems kind of impossible.”
“Yeah, unless you suddenly morph into a mega-rich housewife who enjoys art galleries and Bible study, you don’t exactly move in the same circles. But whatever you do, be careful. She’s not even going to talk to you if she knows you’re a reporter.”
Asha is right. I have to be clever about this, or my one-and-only lead will go up in a puff of Chanel-scented smoke.
“Okay, so how do these women contact this escort? Phone number? Email? Giant penis beacon in the clouds?”
Asha lowers her voice. “Joanna says that if someone is deemed discreet enough to become a client, the woman referring her will forward a special questionnaire. Once it’s completed, it’s sealed in an envelope, along with a thousand dollars in cash, and delivered it to a P.O. box in Williamsburg.”
I almost fall off my chair. “A thousand dollars?! That’s what this guy charges for a date?”
Toby appears over the top of the partition and whispers, “What the fuck are you talking about?”
I wave him away and grip my phone tighter.
“No,” Asha says. “A date costs five thousand. It takes a grand for him to even consider taking you on as a client.”
“Jesus! I don’t care how good-looking he is, there’s no way any man is worth that kind of money.”
“Well, apparently, these ladies think he is.”
I lean back in my chair and grip my desk. “Do you have the address of this P.O. box?”
“Yes, I’ll text it to you. But it’s no good unless you can dig up the questionnaire. Joanna’s cousin doesn’t have one, and even if she did, I doubt she’d give it to us.”
“Would Marla Massey have one?”
“Probably. But how would you get it without asking her?”
I look at Toby, who’s still frowning at me and trying to figure out what the hell I’m talking about. “I’ll work something out. Thanks for the info, Ash.”
“No problem. It’s for my own benefit as well. God knows, if I have to hear you complaining about your job one more time I’m going to cut my ears off.”
I smile. “Such a supportive sister. Toby says hi, by the way.”
“Uh huh. Byeeeee!”
After we sign off, Toby asks, “So, how is she?”
He shakes his head. “Doesn’t she understand how much awesome she’s missing out on?”
“Clearly not, but I promise to put in a good word for you if you help me with this story.”
“I had a feeling that was coming. Tell me more.”
As I fill him in on all the details surrounding Mister Romance, Toby becomes more and more animated.
“Eden, this could be huge. Especially if more of his clients turn out to be as high profile as Marla Massey.”
“Exactly.”
“So what do you need from me?”
I give him a pleading smile. “I need you to hack into Marla Massey’s email account and find a client questionnaire.”
Toby’s expression darkens. “You’re kidding me.”
“Not even a little.”
This is a sensitive area for Toby. The only reason I know he freelances as a hacktivist in his spare time is because he confided in me one night when we were super drunk. Until now, I haven’t let on that I remembered, but hey ... desperate times and all that.
“She’s a congressman’s wife,” Toby says.
“I know, but I don’t see any other way.”
“It’s not like she won’t have some kickass cyber-security protecting her stuff. I mean, come on.”
“Are you saying you can’t do it?”
He lets out a short laugh. “Don’t be ridiculous. I’m just making sure you know how much of a legend I am before I crack her system like an egg.”
“Noted.”
He nods. “And you’d also better tell your sister that I’m a beast in the sack or something similar for this to be worth my while.”
“Done. Completely fictional accounts of your sexual prowess coming right up.”
“TATE!”
I look around as I hear my name bellowed from the doorway of my boss’s office. Pulse’s editor-in-chief, and general all-purpose ass-kicker Derek Fife, might be considered attractive if he didn’t have the personality of a particularly nasty dose of The Clap.
He scowls at me and hitches his thumb toward the door. “My office. Now.” Without waiting for my response, he heads back to his desk.
“Nice knowing you,” Toby says as he disappears. We both know that Derek’s tone means someone’s getting their ass handed to them, and it looks like it’s going to be me.
I stand and take a deep breath before pulling back my shoulders and striding into his office.
When I stop in front of his desk, he says, “Shut the door and take a seat.” He doesn’t even look up from his tablet.
After I close the door and sit in the chair opposite him, Derek continues to swipe at something on his screen, his brows furrowed.
“Tate, do you know why Pulse has such a diverse range of divisions?”
“To capture a large variety of readers?”
“Exactly. And why do you think we use click-bait articles every day in addition to real news?”
“Because you’re hoping to draw in readers with trash and get them to stay for the good stuff?”
“No. It’s because the click-bait crap generates massive amounts of revenue that helps pay for everything else, including your salary.” He looks up at me, his expression hard. “Do you think that you’re earning your salary right now with the content you’re providing?”
I clasp my hands in my lap. “Uh ... well –”
He holds up his tablet to show one of my articles from a few days ago. THIS WOMAN BENT OVER TO PICK UP A PENNY. YOU WON’T BELIEVE WHAT HAPPENS NEXT!
He raises his eyebrows.
I swallow nervously. “Uh ... so you didn’t like that one?”
“Nothing happened next. She picked up the penny and continued on her way. It’s a complete non-story.”
“Yeah, I was going for irony.”
He swipes and shows me another. THE BIGGEST COLLECTION OF GIANT COCKS YOU’VE EVER SEEN!
I nod. “Yes, but you see –”
“What were the images of, Tate?”
I sigh. “They were pictures of roosters.”
“And not even giant roosters. Regular, average-sized roosters. The comments section was like a fucking Thunderdome of anonymous hate.” He leans forward and lowers his voice. “You see, the Great Unwashed of the Internet considers every click precious, and if you waste the valuable three seconds they were planning on using to ‘pray’ for sick children by liking Facebook posts, or signing whatever-the-fuck useless petition is going around and make them look at pictures of non-pornographic feathery livestock, they are merciless in expressing their anger.”
“I know.”
He throws the tablet onto his desk. “And yet you continue to post content that I could get from my ten-year-old nephew randomly mashing a keyboard with his head.”
“Derek, you see it’s just that –”
“You’re terrible at your job?”
“I can’t deny that I perhaps don’t have the flair for these types of posts –”
“Massive understatement.”
“But if you just give me a chance to write something more substantial, I promise you won’t be disappointed. Let me prove myself to you.”
He leans back in his chair and crosses his arms. “You know the rules, Tate. You don’t get a crack at a feature until you –”
“Pay your dues in the mines. Yeah, I know. But I have a lead on something that could be really big.”
He narrows his eyes. “What lead?”
“There’s an escort here in New York called Mister Romance.”
“Jesus Christ.” He rubs his eyes. “Mister Romance? Seriously?”
“Wait. Hear me out.”
“You have ten seconds to convince me.”
I sit forward and become more animated. “His clients are the elite of New York’s society ladies. So far, I know of at least one congressman’s wife who pays for his services, and I have no doubt that if I dig deeper, I’ll find a slew of well-connected women on his client list. Possibly celebrities, too. Actors, rock stars ...”
Derek stares at me for a few seconds, silent and unblinking. “He fucks these women for money?”
“No. He dates them.”
“What the hell does that mean?”
“I’m not sure, but even without the sex, think about the implications. At five-thousand dollars per date, this guy is swindling romantically bored women out of huge amounts of cash. The scandal would be epic.”
He leans forward. “You have reliable sources on this?”
“Only secondhand right now, but I’ve just come into some information that could lead to a goldmine. And because we’re in on it early, we could secure an exclusive scoop for Pulse.”
That gets Derek’s attention. He steeples his fingers in front of his mouth. “Exclusive is good. Our advertisers like exclusive.”
I put my hands on his desk. “Then let me run with it. If it doesn’t pan out, I promise to devote myself mind, heart, body, and soul to creating the most irresistible click-bait known to man. I will find glorious portraits of the most massive roosters on the planet. But, if I land this story–”
“Here we go.”
“I want a permanent spot at the features desk. And a raise.”
Derek chuckles, but not in a cute way. More in a you’ve deflated my rage boner, and I resent you for it way.
“You have some balls on you, Tate,” he says. “I call you in here to fire you, and now you’re making me seriously consider giving you a promotion?”
I give him my most determined expression. “I’m a reporter, Derek, and a damn good one. Let me report. At least give me a shot to show you what I’m capable of. I won’t let you down.”
He thinks about it for few seconds while he taps a forefinger against his lips. Then he says, “Okay. One shot. Follow this thread down the rabbit hole and see where it leads. Keep me up to date on your progress.”
“Will do.” I mentally give myself a high-five. “Oh, and one more
thing – I need a thousand dollars in cash.”
He picks up his tablet again. “And I need a self-blowing dick. Guess we’ll both have to live with disappointment.”
“I need the money to buy a meet-up with this guy,” I explain. “He won’t talk to me if I say I’m a reporter. I need to pose as a client. A wealthy client. If he takes me on, I’ll need another four thousand bucks to buy a date with him.”
Derek’s face crumbles in confusion. “The fuck?! What the hell does this guy do to these women that’s worth five grand?”
“That’s what I’m going to find out.”
He reluctantly turns to his computer and taps out an email. “Tell me this isn’t some excuse to get your rocks off on the company dime.”
I roll my eyes. “Derek, please. As if I need to pay a man to go out with me.”
He scowls before sending off his email. “Go see Emily in finance. She’ll have the cash waiting. But you’d better give me a decent return on my investment.”
“I will.”
“Good. Now get the fuck out of my office.” He pulls on his wireless headphones and cranks up the volume of something that can only be described as angry white-guy thrash.
“You’re such a piece of shit,” I mutter under my breath.
He looks at me sharply and slides the headphones back from his ears. “What was that?”
I give him my sweetest smile. “I said this story will be a hit.” Without waiting for a reaction, I turn and leave, grateful to have staved off the executioner’s axe, at least for a while.
* * *
By the time I get back to my desk, Toby is in my chair, hunched over my computer and typing furiously.
I’m about to inquire about his progress when he says, “Don’t ask. There’s no traceable IP at the Massey’s home address, which means they either don’t have internet – which is unlikely – or they’re off the grid. But don’t worry. I’m gaining remote access to her phone, and just as soon as I get into her email folder, I’ll be able to ... Oh.”
“Oh?”
“Oh.”
I lean over his shoulder to see what he’s looking at, but the screen is just a big bunch of code. “Please translate, ‘Oh’ for me, Tobes. Is it good news or bad news?”
