The Price of Scandal

by Score, Lucy

  Three women strolled past the table in the midst of a number of different conversations. The first, in turquoise glasses, was nearly bouncing out of her own skin. “So then, I was like of course a blow job is the answer!” she yelped at two times the appropriate decibel.

  The next woman was taller and dressed in pajama pants that were in desperate need of laundering. She was swearing at her phone. “I told the kids that if they didn’t stop farting in each other’s faces I was going to take their Legos. Now they’re texting me sad selfies promising a fart-free weekend.”

  “Don’t fall for it,” the third woman advised. She was wearing a Give Me Coffee or Give Me Death t-shirt. “They mean it now, but they’re just going to get hopped up on cereal, and all good judgment goes out the window.”

  “How have you survived homeschooling?” The first woman asked.

  “My kids are abnormally good. Like we’re actually concerned. Now, back to the blow job…”

  They slid into the booth next to us, and we pretended not to eavesdrop on every word.

  “Where’s my favorite?” I asked in a low voice. “I hope she’s not on deadline again.”

  “Agh! Sorry I’m late. Apparently, I don’t know how clocks work.” Another woman still wearing sunglasses bounded up to the booth. Her sweaty workout tank was on inside out. She was pawing through her bag. “I think I lost my phone again.”

  “It’s in your hand,” the first one pointed out.

  “I’m so happy right now,” Luna sighed.

  “Shh!” Daisy hissed. “I want to find out what happens to Salvio in book five.”

  The night after we met six years ago, our hungover foursome had stumbled into Mordecai’s seeking sustenance and the hair of the dog. What we’d discovered was a kinship and four romance novelists in the next booth.

  At first, we thought we were overhearing a murder plot.

  “So then I thought, ‘Okay, maybe I can just stab him to death.’ You know? Like really violent because he deserves it, right?”

  “Totally. He’s a dirtbag, and everyone is going to agree with that.”

  “But then I was like, ‘How can there be sex immediately after this super violent stabbing.’”

  “Good point. That would be a little sociopathic.”

  “But if I kill him in a funny, light-hearted way—like say he’s run over by a bratwurst truck—then…”

  “Blow jobs for everyone!”

  Luna and I had wondered if we should call the police.

  Daisy was more interested in who they were murdering because he sounded like a guy she dated once, and according to her, he totally deserved to be murdered.

  Meanwhile, Cam had snuck a photo of the booth’s occupants and ran an image search.

  And that’s how we discovered they were contemporary romance novelists in the midst of plotting out a project.

  Ever since, we’d been occupying the booth next to them, reading their books, and eavesdropping on their conversations.

  We’d never shared more than polite nods over menus or in the restroom. I don’t think any of us wanted to ruin the mystique. But there was something about eight women, living their best lives, downing pitchers of Bloody Marys, and sharing stories that reassured me that the world could be a very good place.

  “Dammit. They’re talking about grocery delivery,” Daisy sighed. “I need to find out if Salvio is going to freak out when he finds out his twin brother accidentally married his crush in Vegas.”

  “I wish I could write love stories,” Luna sighed.

  “It sounds like Emily’s living one,” Cam pointed out.

  “We’re not in love. We’re in lust. It’s very healthy and full of boundaries and explicit expectations.”

  “Mmm, explicit,” Daisy said, wiggling on the bench seat.

  “What’s going to happen with the board?” Cam asked. “They’re not going to be pleased that the fixer they hired is now spending a good amount of his time keeping you in bed.”

  I winced. “It was supposed to be a ploy. Give them something shinier and sexier to talk about than a near-arrest. And we got carried away.”

  Daisy clapped. “It’s about damn time Emily Stanton got carried away with something besides reams of data and business reports.”

  I rolled my eyes. “I’m hoping that the ploy part of it deflects from all the rumors surrounding my little fainting spell.”

  My friends shared a telling look. I could only imagine the headlines I was avoiding. Emily Stanton’s overdose. Emily Stanton’s secret baby. Or worse, the truth: Emily Stanton too weak to carry the mantle of the company she built.

  But I didn’t need to waste my time worrying about public opinion. That’s what Derek was for. That and aggressive orgasming.

  “So let me tell you about Derek’s shower guest and his unprepared ass,” I said, changing the subject before the mood could falter.

  “You went up the butt on him?” Cam’s mouth formed a perfect O.

  “I don’t care who you are. That’s hot,” Daisy said.

  “Anal play can lead to a new level of vulnerability in relationships,” Luna added helpfully.

  “Oh, it wasn’t me. It was Brutus.”

  Lady Raquel breezed by and dropped another pitcher of Bloody Marys on the table. She gave a glittery wink.

  The novelists next-door erupted into giggles over a sex scene gone bad.

  Right now, everything was good. And I was going to do everything in my power to keep it that way.

  32

  Derek

  My office on a Sunday looked much like my office on a Wednesday. I was going to have to re-institute required weekends off for the team.

  It wasn’t that I was a whip-cracking, demanding boss. I’d simply hired people who cared very deeply about their jobs.

  Which was why I was in the midst of a Chinese-takeout-fueled informal staff meeting on a Sunday afternoon.

  Rowena pointed her chopsticks at one of the screens on the wall. Her feet, clad in scarred combat boots with magenta laces, were propped up on the metal top of the conference table. “Okay, screen one,” she said around a mouthful of pork lo mein. “These are Emily Stanton’s highest performing social media posts in the past month. Pre- and post-kerfuffle.”

  We didn’t like the term “scandal.” Created by my very creative team, our rating scale of undesirable situations began at Oops and escalated to the top with WTF. WTF was reserved for Code Black, angry mob, nuclear fallout. Emily’s situation fit in at kerfuffle on the higher end of challenge but still winnable.

  Rowena walked us through the data—no real surprises. A large swing of general attention. A significant uptick in negative perception. Trolls had crawled out of the woodwork to add their worthless two cents.

  Even after all these years of “fixing,” it surprised me how many people took such vicious pleasure in eviscerating their fellow humans. Often for such infractions that included having the audacity to star in a movie, write a book, or—God forbid—not be a size eight or smaller. Were I a bigger person, I would feel pity for them. But I wasn’t. So I simply wished each one of them a scorching case of herpes and moved on with my day.

  “So our beloved data whores coughed up this gem,” Rowena said, clicking to the next slide.

  The data whores—or analysts, as they were called for human resource purposes—were Ancarla, a former CIA analyst, and Roger, a world champion gamer/semi-pro hacker, that I had enticed into the corporate world with generous bonuses and flexible schedules. Half the time they didn’t even come into the office, and when they did, one of them was invariably in pajama pants. Somehow, I’d ended up with both of them present on a Sunday.

  Ancarla chomped on a stem of black licorice, dessert to her beef and broccoli, and then pointed it at the screen.

  “You’ll see the spike in media mentions here the night of the kerfuffle. It’s stayed consistently high since. The smiley face line denotes our measurement of public positivity—likes, nice comments, wardrob
e items selling out, etc. The barfing face line represents the trolls, the baddies, the ‘how dare you be a human’ judgies.”

  Every time the vomiting faced negative line redrew itself, a fart noise sounded.

  I was the only team member over the age of thirty, and sometimes they made me feel like I was over seventy.

  “Stanton had a pretty sterling rep prior to this deal,” Roger said, picking up the thread. He had an open energy drink at his elbow and two iPads in front of his sweet and sour soup. “Squeaky clean, kinda boring. Should have called us in before this deal to make her more likable.”

  I agreed with that assessment. But most leaders didn’t realize they could use some humanizing in the public’s perception until it was too late.

  “The baddies have a good run for these dates. And then—”

  “Along comes Derek Price in a tux with his hand just coasting into inappropriate ass grab territory,” Rowena observed.

  The image I’d posted to Emily’s Instagram from last night appeared on the screen.

  “Daaaaaaaaamn,” Lance said, pretending his glasses had steamed up.

  We did make an eye-catching couple, I thought smugly. Emily with her polished platinum looks. And I was certainly no slouch either.

  “Don’t keep us in suspense,” I said.

  The next slide twirled onto the screen with a digital “woo hoo.”

  The smiley faces were the clear victors as of about 7 p.m. last night. Leaving the barf faces meekly descending toward the bottom.

  “Derek, I’d like you to consider dating all future clients,” Rowena quipped.

  “All in favor,” Roger rumbled.

  “Aye.”

  “The ayes have it. Sir Derek will prostitute himself for the good of the company henceforth.” Roger was also really into Renaissance fairs.

  I sighed.

  “I dunno. What if this turns out to be the real thing?” Ancarla asked, reaching for another stick of licorice.

  “It’s fake. You can’t build real off of fake,” Lance argued.

  “Yeah, but look at D’s face,” Rowena said. “He’s all like glowy and happy.”

  “Maybe he just got a facial?” Roger suggested.

  One of my team’s favorite hobbies was talking about me as if I weren’t there.

  “Maybe he got lucky.”

  “With a client?”

  “Maybe she’s more than a client.”

  “Maybe he’s having a mid-life crisis?”

  “Isn’t he too old for that?”

  I pinched the bridge of my nose and wondered if I could get away with murdering them all. “Don’t make me start locking everyone out on the weekends,” I threatened.

  “I don’t know. I think it was all for show and that, once Stanton’s back on top, D will be back to his old ‘I love the single life’ boogie,” Lance guessed.

  “What if he likes being in this fake relationship and decides he’s missing out?” Ancarla said.

  “Who wouldn’t want to be in a fake relationship with a billionaire?” Roger chimed in.

  “Nah, dude’s got happily ever after written all over his face,” Rowena decided. “I think this could be the real deal. From the dossier, Stanton’s pretty great.”

  “Thank you. I agree.”

  We all swiveled in our chairs toward the conference room door.

  Emily leaned against the door frame smiling politely. She’d left the house this morning dressed for brunch with her friends. Now she was back in black cropped pants and a simple tank. She’d swapped out the usual stilettos for black trainers.

  “Whoa. Great hair!” Rowena said, reaching for her phone. “Did you post a pic yet?”

  “Get her with the windows at her back,” Roger suggested. “Arms crossed like ‘I’m a bad billionaire. You got a problem with that?’”

  I scrubbed my hands over my face in irritation. “Take five, kids. Or, better yet, go home.”

  Clients were never privy to the behind-the-scenes sausage-making of Alpha Group. And I was especially not thrilled with Emily strolling into a conversation about whether or not I was in love with her.

  Unruffled, my team packed up their food and electronics and introduced themselves to Emily on their way out.

  Emily closed the door after the last one out.

  “The single life boogie?” she asked me, taking the seat Rowena had vacated and crossing her arms. She looked more amused than annoyed. Maybe I wouldn’t have to murder my team.

  I peered over her shoulder, making sure the team was at least pretending to not eavesdrop.

  “That’s not an appropriate conversation to have with a—”

  “A what?” she pressed. “A client? A lover?”

  Whatever spell she’d cast on me was in full effect. Just looking at her smugly taking up space at the head of my conference table and I was hard for her.

  “What can I do for you, love?” I asked, not finding an adequate answer to her question.

  “I thought you might like to take a field trip with me,” she said, drumming her fingers on her upper arms. “Unless you’re busy manipulating the world.”

  “My time is all yours,” I promised her.

  “Great.” She held up a set of keys and dangled them. “Want to drive?”

  33

  Derek

  At my behest, the Porsche accelerated like a damn dream. Emily was directing me north through the city.

  She sat next to me, sunglasses on and a smile hovering on those lovely lips as we cruised. A near perfect Sunday in my estimation.

  “Take the next left,” she said, nodding toward the traffic light.

  The color of South Beach and the bustle of downtown Miami were behind us. Buildings here were less concerned with aesthetics and more concerned with function and durability. Mom and pop convenience stores edged into working-class neighborhoods. Commercial buildings squatted on skinny canals.

  “Here,” she said, pointing at a long, low building painted bright white.

  DIY AHA, the sign read.

  I slid into one of the last remaining parking spaces in the lot next to the building.

  “Exactly where have you brought me?” I asked, cutting the engine. “Also, I want this car.”

  “You’ll see, and you may not have it,” she said, grinning as she climbed out.

  “I could steal it,” I mused.

  She snatched the keys from my hand. “And I could have you arrested.”

  “What good would that do either one of us? Maybe we could work out a trade?”

  She tilted her head haughtily.

  The cool queen surveying her subject.

  “What kind of trade?”

  “Miles for orgasms?” I suggested.

  “Hold that thought,” she said with a wink, opening the steel door. “Oh, and no pictures. No documenting the next two hours.”

  “You make doing my job very difficult,” I complained.

  “Back at you, Price.”

  Intrigued, I followed her inside.

  Thoughts of orgasms evaporated from my mind immediately at the squeals of pre-teen girls occupying a large lab-like classroom. There were a dozen of them in white lab coats and goggles. There didn’t seem to be nearly enough adults present to contain the unstable, excited energy.

  “Emily!” Girls in blue latex gloves waved in delight.

  “Hey, ladies! I hope you don’t mind, but I brought a lab partner today. This is Derek.”

  “Hi, Derek,” fifteen girls chorused before dissolving into giggles.

  “Glad you could come.” A woman in a tie-dye lab coat approached. Her safety glasses were on top of her head acting as a headband to her short bushy gray hair. She was wearing Converse sneakers and a wiener dog t-shirt.

  “Me, too,” Emily grinned. “Derek, this is Esther. She’s a biochemist and runs things here at DIY AHA. Esther, this is my friend Derek.”

  She stumbled a bit over “friend.” I was selfishly glad she didn’t have an easy label for ou
r relationship.

  “A pleasure,” I said, shaking Esther’s proffered hand.

  “I don’t suppose there’s time for me to take a peek at the data?” Emily asked her.

  “Nope,” Esther said cheerfully. “It’ll keep.” She turned her attention to me. “Let’s get you suited up before these girls eat you alive.”

  * * *

  “And what’s the most important rule at AHA?” Emily asked from the front of the learning lab. She was wearing a white lab coat and safety glasses. Her hair was pulled back in a short tail. Once again, I found the look to be discomfortingly alluring.

  “Follow all safety protocols,” a new generation of budding scientists chorused back at her.

  “Good,” she said. “Because we’re going to make fire.”

  The girls oohed.

  I wondered what kind of liability insurance Emily had and if the policy had a rider concerning twelve-year-olds and pyrotechnics.

  I watched from a safe distance as Emily explained step-by-step what she was doing as she poured a small amount of ethanol from a beaker into an empty water cooler jug. She swirled the liquid around and around, coating the inside of the jug.

  “Who knows what combustion is?” she asked.

  About half the hands in the room shot into the air.

  Emily beamed at her attentive students. “Combustion is an ignition. A rapid chemical combination that produces heat and light. Once it starts, you can’t stop it until it flames out.”

  Her gaze flitted to me and then away again, and I wondered if she thought that what we had was as simple as a chemical reaction.

  The energy in the room was reaching a fevered pitch.

  Emily, a showman, held the bottle upside down. The girls gasped with enthusiasm when not a drop of liquid appeared.

  “I’ve just created ethanol vapor. Turned a liquid into a gas. Now, I’m going to light it.”

  We all watched raptly as she lit a long, thin taper with a lighter. “Arm’s length,” she said.

  “Arm’s length,” we repeated.

  With another grin, she held the taper to the mouth of the bottle, and everyone in the room except for Emily jumped when chemical flames in blues and oranges shot out and up. It burned fast and bright for a second or two and then vanished.