As the Wicked Watch(88)

“Have you lost your mind? She’s an intern! We barely let them leave the building to protect the station from litigation. If something were to happen to one of them . . .”

“I ran into her, okay? I wasn’t thinking. You’re right. She shouldn’t have been out there,” I said.

“And you probably shouldn’t have been out there, either. You’re a reporter, Jordan, not a cop,” she said. “It was reckless and irresponsible.”

Her words stung. “That’s not what happened. I need to go back in there and clear this up.”

“I think it’s better if you don’t,” she said as I started to walk back toward the conference room. “Go home and get some rest. I’ll clear things up. Trust me, nobody is dying to be on Keith’s side. You’ve been hitting it pretty hard lately. Take a load off for the night.”

I nodded but still felt bruised. My newsroom BFF just reminded me that she’s still my boss. I guess it was a fine line at times. This was one of them.

“Yeah,” I said. “That’s exactly what I need to do.”

*

Before leaving the station, I texted Thomas. U still at the gym? Heading over for a workout.

I hadn’t been to the gym in two weeks and was surprised Thomas hadn’t been hounding me by now. Certainly the ridiculous membership fee to belong to an exclusive club with the occasional celebrity sighting, on a reporter’s salary, should be enough motivation. Even with an advanced degree, I wasn’t earning anywhere near what Chicago’s legendary Black news anchors were getting paid, some with multimillion-dollar contracts.

The membership is a waste of money if I don’t use it. And if I’m being honest with myself, I joined more for prestige than health reasons. The workout clothes I keep in my trunk are a charade. I don’t even know if they fit anymore.

I pulled into the garage of the gym—I mean the club—and took the stairs up to the rear access door to the women’s locker room. Weekdays between nine a.m. and two p.m. it’s packed with women in designer workout gear skipping lunch for a midday sweat and affluent professional housewives attending one-on-one Pilates sessions. Then they stay for a heavy dose of juicy gossip as plentiful as the chilled, logoed water bottles they hand you at the check-in counter, which resembles the concierge desk of a five-star hotel.

At nearly seven o’clock on a Friday, the after-work crowd had cleared out and I practically had the place to myself. I went directly to the treadmill room, where TVs lined the wall, and I cringed at the thought of one of my taped reports airing while I was getting my heart rate up. There were a few dedicated stragglers working out late, as evidenced by the grunting and the sneakers screeching across the multiple basketball courts where city council members stripped off their suits to go up against former ballplayers and a mix of characters. It’s anyone’s guess what they do for a living, but they can afford the membership.

Just as I was elevating the incline on the treadmill, I heard a voice behind me. “You can do better than that. Push it! Come on!”

It was Thomas in all his delicious grandeur in a tank top, showing off his nearly perfect body. Who am I kidding? It is perfect!

“You’re never here this late,” he said. “What’s going on?”

I said through panting breaths. “It was . . . either . . . the treadmill . . . or murder. I chose the treadmill.”

“Rough day, huh? Bet I know how I can make it better.”

I gave him the side-eye. “Is that all you ever think about?”

“Baby, that’s all you allow me to think about.”

Thomas was being particularly flirtatious. He kept staring and smiling at me. I almost wanted to ask him if he had a secret, but instead, I said, “You’re in a good mood tonight.”

“Maybe I’m just happy to see you,” he said.

There’s not a chance in hell I’m finishing this workout.

For someone who badgered me about getting to the gym more, he seemed more interested in distracting me, and didn’t seem to mind when I finally gave up and pushed the decline button over and over in a series of beeps, lowering the belt back to zero and slowing to a stop.

“I need a salad. Walk with me up to the café.”

I stepped off the belt and Thomas’s eyes scanned me from head to toe. I shook my head. “Don’t be so obvious. You’re not supposed to be fraternizing with the guests.”

I headed toward the elevators. “Uh-uh,” he said. “Let’s take the stairs.”

“Fine,” I huffed.

“So who are you trying not to kill?” he asked.

“I’d rather not talk about it,” I said. “I just want to get a salad to go and veg on my couch.”

We made it up the mezzanine-level café/smoothie bar just as it was about to close.

“What do you want, babe?”

“I’ll take a number five with balsamic,” I said, and reached into my zip compartment for my credit card.

“I’ve got it, babe,” he said, instructing the cashier. “Charge it to my account.”

It was a nice feeling, being taken care of. I just never want to feel like I owe anybody anything.

“I’ll be off in an hour,” he said. “You want me to come by?”