Dirty Headlines(80)

“Without consulting me.”

“False. I consulted you the night before. I have the text messages to prove it.”

“We agreed to it, but didn’t talk strategy.” I refused to back off.

“Strategy?” He scoffed. “We’re not running for office, Judith. Just fucking in one.”

He’d thrown our affair in everyone’s face, and now he was acting like an asshole, because he didn’t know how not to. But I was done—done eating it up every time he threw crumbs of attention my way.

I knew I had to stand up and leave before I cried.

We’d done everything backwards.

First the sex, then the feelings. We’d defied our workplace, and our colleagues, and our ethical codes. We’d ruined a perfectly dysfunctional engagement that had kept his company alive. But most of all, we’d also ruined ourselves.

My legs were up before I knew it, carrying me to the exit. No explanation. No apologies. I felt his grave steps thumping in my hollow chest as he followed me out. It was raining outside—the kind of dirty, humid rain to break the pulses of summer heat. It reminded me of the day we’d met, of the carnal desperation that ate at me back then, of the fact that I was still alone.

I felt his hand on my shoulder as he swiveled me around sharply. He jerked me into his arms.

I didn’t want him to let go.

I didn’t want him to keep me there, either.

“I wish I’d never met you.” My fists pounded his chest, and he took it. Maybe because he knew he deserved it. His mouth pressed against my cheek felt like a rusty, hot blade. The world felt like it was ending, even though I knew it couldn’t be.

The vane of his breath sliced through my ear. “I wish that, too.”





That night, the sex was different.

Slow, intense, and angry. Every thrust was a punishment, each rake of my fingernails against his skin a reminder that I, too, could hurt him. We didn’t talk about it. Not even when tears rolled down my cheeks and he kissed them, then licked them, then drank them thirstily, for they were his.

That night, we ended things differently, too.

He was sound asleep when I collected the few belongings I had and called a cab. It was going to cost a pretty penny, but I didn’t want to be there when he woke up. We were miles away from Florida, literally and figuratively. And that, too, reminded me of the rainy night we’d met.

Later that night, I had a strange, somber epiphany.

Milton was right. I was a mortal playing with a deity, and now I was getting hurt, while he remained intact. There was nothing wrong with my heart. It was not lonely, and it was definitely not a hunter. It had been hunted. There was only one problem with the fact that my heart was so dreadfully, unexpectedly normal.

Somewhere along the way, it had stopped being mine.





There was nothing better than a fresh cup of coffee in the morning and getting Chucks’s ex-boyfriend fired from his job.

I handed Brianna my planner. “Burn today’s page. I have some shit to do.” It was an exact, albeit unprofessional order.

Specifically, said shit was going to every bigwig who’d denied my request to cancel the new ad campaign and showing them the plummeting ratings chart I’d printed out as a last attempt to save this sinking ship.

I might have been a bit dramatic last Friday night when I’d spoken to Judith.

Quitting LBC was not in the cards for me any time soon, with or without the new ads, but I didn’t want to lie to her, either. And I was listening to other offers, mainly so the bigwigs would get tipped by their moles and realize I was serious about leaving if we didn’t get our ducks in a row.

Getting Milton fired by talking to my old friend Elise and telling her the fucker had tried to win my girlfriend back wasn’t necessary, but it was definitely a nice bonus. Elise, who was a fellow Harvard graduate, wasn’t impressed by her new boyfriend’s antics. Also, Robert, Judith’s father, was apparently on my team, because he’d chosen to share this piece of information with me in the first place.

As for Judith, I needed to get my head out of my ass, take her to lunch, and apologize for being my bastard self. Again. She’d taken a cab back in the middle of the night after we left things—though not orgasms—unfinished.

“Yes, sir. Oh, and sir, Miss Davis is here.” Brianna jotted down my orders for the morning.

I took a sip of my coffee and gathered this week’s statistics in a big, fat file. “Lily Davis?” I arched an eyebrow.

“No, sir, Geena Davis. She was wondering if you could be the Louise to her Thelma.”

I looked up and caught her nibbling at her lower lip, biting on a huge smile. I smirked. Touché. She was beginning to fight, something she never would have done if it wasn’t for Judith.

As for the matter at hand, Lily must have been quite drunk, because there was no way in hell and its neighboring sections she had the balls to come here. Shit. It was nine in the morning.

“Impossible. She knows she’s one step away from a restraining order.” Plus, I very much doubted Lily got up before noon. If hedonism was a job, the bitch would be Mark Zuckerberg.

“Well, she is, and she’s in tears.”

“I’m more interested to know if she’s in clothes.” I slid the file into my leather briefcase.