Dirty Daddy

“Anyway, what are you doing here? I gave you a spare key so that you could come here in case there was an emergency, not for you to wake me up whenever I’m late. You’re too expensive for that, you know?”

“Emergency, uh?” she asks, a frown making a few creases show on her forehead. She takes two steps toward the kitchen counter and slams her briefcase on top of it; she opens it and then fishes out a newspaper from the inside. “And what do you call this?” she hisses, opening the newspaper and heavily stabbing her finger over the gossip column.

“Harmless fun?” I shrug, looking away from the blurred picture of the Jumbotron, my naked body glued to the cheerleader. Ah, the memories.

“Harmless fun? Harmless fun?!” she repeats, completely exasperated, her high-pitched voice making my head hurt.

“I’m not deaf, Joyce,” I groan, and then she narrows her eyes at me, leaning over the counter.

“Are you hung over?” she asks me, making me feel as if I’m being cross examined on the stand. Thankfully, the bell saves me, or rather, I’m saved by the three half-naked strippers coming out of my bedroom.

“We left our number in the bedroom,” one of them giggles, still pulling down on the hemline of her tight-fitting dress.

“We wrote it down on my panties,” another one says, her disheveled dark hair making me smile; it felt glorious to pull on that hair as I rammed her from behind, her screams of harder, harder filling the whole room. Oh, man, that was so much fucking fun.

“Call us!” the last one laughs, and then takes her hand to her mouth and sends me a kiss. The three of them stumble to the door, laughing and giggling, and I realize they’re still half-drunk from last night. No wonder: you could probably float the Titanic on the amount of alcohol the four of us downed.

“Be safe, girls,” I wave as I watch them leave, and they slam the door behind them. I offer Joyce a smile as the strippers’ giggles start fading away as they enter the elevator.

“Homeless girls, I took them in. They were starving. It was charity, really,” I grin, a vein in Joyce’s temple pulsing angrily. Behind her, the young brunette’s face has turned into a violent red. I guess she isn’t used to a conga-line of half-drunk strippers in the morning. Well, her loss.

“You’re incorrigible,” Joyce says, and all that’s left is for her to throw her hands up in the air in complete exasperation. I almost insist that I’m telling the truth, which is that these girls were really starving for my cock, but I decide against it. Lawyers are like bears: you shouldn’t poke them when they’re angry.

“Incorrigible, but just on Thursdays,” I shrug, downing the rest of my awful-tasting green juice. Swear to God, this thing could use some whisky in it.

“Magnus, this is serious. You need to get your shit together. We need to do some damage control, and we’ll have to change the image you present to the public.”

“Yeah, yeah … I know about all that,” I wave at her, going around the counter and walking toward the couch. I sit down next to Joyce’s assistant, and her pretty eyes seem to widen so much I wouldn’t be surprised if they jumped out from their sockets. She turns her head slowly, her eyes roaming over my naked chest; I stretch then, offering her a nice view of my washboard abs. I know Joyce is off limits, but what about her assistant?

“I’ve set up that $1 million dollar donation you asked me to do,” Joyce sighs, following me all the way to the couch and sitting between her assistant and I. Which is a good thing, or else I’d probably end up making a move.

“Which one?” I donate so much fucking money that I lose track of these things. One day it’s the refugees in WhoFuckingKnowsLand, the other it’s the whisky draught or some bullshit like that. And then there’s the fucking polar bears, and whatever animal is close to extinction this week.

“The one to the children’s wing of the NYU,” she replies patiently, cracking open one of her folders and balancing it on top of her knees. “You’ll deliver the check at a fundraiser tomorrow, and you’ll be the keynote speaker.”

“Hey, slow down. Fundraiser? Keynote? What are you going on about? I told you I wanted the money donated anonymously.” That’s the trick when donating money: always do it anonymously. If you don’t, people will hound you for interviews, prop you up as some messiah, and then tear you down the moment they find out you also donated to some animal rescue center while being an animal eater. Trust me, if you ever find yourself with a million to spare, don’t donate and brag about it. It’s not worth it. If I didn’t have such a soft heart, I’d just blow it all on strippers.

“Yeah, you told me you wanted it done anonymously. But you pay me to do what’s right by you, so I ignored you. That anonymous shit needs to stop, Magnus. We need to get the city behind you, and this donation will be a huge step in that direction.”

Well, not much to argue there.

“Fine, I’ll go to that stupid fundraiser.”

“You’re finally being rational --”

“You better make sure there are hot women there.”

5

Penny

Good reporting is as much about stealth as it is about moving quickly. And today’s a day for a frontal assault. Guerrilla style.

Magnus is going to be at the fundraiser gala for the NYU children’s wing, and that’s exactly where I’m heading right now. I’ve bought a new dress (and an expensive one at that), one that’s the perfect blend between classy and slutty, and I’m wearing my favorite Jimmy Choo heels. I've spent close to two hours in front of the mirror, trying to get the makeup just right. It’s femme fatale hour.

By the time my taxi stops in front of the Four Seasons, the place where the gala is being held, the whole thing is already halfway through. That’s on purpose; being fashionably late should always be part of a woman's arsenal, and it’s a weapon I’m not afraid to use.

I stroll inside the hotel with my head held high, and I approach the receptionist with an easy smile. Laurel Trask has secured me a place on the guest list, and all I have to do is give the receptionist my name before she points me to the room where they’re holding the gala.