Dirty Headlines

Dad.

My blood froze in my veins. No. There was no way. Still, I needed to ask, just to make sure.

“Do you…do you know about my father’s situation?”

He got up from his chair, grabbing his pea coat and sliding into it.

“I need another cup of coffee for this conversation. Walk with me, Chucks.”

I followed behind him. His broad shoulders were big enough to carry the entire world. He gestured for me to get into the elevator before him, and the minute the doors closed behind us, I turned to him.

“You know about my dad, don’t you?”

I didn’t know why it upset me so much. Sure, Célian was rich, successful, and prevailing, but in my eyes, we were still on the same level, as crazy as it sounded.

He now offered me his sympathy, but I rejected it, wanting to toss it back in his face. I wasn’t ashamed of my father’s illness. I just wished it was for me to decide when and where I told people about it—if I told them about it.

“I do,” he said tonelessly.

“Please don’t tell me…” I cupped my mouth. Not that it would have made any difference. My father was going to proceed with the experimental treatment, even if I had to donate a functioning lung to make it happen. But I didn’t want it to be true. Didn’t want to know that that’s what we were, Célian and I: a rookie Brooklyn reporter with a nice pair of tits and a sugar daddy boss who was about to get married to someone else and had guilt-bought his way to her affection.

I was officially the mistress, silenced by shiny, pretty things—by money and a healthcare program, and a good, steady job. A role I’d never agreed to take.

The power imbalance was now personal, and degrading, and real. I was indebted to a man I was sleeping with, no matter how we tried to spin it. A man who was taking more and more space in my life, conquering lands in my heart without claiming them. Without civilizing them. Without nurturing them.

The elevator slid open, and I walked out first. I was desperate to put some distance between us so he wouldn’t see how flustered I was, how embarrassment colored my cheeks, how I felt my whole body turning pink.

I heard him groaning behind me. I looked down and realized I was wearing a conservative, pearl-colored sheath dress that was snug around my waistline, and probably highlighted my butt.

“Like what you see?” I gritted sarcastically.

“It would look better with my hand marks all over it. Are you going to stop running?”

“Are you going to explain yourself?” I pushed the door to the building open, and we were on the busy sidewalk, facing each other and blocking the downtown human traffic by standing there like two statues.

He ran his big palm over his face, and for the first time since I’d met him, looked somewhat affected. I shouldn’t have felt so triumphant for being the one who’d put agitation there, but I was.

“It’s not like that.”

“Then tell me what’s it like.”

“I didn’t pay it because I wanted you happy or content or on your fucking knees.”

“Really? Did you know Jessica’s mother has Alzheimer’s? Did you help her out? And what about Brianna, your PA? Did you pay her student loan debt? Oh, let me guess—Elijah, who you actually talk to pretty often, also didn’t get a fat bonus this year so he could help his parents with their remortgaged house.”

“How do you know all these things?” He frowned.

“They’re my colleagues, my new friends, and I talk to them.” I flung my arms in the air. “Maybe you should do that sometime. Actually make an effort. Be nice.”

His jaw tensed and locked in anger, and I figured I had two choices: either get out of there or slap him across the face, a treatment he’d earned fair and square. I chose the option that wouldn’t land me in hot water with HR. I turned around and crossed the street toward the Duane Reade on the other side of the road. The light was green, but New York drivers were being…well, New York drivers. A purple taxi came to a halt, screeching three inches away from me and sputtering a cloud of black smoke. The scent of burned rubber filled my nostrils, and before I knew what was happening, I was on the ground.

Shielded by Célian’s body.

All of him.

On top of me.

On the hot, stony crosswalk.

I squirmed against his hard body, balling my fists and hitting his chest on instinct. I was angry. So angry. Beyond reason, belief, and logic. Another girl might feel elated to be saved—both by a man’s money and his own body. But it wasn’t just my debt, or Dad and Célian lying to me. It was the fact that I had begun to truly care for him, knowing I could never have him. Not really.