Dirty Headlines

Calling it a relationship was one thing.

Acting like we were a couple was another.

I pushed the door. I walked in, and she slipped in after me. The place was dark, with only vinyl records in sight. A man who looked like Meatloaf (the singer, not the dish), was snoring behind the counter, dribbling into a copy of NME. Judith immediately shut up and started browsing.

Nice save, asshole.

Getting her into a record shop was like giving a baby a pacifier. Only hotter, because I still remembered her playlist and had imagined fucking her to it countless times while we were close to killing each other in the office.

“Did you know Barry Manilow didn’t write his song ‘I Write the Songs’?” She slid said singer’s record out of a batch, grinning at me.

I didn’t. I liked that I didn’t. My general knowledge was usually superior to everyone else in my vicinity—came with the territory of making news and having to know everything about anything. But Jude was just as hungry for information as I was, which made her even more attractive. Not to mention lethal.

“Did you know ‘Jingle Bells’ was originally written for Thanksgiving?” I countered.

“Impossible.” She made a shocked face, her jaw slacking. I laughed. She poked me with the tip of the record she held. “The British Navy uses Britney Spears’ songs to scare off Somali pirates. I shit you not.”

We were playing like this now?

“The piano Freddie Mercury plays in ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’ is the same one Paul McCartney plays in ‘Hey, Jude’,” I countered, leaning into her face and flicking her little nose. “Hey, Jude.”

Was I flirting? I was. But why? It didn’t make any sense. She was already mine in all the ways that mattered. She was in my bed. I’d shoved my fingers in every single hole in her body. Why was I doing this?

She walked across the aisle, her shoulder brushing my arm, and dropped the record back in its place, picking another one instead. I didn’t see what it was and decided I didn’t care.

“Queen and Jimi Hendrix never won a Grammy. Justin Bieber did,” she whispered, her grin signaling that she had won the battle.

“I didn’t give you your iPod back because I wanted to keep a piece of you with me,” I admitted.

And won.

And lost.

And what the fuck?

“What?” Her smile wiped off so quickly, you’d think I’d told her I’d been giving her father placebo drugs for the past few weeks.

I picked up the record she was holding and walked over to the register to pay for it.

Judith Humphry didn’t want me to buy her nice things. But that didn’t stop me from wanting to. Because the truth was, I’d never been taught how to show affection. I was taught how to buy it.

The salesman didn’t even wake up as I slid a note across his counter, plucked a plastic bag, and put the record inside.

Pet Sounds by the Beach Boys. Underrated. Romantic. Different.

Jude.

I’d never introduced a woman to my parents.

Lily Davis had attended the same country club, same schools, and had a summer house right next to ours in Nantucket. They’d known her since she was a baby. Maman’s best friend was her godmother, and we were both expected by our families to make it work, since they could see the potential revenue of such a union.

Fuck helicopter parents. Mathias and Iris Laurent were private-jet parents. They’d wanted me to marry Newsflash Corp’s princess, Lily Davis, before I’d found out my dick was good for more than pissing.

I wasn’t nervous. There was nothing to be nervous about. As far as Judith was concerned, she wasn’t going to be assessed or judged. I’d told her my mother was under the impression that she’d come here to assist me with my professional duties.

My mother lived in a penthouse, of course. Rich people loved putting distance between themselves and grounded people. Golden marbled and palm-treed, the skyscraper did nothing for Judith, who was busy taking a picture of a colorful reptile with her new phone. We were ushered in by an entourage of staff the minute we arrived at the lobby. Judith wore a modest black dress and plain black Chucks, with her hair tied back. I was in my slacks and a casual shirt.

Maman would rather see me in a strap-on and ball gag than casualwear. Which, naturally, added a dash of sadistic pleasure to my state of underdress.

In the elevator—why did everything happen in the fucking elevator?—Jude turned to me and said, “If she starts talking to you about Lily, I’m leaving the room.”

“Hate to interrupt your guilt-fest, but you weren’t the reason I called off my engagement.”

“I know. But still.”

Still, you have more morals in your pinky than Lily has in her entire body.

Maman was sitting on her throne—a cream-upholstered David Michael sofa, still adorned with the dangling 10k price tag—atop her Persian carpet. The lingering tag was a horrendous mistake, I assumed, but not one I wanted to correct, seeing as she deserved the embarrassment of having her friends judge her for it silently.