She stopped, mouth open to deliver another round of plans. From the corner of her eye, she could see through the office’s window. The other tabloid reporters punched away at their keyboards or stared at their computer screens.
She wouldn’t be one of their kind for much longer. No how, no way.
Nancy braced her hands against her desk, probably gearing up to break Gemma’s spirit. Again. It happened with every idea that didn’t exactly “fit” into the Weekly Gossip’s pages.
Holding up a hand, Gemma interrupted. “I know what you’re going to say. ‘Go back to your human-interest stories, Gemma.’”
“You’re good at them. Very good.”
“Is that why they’re referred to as ‘freaks and geeks’ pieces?” Gemma sighed. “Where’s the dignity for the subjects? And for me?”
Nancy’s brown eyes went soft with understanding. Every once in a while, when the editor tippled a drink or two at Friday happy hour, she’d lose her armor and tell Gemma that she’d never expected to work on a tabloid publication, either.
Funny. How many people actually did end up with the life they’d pictured while doodling on their Pee-Chee folders during high school algebra?
“Leave Damien Theroux for 60 Minutes or the newspapers,” Nancy said. Her brown hair was in a tight bun, and she was wearing her typical uniform of a crisp button-down and gray skirt. Her efficient manner had won her the nickname The General. “Theroux is beyond our scope.”
“An exposé on Theroux would take this publication places we’ve never been.” Gemma couldn’t help arguing. This story had reached epic proportions in her mind. “Imagine. We’re a national publication. If we could reveal even half of this city’s corruption to Molly Supermarket Mom of the Heartland, that would be the first step. The story would be picked up by more prestigious mainstream publications because, of course, it’ll be so well researched by me. A drop of water won’t even be able to slip through my reporting, the corroboration and evidence will be so tight. Heck, maybe we’ll even be getting calls from Bill O’Reilly or Diane Sawyer to consult on their shows….”
The four-star General hadn’t stopped her, and that was encouraging. Gemma allowed the dreams to dangle between the two of them for a moment as the editor covered her mouth with an ink-stained hand. The woman tapped a finger, deliberating.
Time for the coup de grâce. “Damien Theroux is Pulitzer material.”
Nancy uncovered her mouth to reveal a reluctant smile, miraculously devoid of black smudges. But the positive sign disappeared quickly.
“This isn’t our typical headline.”
“Dream big, Mendoza!”
The editor held up a finger. “If he sued for libel, he’d decimate us. Or maybe he’d do worse, based on his reputation. Rumor has it that he’s got ties to the mob.”
“I’m not afraid. And you’re not talking like a journalist.”
Pow. Gemma could see the damage in Nancy’s gaze. Any self-respecting reporter put the truth above all else.
Gemma continued. “Even if I’ve only worked with you a couple of months, I know we’re both more than the Weekly Gossip allows us to be, Nancy. This is our big shot, and you can depend on me to get it right.”
“You’re not brassy enough for this.”
Gemma gulped, hearing the judgment of her first real editor on the day she’d gotten fired. You’ve got no guts, Duncan.
With more humility, she said, “You should’ve seen me this afternoon. You would’ve been proud. I gave Theroux as good as I got from him.”
“Oh, Gemma.” Nancy leaned over her desk, more a budding friend than an editor. “Right now, I just want to tell you to go back home and forget about this. We’re talking about the underworld, here. It’s not the Lalaurie haunted house or a story about UFOs. This is real.”
Gemma pounded on the arms of her chair. “So is my need to investigate this man.”
She pressed her lips together, regretting the outburst.
Yes, she was desperate. Among other things, she hated the way her family defined her career. Years ago, when she’d been an eager cub reporter at the Orange County Register, they’d bragged about her in Christmas newsletters. Now, they told their friends that she was “in between jobs.” And that was true enough, because she didn’t intend to write below her ability forever.
“Hey.” Nancy reached out, laid a hand on Gemma’s. “You all right?”
Actually, no. She hadn’t been since she’d gotten canned at the Register. What a blow—being scooped on a pivotal story about a sleazy politician because she’d been too mousy to pursue every angle.
“I’m fine,” Gemma said, forcing a grin, “if you give me a chance with this. I won’t let you down.”
Nancy sat back and expelled a huge breath. Behind her on the white wall, Weekly Gossip covers screamed headlines: “Miracle Baby Saves Whale!” and “Wronged Wife Takes Gory Revenge on Hubby!”
Tilting her head to an almost beggarly angle, Gemma burned with hope. Please say yes.
The editor crossed her arms over her chest. “I’ll give you two weeks to turn up something solid and marketable on Theroux. Something explosive we don’t already know about him. And if it looks good…”
Gemma’s pulse started racing.
“Plus,” Nancy added, “you keep your day job here, writing about your ‘freaks and geeks.’”
At this point, Gemma would’ve agreed to do a naked Irish jig on a float during Mardi Gras. “Will do!”
When she stood, latent doubt twisted through her conscience. She was about to go undercover to dig up some dirt on an unsuspecting man. A man who’d touched her with arrogant heat, and burned her body from the inside out this afternoon. There would be no straightforward questions, no honesty with him.
Once again, his hungry gaze consumed her, making her blood sing.
Did she really have the guts to layer lie upon lie to him? To disrupt a man’s life by offering it bare for the world to see? Was she really that ruthless?
Sure. If rumor was correct, this bad boy deserved his comeuppance. Reporters lived to see justice dealt to men like him. Right?
Right.
Gemma opened Nancy’s door, newly invigorated. “Needless to say, I’m working nights now. I can’t come over for a movie and daiquiris tomorrow.”
“I guess I’ll have to keep Russell Crowe all to myself, then.” Nancy waved Gemma out. “Go. You’ve got a story due. And, Gemma? As your friend, I’m telling you to be careful.”
“I’ve got it under control, chica. Chill.”
Then, with a tiny wave, she left, heading straight for her desk.
She’d actually gotten the green light for this story! Sort of. More like a yellow light, but she was still ready to go.
Even if she ended up ruining Theroux’s life.
Somewhat torn, she arrived at her workstation to find it cluttered with more than notes for her most recent project.
Every office has a pain in the ass, and Waller Smith was the designated hemorrhoid for the Weekly Gossip. A snore ripped out of him while he slumped in Gemma’s padded chair, his ash-blond hair ruffled and in sore need of a cut, his scuffed Bruno Magli knockoffs propped near her keyboard, his gumbo-stained button-down and crumpled tie as washed out as the green of his bloodshot eyes—when they were open. When she’d first met him, her first impression had been of a sun-cooked Robert Redford.