Any Way You Want Me

PROLOGUE

Riggs: You wanna get married, don'tcha?

Lorna: Yes I do.

Riggs: Why didn't you tell me?

Lorna: Because I didn't want to put any
pressure on you, Riggs. I mean, if you want to someday, that'd be great; if you
don't, I love you. I'll take you any way I can get you, Riggs.

           
Kiley slipped the last few kernels of popcorn into her mouth and sighed. She'd
watched that scene from
Lethal Weapon 4
at least a hundred times. It was
one of her all-time favorites between a man and a woman in a movie. It was so
pure, so sincere. Kylie's heart melted.

           
Why aren't women free to love a man like that?
she thought.
Enough to
say I'll take you any way you want me.

           
"Because it's dumb," she could hear her best friend Katrina say.

           
"Because you'll live to regret it," she could hear her mother say.

           
"Because you give your power away," she could hear all the love gurus
in books, magazines, on TV and the internet howl.

           
"
You are hopeless Kylie Andrews. Your friends are right … you're an
absolutely, positively hopeless romantic
," she laughed to herself.
"And proud of it!" she said out loud.

.
. .

           
"You know what your problem is?" Gatlin bit out. "You're too
damn naïve. Not everything is a bed of roses, Kylie. Life is not all
butterflies and sunshine."

           
"And do you know what your problem is?" Kylie shot back. "You're
too damn jaded. You wouldn't know what happiness was if it jumped up and bit
you in the ass," she continued.

           
"You're content being miserable — and I'm just going to leave you to that
because it has no place in my world of butterflies and sunshine," she ended,
snatching up her jacket and purse and storming past Gatlin.

           
His arm snaked out and grabbed her. Crushing her to him, he found her lips and
wouldn't let go.

           
"Let go … of  … me," Kylie bit out as she fought against her rising
tide of passion.

           
Gatlin's heat-seeking tongue melted her last bit of resistance. Kylie dropped
her jacket and purse and dug into his thick, dark hair.

           
Oh God I love him so
, she thought as she returned his kiss.

           
Her resistance melted, Gatlin slowed his assault on her mouth, moving to the
golden column of her neck. He continued his trail of desire, unbuttoning her
blouse and taking one enflamed peak of nipple into his warm mouth.

           
"No, no, no … stop. Stop Gatlin," her words slowly penetrated his
aroused state.

           
"This doesn't solve anything," she said, tears rolling down her
cheeks. It's never been our problem … and it won't be our salvation."

           
Shaking off his desire to focus as best as he could, Gatlin responded,
"It's a damn good place to start," and reached for her again.

           
"Gatlin stop!" Kylie yelled. "Don’t you see? This is just
another way for you to
not
deal with your real feelings. … I'm looking
for real, lasting, soul-connecting love; not some casual fuck!"

           
"You know you're not some casual … you mean more to me than just a roll in
the hay," Gatlin said, not able to bring himself to use the "f"
word in relation to her. "I really care about you Kylie."

           
"I love you Gatlin. Hopelessly, desperately, completely. And I know it's
not something a modern woman is supposed to say so early in a relationship. But
there it is. And I don't expect you to do anything or say anything. I just wanted
you to know where I'm coming from."

           
"You see, in my world, love is not complicated. Difficult at times? Yes.
But hard? No. It's not some pot-holed filled road to be navigated for miles and
miles and miles on end. You're absolutely right, I do believe in butterflies
and sunshine. I believe in love — and I won't let anybody make me feel bad
about that or take that dream away from me."

           
"And the thing is, I know you love me Gatlin, or you're on the verge of
it. But you just won't let yourself trust that what we could have is real. And
I refuse to spend my life trying to prove it to you or make you believe it.
Life is just too short for that."

.
. .

           
"
I believe in love — and I won't let anybody take that dream away from
me."

           
Kylie's words reverberated over and over again in Gatlin's head as he lay in
bed that night … and as he interviewed yet another perp for a story, as he
turned up the police scanner to listen to the latest horrific crime to happen
in New York.

           
Had he become so jaded by his work that he'd forgotten that butterflies and
sunshine did exist, as evidenced by this gorgeous spring day New Yorkers were
currently enjoying? Or was there something deeper going on?

.
. .

           
"Stop it. Stop hitting my mom!" Gatlin yelled, jumping in front of
his mother to prevent his father from landing another blow.

           
"This is between your mother and me boy! Move outta the way," his
father said in his drunken slur.

           
"Gatlin, go to your room. It's okay, honey. Mama's ok."
            "No
you're not okay. You're not mom. I'm not leaving you," Gatlin cried, his
seven-year-old voice cracking with fear as he did his best to drag his mom from
the room.

           
As his father's fist prepared to land on his mother again, Gatlin kicked his
father in the groin. He doubled over in pain, shouting, "You miserable
little piece of shit! I'll kill you for this! I'll kill you, do you hear me!
I'll kill you!"

           
Gatlin's mother ran to his father's side. "Honey are you alright? Are you
alright?" she said, wiping blood from the side of her lip with one hand
while she consoled his father, who continued to writhe in pain on the floor,
with the other.

.
. .

           
Gatlin had mentally catalogued hundreds of these types of memories from his
childhood. But this particular one stuck with him more vividly than the others.
And he wasn't sure why until Kylie had said to him, "
I believe in love
— and I won't let anybody take that dream away from me."

           
When
his mother had gone to his father to comfort him, instead of coming to him as a
frightened, desperate 7-year-old, he realized the power that love had. His
mother had loved his father beyond all rhyme and reason — even beyond her
child, he thought.

           
He didn't realize it, but that had been the moment he'd stopped believing in
love. Love hurt. It was cruel. It wasn't kind. It wasn't loyal, or it was loyal
to the wrong people.

           
Sitting on a bench in Central Park on this sunny spring day, a butterfly landed
close to him, providing a much-needed break from his tortured past. It flapped
its colorful wings slowly back and forth, as if it was content to just enjoy
the warmth of the sunshine.

           
Gatlin stared at it. He'd never observed a butterfly before … ever. Just like
he'd never seen and felt real love before. Ever.

           
I can't lose her
,
he thought.
I just can't.

           
The
butterfly took flight as he stood to leave.
          

.
. .

           
Can Kylie trust that what's between them will blossom into real, everlasting love,
or will Gatlin's painful past always be a barrier to their happily ever after?

###

Chapter
1: That's Him!

           
"That's
him. That's the one I was telling you about, Katrina."

           
"He's the crime reporter?" Katrina responded to her friend.
"He's yummy. I can see why you fan yourself when you say his name. Even
it's sexy as hell … Gatlin … Gatlin Matthews. I betcha he is a son-of-a-gun —
in more ways than one," Katrina continued, going into dreamboat mode with
Kylie as she did a word play on Gatlin's name.

           
"Why don't you ask him out? You've been mooning over him for how long
now?" Katrina queried.

           
"He got hired a couple of years ago if I remember correctly. But when I
first saw him, I was seeing someone. Then, I didn't see him for months; I heard
through the grapevine that he  had a girlfriend too."

           
"But as far as I know, now he's a free agent. I don't see him that often
and when I do, he always seems so pre-occupied. Besides, I'm not one to make
the first move," Kylie said.

           
"Oh that's so old-fashioned," Katrina chided her. "If you like
him, ask him out. Besides you said you two don’t see each other that much. Are
you going to spend the next two years mooning over him?"

           
"I don't care what anybody says, I think a boy should ask a girl out first
…"

           
Katrina interrupted her friend, saying, "That's your problem right there.
You're acting like a teenager. You're right, a
boy
should ask a
girl
out first. But it's perfectly acceptable for a grown
woman
who knows
what she wants to ask a
man
out."

           
"Touché," Kylie said. "I've never thought about it quite like
that. I'm a southern girl; ah, excuse me, woman — and the way I was raised is
females don't ask males out."

           
"Kylie Andrews, you mean to tell me that you've never, ever asked a man
out on a date?" Katrina said, incredulously.

           
"No." Kylie responded. "Truly."

           
"And how old are you again?"

           
"I'm 29," Kylie said.

           
"I guess some women have it like that, because from what I see you
definitely don’t lack from male attention. … Hell, maybe I should be taking
advice from you instead of the other way around," Katrina laughed.

           
Kylie joined in her laughter and replied, "You've given me something to
think about though. I've had a thing for this guy ever since I first laid eyes
on him. And I'm not getting any younger," she grinned. "Maybe I
should pop my 'ask a guy out' virgin cherry on Mr. Gatlin Matthews."

           
"Now that a girl! Er, excuse me, I mean woman!" Katrina said.
"Come on. Let's get to this meeting. You know how Larry pitches a hissy
fit when anybody's late."

           
"Oh God yes," Kylie agreed, putting her daydreams about Gatlin
Matthews on pause.

           
The two women walked down the hall to the monthly meeting all reporters on
staff at
The City News
, a popular online newspaper in New York City,
were required to attend.

           
Kylie was the entertainment reporter. Katrina reported the business news and
Gatlin was a crime reporter. There was also an op-ed writer, an arts and
culture journalist, a sports writer,  a political reporter, and a fashion
editor/blogger in addition to other professionals you'd expect to find at a
growing, online news outlet, eg, a weather person, copy editor, proofreader,
videographer, social media consultant, managing editor, etc.

           
If not for these monthly meetings, the whole staff would never be present at
one time, as the reporters in particular spread out to the nether regions of
the New York City metropolitan area to research, interview, fact check and
track down leads for existing and upcoming stories they were working on.

           
Kylie loved her job. She'd always been an entertainment junkie and had known
since high school that she wanted to pursue a career in journalism. She had had
her heart set on being an entertainment reporter and nothing had stood in her
way.

           
She'd graduated from high school in her hometown of Athens, Georgia, a small
town just over an hour outside of Atlanta, and applied to NYU school of
journalism.

           
Her parents had been proud when she'd been accepted, even though they'd hoped
that she'd attend the University of Georgia, which was right in Athens and
would keep their baby girl home — or at least close to it.

           
Also, they were unable to help her with the exorbitant cost of the out-of-state,
Ivy-league school tuition. If she'd stayed in Georgia, she could have qualified
for quite a bit of state aid as a resident.

           
None of this phased Kylie. She'd always known that New York City was the place
for her, even though she'd never stepped foot in the city until she got
accepted to NYU and came to live in the dorms.

           
To pay tuition, she'd had taken out student loans and grants, and applied for
every scholarship she even thought she qualified for. She'd worked two —
sometimes three jobs in the summer — to make ends meet in expensive New York
City while she was in school.

           
Upon graduation, she was more than $100,000 in student loan debt, but had never
been happier. An internship in her third year at university had turned into a
full-time job offer upon graduation, at this very paper where she now worked.

           
Although the initial pay wasn't great, it wasn't horrible either. And now,
seven years later, she was turning into a kind of Barbara Walters of the news
outlet — landing interviews with big-name celebrities, which were picked up and
ran by the larger news outlets from New York to LA.

           
Several well-known newspapers and television affiliates had tried to lure her
away from
The City News
, but her gut had told her to stay put. And Kylie
had learned as a young girl to listen to her gut. Her father had ingrained this
in her when she'd almost been bitten by a rattlesnake when she was 10.

           
She was picking blackberries near a clump of bushes one day in her parent's
large back yard. Something had told her not to go near a particular bush, but
she'd disobeyed the instinct. Listening to music on her iPod, she hadn't heard
the rattle of the deadly serpent and had nearly got bitten.

           
When she'd told her father what had happened, he'd hugged her and said,
"Let that be a lesson Kylie Marie — always listen to your gut."

           
From that day forward, the lesson had been cemented. It was the same gut
instinct that had pushed her to pursue journalism, to specialize in
entertainment and to come to New York City.

           
At 29, Kylie's gut had never led her wrong, so it was second nature to her to
trust it, just like her daddy had told her to.

.
. .

           
"Kylie, I want you to take the entertainment lead on this," her
managing editor was saying. "And Gatlin, you cover the crime angle, of
course. And I want you all to leave right now. This is a major, young star who
just died — and we need to get ahead on this."

           
"Work your sources, see if you can find out what's behind the spin her PR
machine is already putting on this. And don't hoard your territory on this one.
Collaborate with each other; share notes, sources, whatever you can. I want
every angle of this thing covered 90 ways to none because my gut tells me that
there is something that's not being told. And, I want our readers to be the
first to know what it is. Go! Go! Go!" Larry said, shooing them out of the
meeting.

.
. .

           
"Since you're the entertainment reporter, what can you tell me about Anna
Maria Bocelli," Gatlin said on the way in the cab to the apartment
building where the young movie star had been found dead a few hours earlier.

           
"Well, other than the obvious …"

           
"Start with the obvious," he said a bit wryly. "I don't know
anything about her other than the last movie she did. And the only reason I know
that is because the writer who adapted it for the screen happens to be someone
I know rather well."

           
"Oh," Kylie said. "Well, she was 27. She started out as a model,
then dated a super-agent who turned her into a superstar. She made her mark as
comedic actress; you know, playing dumb-blonde types. But this last part as an
addict in that drama had Hollywood rethinking her. Apparently, it wasn't too
much of a stretch from real life."

           
"Some speculate that the newfound fame caught her off guard, and she went
back to her old friend — cocaine. She'd just completed a short stint in an
intensive rehab clinic in Switzerland. Of course, her people spun it, saying
her time away was a much-needed vacation she was taking before considering her
next role."

           
"And then of course, there was the abusive ex that she was apparently
obsessed with. The current boyfriend is a cover. Word is, he's on the down low,
so they both get something out of staying together. She gets to keep her reputation
as a wholesome, on-the-rise, young thespian intact, and he gets to stay in the
closet."

           
"You seem to know an awful lot  that's off the record about
her," Gatlin remarked.

           
"Well, it's kinda my job," Kylie said.

           
"You're damn good at it," Gatlin responded, quite impressed. As a
crime reporter, he'd never given entertainment reporting a second thought. But
to get the 'inside' goods on a company, person, subject — especially rich
and/or famous ones — wasn't easy, he knew.

           
"You'd be surprised at what isn't reported on the rich and famous, even in
this day and age of video phones and the internet," Kylie said. "And
thank you very much for the compliment."

           
There was much more to this this entertainment reporter than meets the eye
,
Gatlin thought.

           
"I know we each know who the other is, of course, but I don’t think we've
ever been formally introduced. … I'm Gatlin, Gatlin Matthews," he said, extending
his hand as the cab turned onto a street which was a mish-mashed mob of police,
photographers, security and emergency workers.

           
"I'm Kylie. Kylie Andrews. Pleased to finally, formally meet you Mr.
Matthews," she smiled with a hint of her southern drawl.

           
Man, how had he ever missed that smile and her accent, which caught him off
guard.

           
"Gatlin, call me Gatlin please."

           
"And you must call me Kylie," she said, her smile becoming even
wider.

           
"Well, Kylie, are you ready for the mayhem? I'm sure you can teach me a
thing or two about dealing with paparazzi. In my line of reporting, I rarely
have to deal with them," he said, surveying the crush they were going to
have to navigate to start on their respective stories.

           
"Just follow me Gatlin. I happen to know a lot of these guys … we'll be
through the crush — as much we're allowed by the NYPD — in no time."

           
Eyes honing in on her taut, jean-clad rear, Gatlin thought, following her would
be his absolute pleasure.