Filthy Dirty Laundry (Filthy Dirty Laundry #1) (10 page)

Chapter 17

 “Come on,” sighs Philip as he
pulls away from me. The chemistry between us is still electric, overwhelming. I
feel him, I want him more than ever. My whole body is aflame: ready, willing,
able. Waiting for him to take me. Wanting him to take me. Wanting to surrender
my consciousness, my virginity, every part of me to him. But I know that I
cannot. He is right. We have to be professional. We can't screw this up, not
with all that's hanging in the balance. I have a responsibility to my career
and my goals. He has a responsibility to his family: and that includes Kendall,
as much of a witch as she may be. We can't just give up all of those things to
act on our desires, no matter how overwhelming and passionate they may be. No
matter how much we feel we may need them.

          “I should take you
home,” Philip murmurs.  “I don't want to –  believe me...or rather, I do. I
want to take you home and take you upstairs and see where you live and then go
straight into your bedroom and take you then and there.”

          I flush – not just from
arousal. The idea of rich, spoiled Philip seeing the messy dump where I live is
downright humiliating. “I don't think you want that,” I say. “My place isn't
exactly as nice as yours...”

          “I don't care...” He
leans in and inhales me. “The smell of you...the smell of your clothes...I
can't think of anything more arousing in my life.”

          He pulls back again.
His hand touches mine on the desk. It's like lightning is going off inside our
fingers. I feel like I'm going to explode.     Then the phone rings. Immediately
Philip springs to answer it. He's almost too quick: his energy is striking;
he's like a watchspring that's coiled too tight.

          “Hello, LaFleur
here...” he says in his brusquest business voice. “What is it? Oh.
Oh
!
That sounds...bloody hell...”

          I lean over and mouth
“what is it?” But he isn' t looking at me now. He's Philip Trell now, ace
journalist in full-on Work Mode. He barely even sees me.

          “Thank you for calling
me,” he says. “I'll get one of our top reporters on it.”

          He slams the phone down
on the receiver.

          “What was that?”

          “There's a breaking
scoop, my dear,” says Philip. “You know Mitch Conway?”

          “The...MMA fighter?” I
seem to remember doing a few stories on him back in the day. He's a rising star
in the MMA world, and a frequent face in the news. It's the perfect rags to
riches story. He grew up in inner city Vegas. He was discovered at a high
school wrestling match. Now it's a life of fast cars, hot girls, sneaker
endorsements – the works. Every athlete's dream. And every athlete's nightmare.
His personal life has been plastered across the front page of every single
tabloid.”

          “What tip could you
find out that hasn't been already covered?” I ask.

          “That's the thing. He's
just been accused of beating up his girlfriend.”

          “He has a girlfriend?”

          “A model who won't ID
herself publically says she's his secret girlfriend. And that he beat her up.
Domestic violence – it's a serious issue. It's gossip with a much deeper edge.
I normally hate churning up misery – but there's something about this story...”

          “What do you mean?” I
ask. “What was the tip? Everyone knows this guy is violent – it's awful and
despicable, but is it really
news
?”

          “This is one of my most
important anonymous sources. And it has the power to upend everything...”

          “So...maybe someone who
is saying that the story everyone else is getting isn't the real story? That
maybe the report about Mitch is wrong?”

          Philip is listening
intently. “So – you think Mitch Conway didn't beat up this mysterious model
after all?”

          “I'm not saying that,”
I say. “I think whoever gave us the tip – there's a reason she'd want or he
would want something investigated. Maybe whatever's happening is worse than
just one woman.”

          Philip beams. “This is
why I like you!” he says. “That's the story – the one I know you are capable of
absolutely mastering. First thing tomorrow, Sid, I want you on a flight to
Vegas. First-class. My treat.”

          “M-me?” I've never been
sent out of California for a story before.

          “You're going to cover
this story, Sidney. You have what it takes. If you can spin a powerful and
moving saga out of the story of some dog food brand, and turn it into a complex
meditation on the nature of public and private identity in the modern age, and
how even the most vapid fame-whore among us has some stuff she'd like to keep
all to herself, imagine what you can do by delving into the seedy underbelly of
the MMA world, a story about gender politics, domestic violence, abuse.”

He's more excited than I've ever
seen him – except of course when it comes to sex. He's practically beaming. I
really am starting to understand why Philip Trell was such a good journalist.
He eats, drinks, and breathes stories like this. They are his life's blood. And
I find myself getting excited, too. Maybe for the first time since college, I'm
getting the chance to do something real, something serious, to follow my nose,
follow my hunches, give into the Bug that got me into writing in the first
place. Visions of “serious” news outlets like
The New Yorker
and
The
New York Times
pop unbidden into my head.

          “Follow your nose, Sidney.
If this guy is really an abuser, I guarantee you the other tabloids will try
and make excuses for him, to save his career so they can keep rolling along on
the gravy train. But if not...there might be something deeper, darker there.
And I want to figure out what that is.”

          “This is what I live
for, Philip...” I stammer. “I can't thank you enough.”

          “I'm sure your
inventive mind can find ways to thank me,” he murmurs, with a wicked glint in
his eye. I inhale sharply. I have to catch my breath. Just looking at this guy
makes me go insane. I can't stand it. I'm terrified that he's going to get
complete and utter control over me: over my body, mind, soul.

          So, this is what a sex
haze feels like. Not being able to concentrate on anything except the feeling
of someone's hands upon me, of someone's lips upon me. Of playing the things he
says over and over again in my head as the fantasy reaches its mad, wild, apex.

          “Of course...I have to
send two people to co-report the story,” he arches an eyebrow. “I hate to say
it, but I'm going to have to send you over with Johnson. He is our sports
reporter, after all. Can I trust you with him?”

          I look up, confused.
I'm flabbergasted. Of course he can “trust me”. Not that there's anything to
trust me about. Johnson and I have never even...

          “We're just friends...”
I say.

          I'm thrilled to be
working with Johnson, but something about this makes me nervous. Is Philip
trying to test me – to see if there's anything between me and Johnson after
all?

          “I don't know what
you're talking about,” says Philip. “The way he looks at you, with those
puppy-dog eyes. He looks like he's desperately in love with you. You'll have to
fight him off with a stick.”

          “Johnson and I have
been friends for years,” I say. “We were old colleagues – we were in journalism
classes together back in college.”

          Philip's ears turn
faintly pink. “I see,” he says. “I didn't realize that the two of you were so
close.”

          “We are,” I say. “Just
not like that.”

          “Well, you watch
yourself,” Philip says. “I get the sense that you're the kind of woman with the
skills to drive men mad. How did you two become friends, anyhow?”

          Funny story,” I smile.
“I was lost my first day, looking for my first class. And Johnson and I bumped
into each other and he guided me there...and he's been guiding me ever since.”

          He walks me down
towards the car.

          “Shall I drive you
home, my dear?”

          I nod, hoping he won't
ask to come up.

          He starts driving. At
one point, another car swerves into the lane. He swerves suddenly, and I'm
thrown back against the cushion of the car seat.

          “You are a distraction,
he laughs. “I'm so focused on you I'm going to get myself into an accident one
of these days. That's the terrible thing about being around you. I just am not
myself. Are you okay?”

          “I'm fine,” I breathe.
“Just shaking.”  He keeps on driving. But the scenery is unfamiliar. Is he
taking a different route?

          But then he stops in
front of his house. I recognize it from yesterday.

          “What are you doing?” I
ask him.

          “Oh dear...” He smiles
darkly. “Bad habits. I guess I simply took an automatic turn towards my
door...”

          “Philip...” I sigh.

          He gives a little
laugh. “Tell you what, why don't you come on upstairs. I'll cook you a nice
Vietnamese dinner. I had all the ingredients flown in fresh this morning. You must
be starving...I know I am....”

          “You cook Vietnamese?”
That's not really the issue here, but it's the first thing to pop into my mind.

          “Yes, I was in Vietnam
for about a year. Then I went to Egypt to cover the Arab Spring.”

          I sigh jealously. “I
wish I could live a life of adventure the way you did, Philip. Instead I've
been stuck in boring old California...”

          “Don't be too jealous,”
Philip laughs. “At first it seems glamorous, but war zones, politically
volatile areas...they get you down. It's an adrenaline rush, at first. But
sometimes it's sick, the things you're expected to do for a story. You're
forced to become entirely....closed off to avoid getting too invested.”

          “But isn't that what
drives you?” I learn towards him and raise my chin. “Danger?”

          At once he grabs my
wrist. He yanks me towards the house. He pushes me inside. Then, once the door
is closed, he starts kissing me. Fiercely. Passionately. He picks me up and
starts to carry me, walking me through his house. I can't see anything but his
face in front of me. Then he throws me down. I feel something soft but firm
under me. A sofa.

          Then he's on top of me again,
kissing me hard. “Yes, Sidney,” he says to me. “I am driven by danger. But of
all the danger I've experienced in the world, I don't think there's anything
I've encountered quite so dangerous as you...”

Epilogue

Philip

Being with Sidney Stone was more
than dangerous and arousing to me, it was life-threatening, especially knowing
how much she affected Kendall’s mental state. 

I’ve never met anyone like her,
with that passion to everything in life.  It was what I was missing after being
out in the field for so long.  I needed to feel again, to experience life with
a fresh outlook.

Sidney made me feel alive again,
chased away that darkness within me that I have been trying to control. 

Now I fear I could not let her
go.  Even if Kendall kills me.

Philip,
Sidney, Kendall, and Johnson’s story continues in

Book
2 of the Filthy Dirty Laundry Series

Filthy Dirty Laundry 2 

August 2015

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