Filthy Dirty Laundry (Filthy Dirty Laundry #1) (3 page)

Chapter
4

          I wake up. I'm groggy.
The world goes in and out of focus, out of my consciousness. I'm not sure what
I'm seeing, but whatever it is, it isn't sky. Not the blue bright lights of
Rodeo Drive. Something else. Flickering. A flickering halogen light – that's
what it is. A buzzing sound. No, not buzzing, beeping. The sound of a beeping
machine. And the light is so strange. I'm indoors – that's all I know at first.
I'm indoors and the ceiling looks cold and functional – I'm in some sort of
municipal building, maybe. And the fluorescent lights keep making that buzzing
sound. Everything feels so strange. Everything is spinning.

          My eyes catch something
to my right. A table. Plastic wood underneath cheery floral curtains. Somebody's
house. But not my house – like I have anything more fancy than Venetian blinds.
There is a lock on the window. And on the table: a vase full of flowers. Bright
white, red, and pink roses that are just opening, their bloom giving off a
sweet and sensual aroma.

          “Feeling better?”

          A familiar voice. A
foreign accent. Half-English, maybe, but not quite. An accent I can't place –
just like the rest of this fever-dream.

          I turn to see a
familiar face. The sexiest face I've ever seen. Fine, chiseled cheekbones.
Piercing blue eyes. A face that makes me weak at the knees. Or would, if I
weren't already lying in this  hospital bed.

          Then I remember. The
accident. My bicycle. The FILTHY DIRTY LAUNDRY rocker in the leather jacket
cradling me in his arms.

          “You...” I whisper.

          “You passed out in the
car on the way over to the hospital,” says the rocker. He's smiling at me so
sweetly. Like he knows me. Like he cares about me. The gentleness of his smile
is at odds with the rest of his demeanor: his expensive grunge clothes, his
sexy-as-hell swagger. “You had a concussion. But you'll be fine now. The
doctors were able to give you medication, treatment. They want you to stay
overnight. The concussion was only a mild one. Don't worry. Do you need
anything? Water? Food?”

          The light through the
windows is the cool white light of dawn. I must have been here overnight. Has
this rocker been there all this time – sitting in a chair by my hospital bed?

          “You looked peaceful,
sleeping,” he smiles at me.

          What's he playing at, I
wonder? What kind of stranger spends all night at the bedside of someone he
doesn't even know – even if he is responsible for her accident?

          I look him up and down,
trying to slow down my heartbeat. Who is this guy, I wonder. What band does he
play for? Why is he here, with me, when he could be anywhere – and with any
one
?
Surely a guy this hot has women lining up for the chance to exist in his orbit.
But instead he's looking down at me with such a kind, such a caring
expression....why? My muscles tighten up. Something tells me that this is going
to be a trap. People are never nice to you without an ulterior motive.

          “Sidney!”

          I hear a familiar voice
as someone bursts into the room. The exception to every rule. My best friend,
Johnson, probably the only person in the entire universe who gives genuinely of
himself to others and doesn't expect anything in return. He's like a Golden
Retriever, the way he bounds to my bedside. I take in his lanky figure all at
once. Dirty blond hair, bright Pacific blue eye, handsome in a California
surfer, all-American kind of way: apple pie and blue jeans and surfer abs. He
almost knocks me over, trying to hug me tight. He lunges, and for a second his
lips get so close to mine I inhale sharply. Was...no, Johnson couldn't be trying
to kiss me. In the four years we've known one another – all the way through
college – nothing of the kind has ever happened, despite the late nights we've
spent drinking and talking until morning. But he's leaning in and my heart
stops...

          Until he sees the
figure in the corner.

          Then he pulls away.

          “I was so worried,”
says Johnson. “Then I got this weird call. I was the last person to text you I
guess, so someone called who had your phone...said you were at the
hospital...what happened, Sid?”

          “Uh...” I try to form
words, but I'm still out of it. The whole room still feels like it's spinning.
It's hardly a pleasant feeling. I don't...sorry....” More words come out. “I'll
be fine.” I try to force myself up to hug him, but my body isn't listening.
Clearly that injury from the bike took more out of me than I thought.
“Sorry...I'm fine. I swear.”

          “I'm glad.” Johnson's
arm muscles tense like he wants to raise them, like he wants to hug me again.
“Who are you?” He turns to the rocker in the corner. Funny, I think. I have
exactly the same question. But introductions seem to be having a nasty habit of
being interrupted by my fainting spells.

          “I'm the guy who took
her to the hospital,” says the rocker. He says it in a way that's so brash, so
bold, so
possessive.
Like he owns me or something. Which is pretty rich,
given that he's carefully and conveniently neglected to mention that he's the
one who put me in the hospital in the first place. I should be annoyed, but
something about the way he's looking at me, with those fierce, burning eyes of
his, holds me back. It feels like he's invading my very soul with his gaze,
like he's reaching deep into me, like he's claiming me as his. The feeling
makes me feel hot all over: red and blushing and breathless. It's a feeling I
don't recognize. Can it be – desire?

          That's crazy, I tell
myself. This guy is a total stranger. Someone whose only relationship to me is
that his chauffeur has a nasty habit of not looking where he's going.

          And yet he has this
power over me. I feel like a snake – charmed. Still. Unable to move, even as my
blood is pumping through my body and my adrenaline is charging into overdrive.
Unable to do anything but register this strange sensation of want and need.

          “My name's Philip
LaFleur.”

          And then the bottom
drops out of my stomach.

          “
LaFleur?
”
Johnson responds almost aggressively. Some sort of hostile anger takes over
him.

          “La-la-Fleur?” I
whisper.

          Johnson recognizes the
name, too, but how? We met in college – long after Kendall LaFleur, Alan
LaFleur's demon daughter, made my high school life a living hell. Long after my
mother and Alan broke up. I may have mentioned I had an almost-stepfather for a
time, but I never mentioned the name. But Johnson's acting like the name means
something.

          Like it means something
other than the fact that this guy might be related to my worst enemy.

          “LaFleur Media LaFleur,
huh?” There's something still so aggressive about the way Johnson's talking.
He's normally so calm, so soft-spoken. I don't recognize this side of him.

          My face flushes.
LaFleur
Media LaFleur
. LaFleur Media. Of course. They're only like the Hearsts of
the modern day era. If William Randolph and Condé Nast himself joined forces,
their media empire would look something like LaFleur Media.

          How could I be so
stupid?
Everyone
knew that LaFleur family...

          Philip smiles a
gorgeous, movie-star smile, flashing his pearly white teeth. “Afraid so,” he
says. “Guilty as charged. I've just returned to the States after a reasonably
long spell in England to take my part in running the family business. I'm one
of Jacob LaFleur's many prodigal grandsons. But the European branch was
considered too cushy a job for a layabout like me. Grandpa wanted to teach me
the ropes...”

          “No wonder that name
rings a bell,” says Johnson. He's looking over at me now. “I saw the news
before coming over here. You guys just bought FILTHY DIRTY LAUNDRY magazine,
right? The LaFleur Media Group – you bought up a whole bunch of places. Really
just cleaning up over here, aren't you?”

          Philip looks vaguely
affronted. His eyebrow arches. “We're simply expanding our American market,” he
says pleasantly. Too pleasantly. Like he knows Johnson feels threatened by him,
and wants to dig in as much as he can.

          “Holy shit...”

          The realization hits
me.

          Philip isn't a rocker
at all. He's my new boss.

          “I mean, uh...crap.”

          Great, Sidney. Great
first impression you're making there. Drooling all over the new owner of your
magazine.

          “Excuse me?”

          “I saw you...” I try to
surgically remove my foot from my mouth. “In Pepper Park's office. You were
chatting. I thought you were a rocker or something, in for an interview...but
you're the new owner of the magazine! I had no idea!”

          Philip again looks
faintly amused. “Well, acquisitions do tend to come as a surprise to the
company staff. Deals are often negotiated in secret, after all.”

          “Yes...” I say. My
mouth is hanging open. “Of course.”

          “So...you were in the
office too, then?” He leans in. “Let me guess – a supermodel being interviewed
about her favorite variety of face cream?”

          I can't tell if he's
complimenting me or insulting me. It's irritating. It also, in spite of myself,
turns me on. Johnson shoots him a glare you'd think could kill.

          “I'm a freelancer,” I
say. “I write for the celebrity section. Are you the new Pepper, then?”

          “No....” Philip laughs.
“Pepper Park is a pro. Getting rid of her would be the stupidest thing we could
ever do.”

          “So you won't be too
hands on in your acquisition, then?” Do I sound hopeful? Is that rude? I can't
help it – having a guy with looks like that around the office would lower my
productivity by a full 50%. He's damn distracting.

          “On the contrary,” he
laughs. “I'll be very hands on.” Something about the way he looks at me when he
says this makes me tingle. “I'll be getting into the thick of the magazine. We
have a vision for FILTHY. We want to cover global celebrity issues – make it
the only truly international magazine of celebrity and fashion. Less tabloid,
more
Grazia
...even
Vanity Fair.
Make FILTHY DIRTY LAUNDRY respected.
As the Executive Editor, I'll be able to put that focus into overdrive.”

          My throat goes dry.
Executive Editor – then if I get Tegan's old job, does this mean he'll be my
new boss? The idea is exciting and terrifying at the same time. And I know
there's no way in hell I'll be able to concentrate.

          “Like I said...”
Philip's voice is low and smooth. “I'll be very hands on. I like to be as
involved with my staff as I can be...”

          I feel my whole body
heat up. It's like he  can read my mind. Or is it? Maybe I'm overthinking
things, imagining meaning that isn't there. Letting my desire get the best of
me.

          But Johnson puts an arm
around me. Protective. Possessive. “What do you mean by tha?” He looks
suspiciously back and forth between me and Philip.

          “I mean precisely
that.” Philip crosses his arms. “I believe verticals are a thing of the past.
Vertical editors – celebrity, fashion – stand in the way of a truly holistic
approach to culture. Melding high and low, street style and couture. So I'm
eliminating those positions. Reporters will be reporting directly to me.”

          “So that means...” my
heart falls. “Tegan's position. It's not going to be filled by anyone?”

          “Tegan?”

          “Tegan Snow. Celebrity
News Editor.”
And my biggest cheerleader in the company.
I look down so he
won't see the tears of disappointment welling up in my eyes. My face flushes
with shame. I can't let Philip know I interviewed for that position.

          “Sorry,” Johnson
whispers under his breath, squeezing my hand. Clearly he knew how much I wanted
that position.

          “Oh no,” he says
lightly, as if he hasn't just thrown way my entire future. “That's the first
position we've eliminated, you'll see. Were you reporting to Ms. Snow?”

          I nod mutely.

          “Ah, well, then,” says
Philip, smiling genially. “You'll be working for me, now, then.”

          “I guess...” I hope he
doesn't see me blush.

          “But of course that
might be awkward.” He goes on smoothly.

          My face flushes even
redder. Does that mean he can tell how insanely attracted I am to him?

          “What do you mean?” I
ask defensively.

          “Well, I almost killed
you at our first meeting...” he grins. Like he couldn't possibly have been
talking about anything else.

          “Well, I hope you don't
feel awkward around me, Sidney.” He comes close to me. Places each of his large
hands on my shoulders and looks straight in the eyes. “If you're the Sidney
Stone whose articles I've been devouring in preparation for offering on FDL, I
want to see a lot more of you. Your articles are incisive. Fierce. You
get
the
great and the good.”