Filthy Dirty Laundry (Filthy Dirty Laundry #1) (4 page)

          A thrill goes up and
down my spine.

          But then it hits me.

          I can't afford it.
Freelancing, starving to get by – this job was supposed to be my big break. The
thing that gave me security. That helped me find my own way in the world. And
instead...I'm right back where I started. This rich man has made his decision
and he has no ideas how many smaller lives he's ruined in the process.

          The tears come to my
eyes again.

          “I...I...”

          A heavy weight falls on
me. All I want to do is sob.

          Philip's looking at me
strangely. You'd think he'd be appalled at such an embarrassing display, but
he's not. He's looking soft, almost tender. Almost like he wants to reach and
touch me...

          But it's Johnson who
holds me. Pulls me close for a tight hug. Presses my head against his chest.
Strokes my hair. Sensually knots his fingers in my hair.

          Philip's smile quickly
inverts into a frown.

          “So, Mr. Executive
Editor,” says Johnson. “I guess you're my boss, too. Just last night I was
offered a position as the Lead Sports Reporter over at FDL. So maybe you should
get to know me better, too.”

Chapter
5

          I look up in surprise.
“You?” I say. “You didn't even tell me you were interviewing?” Johnson and I
tell each other everything.

          “I didn't want you to
know in case I didn't get it,” says Johnson. “I was scared if you knew you'd
feel obligated to put in a good word for me. And I know you were so focused on
the celebrity editor gig – I didn't want you risking that by trying to curry
favor on my account. Anyway...it looks like we'll all be working together, from
now on.”

          “Charmed, I'm sure,”
says Philip. But he doesn't look at Johnson. In fact, he doesn't take his eyes
off me at all. “I should go attend the staff meeting about the handover.”

          “I should too...” I
start. “I work there too, after all.” Freelancers with senior status are
allowed to attend meetings – one of FDL's great innovations – and/or a clever
way to get freelancers to donate their time instead of hiring staffers...

          “You should
not
.”
Philip is firm. “You should rest here. You had a concussion. You should rest
here until you're better. This guy – he'll come back here soon enough to tell
you what you missed, I warrant.” He says it vaguely insultingly. Like Johnson's
a dog who will run back to his owner.

          I'm fuming – and
humiliated. Why does it have to be my new boss who crashed into me, who sees me
in my vulnerable state? Now I'll have to miss the meeting. And with it my
chance at scoring some big high-paying stories. I doubt LaFleur Media even
cares about FILTHY DIRTY LAUNDRY the way I do, the way Tegan did. They just
want to make a quick buck – and don't care who gets hurt in the process.

          I pull out of Johnson's
hold. “I'm going to make the meeting,” I say firmly. “I can't miss it.” I grab
my bag from the chair. I take two steps and then I start to swoon....

          “Sidney...” Johnson's
worried voice is the last thing I hear.

          “I'm fine,” I murmur,
as I fall.

          A pair of arms catches
me.

          “Sidney...” A deep male
voice whispers in my ear. “You're not okay.”

          I open my arms to find
myself in Philip LaFleur's arms. His face is inches from mine. God, being this
close to him – I can smell his musky maleness. It turns me on. Makes me starve
for something unnamable, something primal, something true.

          Sex.

          I've never had it
before. I've never wanted to.

          Not until now.

          His eyes are burning
into mine. Does he feel this chemistry too? He swallows. “Just as I thought,”
he says. “You're not fully recovered.” Before I can protest he carries my
entire body in his arms and lays me gently on the bed, like I'm a doll. He
covers me with a blanket. “Now rest,” he says. His voice is firm.

          “But I have to be at
your meeting,” I say. I force myself to sit up. “I
need
to be there. I
built Celebrity – you don't understand. That vertical – it's all me. And if I
miss the structuring meeting…”

          “I understand,” Philip
nods. “But there will be time for all of this later. You need to recover.”

          I bite my lips. I feel
anxious, helpless. What rug is Philip going to pull out from under me next?
Taking away that editor position, restructuring the company, making me miss the
meeting....

          “Besides, we're
bringing on another reporter for Celebrity. Someone who can help you as you
recover. Take on some of that workload.”

          I can't
afford
to
give up that workload. But I guess a rich guy like Philip LaFleur wouldn't
understand the meaning of “can't afford,” anyway.

          “Someone with firsthand
knowledge of celebrity and society culture. Someone who grew up in that scene,
who really understands it. Someone who gets invited to the same parties as they
are. Not some dumpster-diving ambulance-chaser, mind you...”

          My face turns red
again. Does he know about my dumpster-diving?

          “Now, she's a bit of a
reformed partier herself,” Philip smiles. “So you may be the more responsible
member of the team.”

         
Team?

         
“We want to hire both of you,” he
says. “As staff writers. It isn't the money of an editor position, of course,
but it's full-time. Salary.”

          “Benefits?”

          “Yes,” he says. He
looks confused, like he doesn't understand why that would matter.

          “You and Kendall will
be quite the team.”

          My mouth falls open
again.

          “Not Kendall
LaFleur...”

         
Pleasepleasepleasepleaseno.

         
“Yes,” Philip says. He furrows
his eyebrows. “But however did you know?”

          “That trainwreck?”
Johnson says. “I read about her last stint in rehab – I didn't even know she
was out...Sidney, what is it?”

          He sees my face. The
look of blank shock and complete and utter horror.

          “Careful,” says Philip.
“You're talking about my sister.”

         
Of course.

         
Philip LaFleur.
That Philip.
The
distant older brother, off at Eton, whom Kendall couldn't

stop bragging about. The perfect
older brother.

          “How do you know
Kendall LaFleur?” Philip searches my face. “Unless....no...” It hits him.
“You're
that Sidney,
aren't you?”

          My face turns chalk
white. I can't even breathe.

          “You're
that Philip,
”
I say. “Aren't
you?
”

          “So, your mother...”

          “I'm sure Kendall will
have told you her version,” I say. “That she caused your parents' divorce.”

          “Didn't she?” His
half-smile is inscrutable.

          Actually, Alan and his
wife had separated a year before my mom and Alan had started going out, but
Kendall never let truth get in the way of a good story.

          “No,” I say. “But it's
none of my business. I was a teenager, then. What happened between your dad and
my mom...I just don't want it to be a problem, okay?” It's like I'm pleading
him.

          “Why should it be a
problem?” But there's something strange about the way he's looking at me. I
don't trust it – or him --- for a second. Philip may have been absent – but the
LaFleur genes are no good. Kendall, her mother – that whole family is full of
people who lie and cheat and steal. I hadn't realized Alan LaFleur, surgeon,
was related to the LaFleur Media Empire, but it all made sense now. Kendall
always had more money than even a top surgeon's daughter could expect.

          No, I think. Doubtless
Philip has less of a heart than his sister – or if he does have one, it's made
of ice. Not a day since he first acquired FDL, and he's already firing people
and eliminating positions right and left.

          And I'm going to have
to work with Kendall. All that about benefits and salary seems to not matter
anymore. Not if I have to go back to that. Suddenly, I'm fifteen again –
humiliated and tormented by Kendall and her whole tribe of Mean Girls. Picked
on and tortured over and over again until I thought about running away into the
woods just to get away from it all. The memories, the wounds, are still raw.

          Philip leans in to
touch me, just as Johnson does. As they approach, I suddenly pull away.

          The two practically bump
heads. Why are they both behaving so strangely?

          “Are you okay?”
Johnson's looking down at me, worried. “Your face...just now...you two know
each other or something?”

          I glance over at
Philip, then look away. I don't want him to see me this way – hurt, vulnerable,
scared. He's my boss, after all. But I can't help this wave of anger and pain
coming over me. Like sister, like brother, I think. Every time the LaFleurs
come into my life they make it that much more miserable. If I didn't know
better I'd think Kendall had Philip hit me with his car...

          This man, fresh from
Europe, with his perfect designer clothes and perfect muscular frame and
perfect rock star good looks – he's just as dangerous as his sister. Maybe more
so. Because right now, all I know is that I hate him.

          And that I desperately
want him, too.

Chapter
6

          All I want to do is to
go home. To get out of this hospital. To get into my bed, in that shitty little
apartment I share with Kiley, and watch Netflix and get into my pajamas and eat
dry cereal out of the bowl with my fingers. Sure, it's a crappy flex-two-bed in
an equally crappy neighborhood, and sure, I might get mugged walking there, and
sure, the heating doesn't always work and when it does work, the water goes
out, but at least I'd be
home,
there. Alone. Able to figure out what the
hell is going on. I need to sort out my whole job. My whole life. Now that FILTHY
DIRTY LAUNDRY is completely changing direction, I find myself confused,
overwhelmed. I have no anchor. I have nothing to keep me sane. Everything I
thought I knew about my future has been upended. I don't know a thing, I think.
A single solitary fucking thing. I have a new boss – and not just any new boss,
but one who is the big brother of my mortal enemy. One whom I can't stop
thinking about because of his sexy voice, that devil-may-care grin, that
terrible and overwhelming sense whenever I am with him that I want to
just...lie back and drown in the heady atmosphere of sex he exudes.

          And he's offered me a
full-time job.

          In any other
circumstance, I would have jumped to take it. It would have been the answer to
all my problems. A full-time staff-writer job at FDL. Maybe not as much pay and
responsibility as the celebrity editor gig I wanted, but benefits. Insurance. A
steady salary that meant I knew exactly how I was going to pay my rent every
month. Exactly the sort of thing a girl like me dreams about. Not romantic, but
there's something pretty damn exciting about not worrying about going into
overdraft every time you pay your rent.

          But now that the boss
in question is Philip LaFleur...I'm not so sure. He's distracting. Too
distracting. And I don't know if I can trust him. What if he's just setting me
up – plans to fire me without a reference as some sort of sick favor to his
sister Kendall? Revenge for my mother having destroyed his perfect little
family? What if...

          But I don't get to go
home. I don't get to Netflix bad TV shows and eat cereal with my fingers. I'm
stuck in the hospital for the next few days. “For observation,” the doctor says
kindly. “It's a major accident you've been in,” he says. “You've sustained some
pretty bad injuries.” And Philip LaFleur is picking up the tab for my medical
bills, no questions asked.

          “I can't afford to miss
work,” I tell Philip, via email.

          “It's my fault I hit
you,” he says. He offers me my normal day rate not to sue. “A paid vacation,'
he says. “I hope you get some rest. Sweet dreams.”

         
Sweet dreams.

         
Unfortunately, the dreams I've
been having are anything but.  By day, I'm coddled, stuck in this bed, unable
to move or walk around or do
anything
because the doctors are so
terrified I'm going to pass out again and cause myself even more injury.
Johnson pops by two or three times a day to brief me on everything I'm missing,
which is simultaneously sweet and extraordinarily frustrating. I hate thinking
about how much I'm missing out on.

          But by night...

          Oh, by night.

          Philip LaFleur hasn't
just invaded my work life. He's invading my dreams as well. Every time I let
blessed sleep take over to pull me out of my boredom, I start to fall into a
deep erotic reverie.

          He is cornering me in
the office, looking me up and down with that supercilious face of his, raising
his eyebrow slightly, smiling, slightly, smirking, slightly, looking at me like
he's so sure what he wants, and I know it too. He's pushing me up against the
office wall until all the files fall down from their shelves, pushing me up
onto the desk and pulling my shirt open, buttons popping everywhere. He's
licking and kissing my breasts, closing his hot mouth around my nipples,
letting me moan as he traces his tongue to my navel and then lower, his mouth
finding that space between my legs that makes everything go white-hot. He is
pressing my legs apart with his fingers, licking, his tongue trailing deeper,
deeper inside of me...

          And then I moan, and
the sound wakes me up.

          “Uh, Sid?”

          “Oh, it's you.” I say.
I don't mean it to come out quite as disappointed as it does. But Johnson is
sitting at my side, his face bright red with embarrassment, a strange hunger in
his eyes. Could he tell what I was dreaming about? I hope not. Even I'm
embarrassed at myself.

          My body is sweaty and
soaked with pleasure. Dream-Philip may not be real, but the orgasm I've just
had certainly is. It's hard to concentrate on the here and now, on the files
from the office Johnson has brought over.

          “How was the meeting?”
I say, wiping the sweat from my brow. “Philip working you hard?”

          Images of Philip
fucking me on the desk flash through my fevered brain.

          “It was pretty
dynamic,” Johnson says. “I'm surprised – Philip's a really hands-on kind of
boss.”

          I hope he doesn't see
how much redder my face gets when he says that.

          “Oh?” I try to act like
I haven't just had the most erotic experience of my life. I'm not sure how
convincing I am on that front.

          “I mean, I thought
sports was crazy...” Johnson sighs. “But the staff meetings over there –
everyone's just on the ball, all the time. They're completely insane. Gossip
about the Kardashians, Jennifer Lawrence, all these celebrities I've never even
heard of. They're all on their smartphones with tipsters 24/7...but I don't
know how Philip's supposed to fit into it at all?”

          “What do you mean?” I
ask.

          “Apparently he was a
journalist himself,” he says. “A war reporter. He worked for the BBC in Iraq,
Afghanistan, all over.”

          My mouth drops open. “
Philip
?”

          The rocker, in
Afghanistan covering war crimes?

          “Apparently he writes
under a different name. Trell. To avoid people knowing too much about his
family background. It's his mother's maiden name. That's why we didn't make the
connection.”

         
He's Philip Trell?
I've
read his coverage before. Not the kind of thing a gossip magazine would run,
that's for sure.

          “So what's he doing
here? Running a rag like FILTHY?” I love my magazine, but the BBC it ain't.

          “He's overqualified,”
Johnson says. I note a little bit of resentment creeping into his voice. “But I
have to admit, he's good at his job.”

          “So he's not just a
pretty face,” I say.

          “You think he's a
pretty face?” Johnson almost sounds jealous. I'm embarrassed and backtrack.

          “I just mean, I thought
he was just some vapid presenter-type. The kind women would tune into just to
watch him talk.”

          “That's kind of the way
of it at FILTHY, though, isn't it?” Johnson coughs. “All those ex-beauty queens
with spectacular legs. Like Melissa...”

          I poke Johnson's chest.
“We're getting off-topic now,” I say. “What about the changes? To the magazine,
I mean?”

          Johnson sighs. “I'm new
myself,” he says, “So I'm not sure how different FILTHY DIRTY LAUNDRY is from
how it used to be, but there's this weekly meeting now with staff all over the
world. They all Skype in from all these different outposts. London, Paris,
Rome, Shanghai, Hong Kong – everything and everywhere. And they're reporting on
culture from all over. Not just celebrity stuff. High art. Experimental theater.
Couture fashion. Really high-end stuff.”

          “So, more staff, more
coverage, more international stuff...” I add these things to my mental
checklist.

          “He wants to turn it
from TMZ into
Vanity Fair
,” says Philip.

          I have to admit it, I'm
impressed too. I've wanted the same thing for FILTHY DIRTY LAUNDRY– more
serious work, more in-depth stories. I just hate that it's Philip who is the
one bringing it to us. Especially after he got rid of my dream job as Tegan
Snow's successor.

          “And Philip's sister
Kendall...” Johnson goes on. “You should have seen her at the meeting, Turns up
forty minutes later with aviator sunglasses on, like some sort of spoiled
socialite....”

          “That's exactly what
she is, Johnson,” I interrupt. “You can find her in the dictionary under the
heading 'rich bitch'”

          “Dressed to the nines,
in this body-con dress that...let me tell you...was
not
appropriate for
work. I mean, I'm a nice guy, I'd never objectify a woman that didn't want my
attention....but there's no way she couldn't have known the way every single
guy in the room was leering and oogling and staring at her. Her dress hardly
covered her ass. Everyone was drooling. Except her brother, obviously.”

          “Tell me something
new,” I roll my eyes. “She's sounding just like the same old Kendall to me.”

          “Chewing her gum all
through the meeting – I couldn't believe it. Philip gave her these dirty looks
sometimes but she kept on doing it. Never even took off her sunglasses. Didn't
say a word through the whole meeting. And
she
has a job...” He sighs.

          I roll my eyes. “I
guess being the heiress to a LaFleur fortune keeps you pretty cushy. What would
she do without?”

          “Well, I'm guessing she
would have grown up by now,” says Johnson. “She is that way  because nobody
made her be anyway different. So – that's the day in a nutshell, Sid. You
missed one exciting day at FILTHY, but also on the bright side you got to avoid
this girl who upset you so much. I mean – you must really hate her to be this
upset. Are you sure she won't just let bygones be bygones?”

          “You saw her,” I say.
“You tell me.”

          “Can't you two just
ignore each other?”

          I think back to those
painful days of my childhood. “That's easy for you to say,” I say, more sharply
than I mean to. “Let me tell you what happened between us two, Johnson. Ever
since I was fifteen years old and my mom started dating her dad, Alan – this
plastic surgeon – Kendall made my life hell. She and all her Mean Girls
followers. She hated me, hated my mom, and she did absolutely everything in her
power to make sure the whole damn world knew it, knew that my mom and I weren't
good enough for her precious LaFleur family. Pranks, awful rumor-spreading,
embarrassing me, humiliating me, trying to ruin my reputation at every turn.
High School was hell. She even had her friends beat me up once. Whenever I
tried to do anything – chairing the high school Performing Arts Committee,
making a friend, joining a club – she'd have her minions take over and sabotage
me.  Thank God my mom finally dumped Alan or it would have gotten worse.

          “So maybe she's over
it?”

          I sigh. “I don't think
so. It's so immature and juvenile. I wish she could see how her bullying ways
only serve to make her look stupid and weak.”

          “Let's hope she's professional
enough to handle FILTHY. And you.” He kisses my forehead. “If she so much as
tries anything on you, I'll make sure you have someone to defend you. Promise.”
He slips his pinky into mine and pulls. There is a strange, intense look in his
eyes. A look of wonder, of desire, of fear. Like maybe he wants to do more than
kiss me on my forehead. His voice gets low and intense. “I couldn't stand it to
see you hurt in any way, Sid. Get better fast. FILTHY DIRTY LAUNDRY misses you
already.

          “Thanks, Johnson,” I
whisper.

          But deep down, my heart
is full of fear.