RILEY
My phone goes off before I even step out the door. It's Monday morning, and I've managed to rise early and get my shit together, all so I can arrive at the office before Mike, my editor. I ignore the ringing, because it's a number I don't recognize.
They'll text if it's important. Who calls out of the blue, before seven-thirty in the morning? No one, that's who. Let it go to voicemail. It's probably a telemarketer.
Whoever calls doesn't leave a message, though, which confirms my suspicions about the telemarketers. They don't text. They call again, while I'm waiting outside for my ride. That's another annoyance about this morning: I still have no idea where my car is. Gabriel promised he'd get it back to me, and here it is, time for me to go to my office downtown, and I don't have a vehicle.
Taking a rideshare is an expense I don't need, and after I deal with the editor meeting, I'm planning to muster all my courage and call Gabriel, demanding an answer about my car.
I tap my foot, ignoring the second call. The rideshare isn't here, and I jab at my screen, trying to figure out the driver's whereabouts. A deep blue luxury vehicle rolls into the driveway near my apartment's walkway. No, that's not it, I'm waiting for a different car, something nowhere near as nice. A white cargo van pulls into a spot and idles, but that's not it, either.
The blue car comes to a full stop, and the window rolls down. "I'm looking for Riley Murphy," the guy says in a thick Cuban accent. "Do you know her?"
I squint at the guy. "I'm Riley. Are you my ride?" I point at my phone and start to walk toward the car. Obviously, the rideshare app was wrong.
"I guess you could say I'm your ride." The guy kills the engine, gets out, and chuckles as he walks to me. "You wouldn't be so shocked if you'd answered your phone."
"What?"
He hands me a large yellow envelope, with the keys balancing on top.
"What's this?" I scowl at the items in his outstretched hand.
"Keys. The title to your car. I was asked to deliver this to you."
"That's not my car. What's going on?"
"Don't ask me. Ask Mr. Greco." He shakes the envelope a little, and the keys skid forward a few inches, almost falling off. "Take it."
"This isn't my car," I repeat, this time in a cold voice. I don't have to ask what's going on, because I know. This is Gabriel's doing, and I don't like it one bit.
"Your name is on the title, so as far as I'm concerned, it's your car. Listen, I gotta run." He shoves the envelope and keys at me, then jogs off to the white van idling in the parking spot. He gets into the passenger seat, and the van takes off. I try to get a glimpse of whether Gabriel is behind the wheel, but my guess is no, since there's a dealer logo on the side.
I almost drop the keys.
"What the fuck," I say aloud, allowing my messenger bag to plop to the sidewalk so I can look at whatever's in the envelope. I pull out the paperwork and indeed, there's my name on the title of a brand new luxury car, one that costs more than my entire year's salary.
"I can't believe this." I gape at the paperwork.
Another car rolls up, behind the blue vehicle. That's my rideshare. The driver honks, and I scoop up my stuff and jog to the car, which isn't easy in heels.
"I won't be needing this, I guess. I don't know. Maybe I should just take your ride. I'm sorry," I say to the driver, who rolls his eyes. I can't blame him, because I'm being horribly undecided.
Gabriel has thrown me off my game once again.
"I don't need this shit on a Monday." The driver throws the car in reverse and roars off.
"I don't either, dude," I mutter, making my way to the two-door blue car and sliding into the driver's seat.
The leather seat cradles my butt as I settle in and adjust the mirrors. It smells like new car, leather, and money. None of this pleases me, because I want my old junker back.
Want my old life back.
But I can't just leave the thing in my driveway, and I need to get to work. On my twenty-minute drive to my office downtown, I tell myself to treat it like a rental, and that I'll give it back to Gabriel later today.
But deep down I know he won't take no for an answer. Why the hell would he buy me a new car when I left his house so abruptly?
He's trying to buy me.
"Well, fuck that, I won't be bought," I say aloud, fiddling with the satellite radio while in traffic. I hate to admit it, but the stereo system is incredible, and it's actually fun to drive. It's way too shiny and sexy of a ride for a journalist who can barely pay her rent.
I panic a little when I get into the newspaper parking lot and have to maneuver it into a tight parking space. With my old car, I wouldn't have given a crap if I was parked close to another vehicle, but now I've got this shiny blue machine to worry about.
This makes me furious at Gabriel all over again, and I slam the door, stalking into the newsroom. Today I wore my most professional-looking black heels, along with a black dress, like something one would wear to a bank. Usually I'm a lot more casual, but today I wanted to step up my game.
It's my armor for the meeting with my editor.
The newsroom is a ghost town when I walk in. There's only one woman, the early breaking news reporter, sitting in the far corner. That's a thankless job, since she has to get up at four and write headlines and social media posts. The other person here is the editorial assistant, a guy younger than me who's just been hired straight out of college.
"Good morning," I say to Christopher, pausing at his desk.
"Riley, you're alive!" His bright blue eyes light up.
"Yeah. Why wouldn't I be?" I grab a fresh paper off a stack, intending to read it at my desk with a cup of coffee.
"A bunch of us went out for drinks for brunch on Sunday, and I heard... Well, never mind."
I glare at him. "You heard what?"
"Someone saw you Saturday night at a party. With a very eligible and hot businessman." He places the emphasis on the final word.
"It was for a story." I stare into his eyes, hard, hoping that will quell any rumors.
"Mmmhmm. Sure." A smile creeps on his lips.
My nostrils flare. How has word gotten around that fast? Christopher wouldn't have been gossiping with the publisher, because I doubt the older man even knows our editorial assistant is alive, much less employed by the paper.
I stomp away to my desk. Christopher hangs out with a group of reporters. Someone else at the party must have told one of them, and they had a good laugh about it during brunch. I don't know what stings more; that they were talking about me, or that they never bother inviting me to their gatherings.
Assholes.
I arrange my desk for a few minutes, charging my phone and checking my emails. There's nothing important. Then I head into the break room and pour myself a big cup of coffee—the one thing Christopher does well, fire up the coffee machine every morning and keep it full of delicious brew—and take it back to my desk.
The coffee helps soothe my nerves. It's decent coffee, but nothing like I had with Gabriel. I blow on the hot liquid and my mind slides into a memory, of him hungrily devouring me with his mouth. Of him kissing down my naked body in the middle of the night, of him giving me orgasm after orgasm...
No, Riley. Stop. I clear my throat. This is not the time or the place for that. Especially since I don't want to see Gabriel again. Returning the car to him is an issue, and I'm not looking forward to having that conversation with him. I'm almost certain he bought me a car because mine was so trashed and old.
Still. That doesn't give him the right to just unilaterally give me something new and expensive. I sniff indignantly, inhaling a noseful of the coffee. Now I'm back to being indignant, which is better than fantasizing about how hot our time together was. Bad enough that he was in my dreams, doing wicked things to my body...
I let out a dissatisfied sigh. It's already been a weird morning, not a good lead-up to a meeting with my boss. I drink half the cup while reading the paper and am turning to the sports section when I hear my name.
"Riley, there you are. Come on into my office." It's Mike Moscardini, the editor, and his lanky frame and owl-like face belie the fact that he has the heart of a stone cold killer. I've seen him make more than one reporter cry with his questions and observations. Frankly, I've even been shocked that no one has reported him to HR for some of his nasty, biting comments.
"Good morning!" I say in my most cheerful, professional voice while climbing to my feet. I tote my coffee, a notebook, and a pen with me.
Mike hasn't made me cry during my time at the paper, but I know my day will come soon. It does for everyone, I'm told.
Perhaps today is the day.
I enter his office and sink into a cheap, gray loveseat that's facing Mike's desk. His office is chock full of papers and sports memorabilia—he's a big fan of the local football team, so there's pirate-themed crap everywhere. It's one more reminder that I don't have anything in common with the people who work here, since I know nothing about football and don't care to learn.
Mike eases his tall frame into a worn chair behind his desk. He looks at me over his wire-rimmed glasses, and for the first time, I notice how long his eyebrow hair is. I want to giggle, but don't. He leans forward and clasps his hands together.
"So, tell me how you came to socialize with Gabriel Greco on Saturday evening."
I take a sip of my coffee to stall, knowing I can't tell him that Gabriel essentially kidnapped me. Nor can I say that I agreed to spend the weekend with him, because that sounds a little like a prostitute. So I decide on something resembling the truth.
"He emailed me after my article on Doyle, and said he wanted to talk. He invited me to the party, and said I could do an article about him. We decided to discuss the ground rules of the interview at the party."
Mike stares at me with his giant gray eyes. I've always thought he looked like an owl, partially because his eyes are round, but his silver beard and mustache give him a bird-like fuzz. He doesn't say anything as he studies me, and I challenge him by staring right back.
Fuck him. I don't owe him anything more than what I said. It's not like I promised Gabriel advertising space.
"How did the interview go?"
"It went okay. He's a very private man." Except when he was encouraging me to suck his dick...
Mike nods slowly. "What did you talk about at the party?"
I lift a shoulder. "Mostly his family, his family's legacy in the city. He filled me in on quite a bit of Tampa history."
Mike leans back, cradling the back of his head in his hands. "Interesting."
"Yes, it was." There is no way I can keep Gabriel's car. That's such a conflict of interest, and if Mike knew I'd driven it here, I'd probably be fired on the spot...
"That interview might come in handy soon."
"Why's that?" From the secret smile on Mike's face, I think he knows something I don't, and it's making me uneasy.
"A source of mine with the Florida Department of Law Enforcement texted me early this morning. James Doyle's body was found in the Everglades this weekend. Saturday night, in fact, right when you were at the party with Gabriel. I'd like for you to call your new, powerful friend, and ask him what he knows about Doyle's death."