RILEY
Gabriel and I wake early. We fuck, quick and furious, like we hadn't wrung each other's souls dry the previous night. I orgasm while I'm on top, and then keep riding him until he finishes.
"Jesus, you're incredible. You're going to kill me. But what a way to die." He palms my breasts. "Blondie, I'm sorry, but I really have to run this morning because I have a mountain of shit to take care of. And as much as I'd like to see you tonight—"
I lean down to kiss him, reveling in how domestic we feel. It's a startling sensation considering the backdrop of his life. Better not get too used to this, a little voice says inside me.
"No, it's okay. Don't worry. I'm not clingy."
He flips me onto my back, his cock sliding out of me. "I have a business dinner tonight. I expect to see you tomorrow, though."
"What else do you expect?" I purr.
He slides his hand between my legs and cups my pussy. "More of this. Much more."
Like that part of me would ever say no to him.
"Good luck with your meeting today, I know you'll kick ass. Call me and let me know how it goes." he says, giving me a kiss on the lips.
"Thanks." I ruffle his hair and stretch. It's such a welcome change to have a man listen — and remember — the things I say.
Gabriel leaves to work out in his home gym, and his driver takes me to my apartment where I shower and prepare for the early meeting with my editor. Gabriel's driver also takes me to the office because that's where I left my car.
I make it into the office with five minutes to spare. Enough time to drop my bag at my desk, not enough time to pour a big, terrible, cup of coffee. Maybe that's not a bad thing where my stomach's concerned. For some reason, I'm nervous about this meeting, and as I walk to Mike's office, my legs tremble a little.
Mike's in his office, hunched over his keyboard. When I enter, he swivels in his chair.
"That's what I like about you, Murphy. You're punctual. Half the clowns here can't seem to tell time."
I bite back a smile. What is going on here? Between Mike's email praise last night and this gruff compliment, I'm starting to think he values me as an employee.
"Good morning to you too, Mike."
He chuckles and leans back while playing with a pen. "I'm sure you have a lot to do today, so I won't take up much of your time."
I don't have much to do, actually, but was planning to head to the prosecutor's office to see if I can find out any more about Doyle's death. "Okay," I chirp.
"Two things. One. Some bigwigs from corporate in New York are coming to town today. They'll be here a couple of days. This is their annual meet and greet here at the paper, and they said they'd like to take out a couple of my star reporters. One tonight, and one tomorrow. I want them to get to know you, so which night is good for you."
Oh. Oh wow. Meeting the New York management team is a big deal, and generally seen as the first step toward getting a job at one of the chain's bigger papers. "Tonight would be perfect."
"Excellent. They have reservations at The Circle at seven. I'll be there closer to eight, since I have a thing with my kid I can't get out of."
"Ooh. Fancy." Circle's a hot new restaurant at the top of the Tampa Tower, the tallest building in the city. I've never been, but have read about it.
"It is. I'll have to put on my good shirt."
We share grins. Mike's not known for his formal attire; he wears rumpled button-downs and coffee-stained khaki pants.
"And you might want to change out of your work clothes, so feel free to take the afternoon off and go home and do...girl stuff. My wife says women like to dress up to go to places like that." Mike waves his hand in the air.
I grin and gesture at the black pants-black-shirt combo I'm wearing, with my basic black ballet flats. It's my work uniform. "Appreciate it."
"And the other thing." He rakes in a breath and nods. "You've been doing an incredible job with the police beat. I really appreciate it. So that's why I want to promote you."
This is exactly what I've been angling for, but I thought it would take a lot longer. Like years. "What? No way! Thank you! Uh, to what?"
"I'm making you head features writer."
My jaw drops. This was what I'd wanted to do when I was in journalism school, write fluffy features and entertainment pieces, but I'd discovered that I loved hard news and true crime. I'm not sure how to react, or what to say.
"Wow," is all I can muster.
Mike taps his forehead. "I remember you saying during your interview that you'd been a features writer for your college paper. I went back and read those clips you sent me, and that's when I realized you'd be perfect for the job. This is a new position, and we're creating it out of a new budget line item..."
I can't focus on Mike's voice because the whooshing in my ears is growing. What an odd thing, to have wanted something so badly, then to get it and not want it. How should I feel about any of this?
"...and of course the position comes with a modest raise, and better hours. You and the features editor can chat next week, when he gets back from vacation." Mike smiles.
The money part gets my attention. "Thank you. This is unexpected, but I appreciate this. A lot."
"I know you're going to knock 'em dead tonight. Hell, in a year or two, you could be the company's top entertainment reporter in Hollywood. Now get outta here and find me another story like the chainsaw one."
He turns back to his computer, his shoulders rounded after decades of editing copy. That's my cue to leave, and I stride out, trying to be proud of my promotion. I'd probably even tell someone in the newsroom about it, but since no one's here yet, I decide to treat myself to a cup of coffee downtown, near the courthouse.
Downtown, I navigate my new car into a parking lot. It's so shiny and pristine that I don't want to risk getting sideswiped or bumped if I left it on the street, which was never a concern with my old, tank-like car.
I take my laptop into the café and order a latte. This is a new place, all cozy with light wood, plants, and lots of electric outlets. I pick up my mug and a muffin — I hadn't eaten at Gabriel's house, or my own since I was so nervous about the meeting — and sit at a table near the window.
For a few minutes I sit and unwrap my muffin, thinking about my promotion. More money, weekends off, no more knocking on doors asking unsavory questions of questionable people.
I'll be writing about fluff, about nice things that make people happy.
And I'll probably hate every minute of it.
I take one bite, then another, of my muffin, chewing slowly. Why would the paper want to send me to the features department if I've been doing a great job on the crime beat? And if the features editor is on vacation, does he even know I've been promoted to his department?
Something seems weird about this. Even though I've only been at the paper a short time, it seems like the few people who have been promoted have all interviewed for their jobs.
No one was instantly elevated to a better-paying position. That's not how newsrooms work.
I push the muffin away, carefully arranging a napkin over it. Suddenly, I'm not all that hungry. I pick up my phone and check to see if I have any texts. Usually Mom texts me in the mornings, just to say hi.
She has, and I respond.
Guess what? I got a promotion! I'm going to be a features writer!
I figure I should tell someone who will be excited. Maybe that will get me more enthused about the job.
Riley, that is incredible! I'm so glad. I worried a lot, you covering those crime stories. I'm at work, I'll call you later, okay? Love you.
Mom works doing the books for a guy in Southie who owns a bunch of bars. I've always suspected that they're connected to the mafia, but I've never asked, and as far as I can tell, Mom's part of the job is legit. If it's not, I don't want to know.
Love you too, Mom
I sip at my latte, taking small mouthfuls of the hot liquid. Then I pull up Gabriel's contact and press the green call button.
"Babe," he answers, and I know he's smiling.
"I got a promotion."
"Holy shit, that's great news! We'll celebrate tomorrow."
"Yeah."
"Wait. Why don't you sound happier? Isn't a promotion a good thing? Is it more money?"
I pause and press my finger into the uneaten muffin, crushing the cake-like mound. "Yeah. It is. It's a features job. I'm being taken off the crime beat."
"Oh, babe, that's amazing. You're going to be so much happier. I have to run into a meeting, and I'll call you later, okay?"
"Sure. We'll talk later. Bye, Gabriel."
When I hang up, I down the rest of my coffee. When I stand up, I feel a sudden light-headedness, so I pause and steady myself on the table, then sit down again. I take out my notebook and a pen and scribble a few sentences.
Thursday: write story about Doyle that mentions Gabriel
Friday: Gabriel/Kidnapping (I wince as I write this)
Saturday: Interview Gabriel, attend gala with Gabriel, see publisher
Sunday: Gabriel...
Monday: Police announce Doyle's body has been found, Gabriel BUYS ME A CAR. Donnie Trafficante dies. Night w/Gabriel
Tuesday: Promotion
Does any of this add up? Could Gabriel have pulled some strings and gotten me off the crime beat? Am I just being paranoid?
# # #
The Circle is even nicer than I imagined. It's on the forty-fourth floor of the building, and the minute I step in, I feel underdressed, even in my nicest black work dress. The lobby is done up in opulent black marble, and there are a bank of floor-to-ceiling windows that look onto a terrace. The views are incredible, and it's as if we can see from Tampa to Miami.
I give my name to the maître'd, and he ushers me to a circular booth towards the back. I see four people — two men, two women — that I was quickly introduced to earlier in the day, in the newsroom, when I'd stopped in to grab a few things.
I almost immediately forget their names and start sweating, wondering if I'm dressed correctly, if I should order red wine, and if I'm making a good impression.
Fortunately, they order a bottle for the table and I sip as they chat about newsroom gossip. Hopefully Mike will be here soon, and he'll be something of an ally. They ask me a few polite questions about Tampa, and I crack a joke about how different it is from Boston.
Thank God, they laugh, and I relax a little. I can do this.
As I'm there smiling and nodding at the corporate editors, out of the corner of my eye I see a group of men walk in and pause near the maître d's station in the gleaming black lobby.
They're all in dark suits. Many of them are older, except one is younger. He's wearing a midnight blue suit and the dark stubble on his jaw makes him look like the devil incarnate, dark and beautiful.
It's almost a joy to watch the man move through the low-lit restaurant. I forget to blink as I watch him smile and shake hands with the maître'd, as he nods at one of the waiters, as he tilts his head to listen to another man speak.
As he walks in our direction, his eyes catch mine. I freeze, my fingers clutching the stem of my wine glass in mid-air. As if in slow motion he passes our table with his group, staring at me with a smoldering gaze. I'm certain that I'm blushing hard, that I'm the color of the expensive cabernet in my glass. Maybe I'm sweating. But the editors keep chattering and don't notice my agitation.
A subtle hush falls across the room as the men walk through. Not at my table, of course, because the out-of-town editors don't know the power players in this city.
But I do, and I recognize the man in the midnight blue suit who just walked by, igniting me with his eyes.
Because I was naked in his bed this morning.