Come As You Are
And the red warning buzzer goes off.
Money troubles.
She needs money.
Instinctively, my hand goes to my back pocket, covering my wallet. I’m a generous guy. I donate to charity, I’ve funded scholarships at my alma mater, and I have no problem sharing the wealth.
But it’s good I’m learning her deal now. If she’s mentioning money this early, then how would I ever know going forward if she likes me for me? I wouldn’t. It’s good the universe is looking out for me, giving me this info before I fall harder for her. Last night was one night, one moment, and that’s all it’ll ever amount to. I need to be ruthless about who I let into my heart.
“I have your halo still,” I say, cool and businesslike.
She waves a hand dismissively. “I don’t really need it.”
“So I’ll just toss it?”
“Sure,” she answers, then furrows her brow. “But I do like the headband I used. Can you just hold on to it for me, and I’ll get it next time?”
“I’ll bring you the headband.”
“You can just toss the other parts.”
That feels fitting. I’ll dismantle her halo, trash the fake money, and bring her the only part that matters. Just rip to pieces the thing she left behind.
There’s one more item she discarded though.
I finish off the tequila, then reach into my pocket. “Here are your panties.”
She stuffs them into her purse.
Like I said, I’m no Prince Charming.
Dirty or clean.
Prince Charming would have gotten the girl. Dirty Prince Charming would have found a way to take her home again, spread her out on the bed, and take her all night long.
Me? I’ll be heading home alone to listen for little green men on the radio.
Before I leave, she lifts her chin and taps the bar. “By the way, I like your glasses.”
13
Sabrina
If something is too good to be true, it usually is. That’s what I’ve always taught my brother.
That’s why I’m not in the least bit surprised.
Luck doesn’t twirl around in spectacular fashion, transforming the beast into the prince before the last enchanted petal falls. Nope. That’s the stuff of fairy tales. In real life, you don’t get the gig, the guy, and the great sex.
You get one night with someone like Flynn Parker. The fairy tale ends when he returns your slipper. My panties are back, the story is over, and happily-ever-after is for fictional gals.
This is what happens next. The after-the-glass-slipper moment, when real life, real bills, and real responsibilities trump fairy-sparkle magic.
As I lock the door to my pipsqueak apartment, I sink against the wall, sliding to the floor on my butt.
I groan in frustration. I wish he was anyone else. I wish he was the trash collector, the guy who runs the flower shop at the corner of my street, a product manager for an enterprise software company.
Anyone but the man I have to cover.
The cardinal rule of journalism is to be fair and get it right.
You can’t be fair if you’re sleeping with the subject.
You simply cannot.
And the story matters more to me than the guy, than the sex, than the stupendous spark, and the sizzle I felt with him last night and again tonight. Like when he leaned in close and told me all he remembered, and when he asked me about the first outfit I ever stitched together. When I shuddered from his nearness, from the way he seemed to want to own me. And, truth be told, the way I want to be owned. I want to hand over the keys to my body to someone who knows what to do with me.
To Flynn.
“Stupid fate,” I grumble.
I dig my hand into my purse and take out my panties. They’re clean. Freshly washed. I narrow my eyes. How the hell did the dude have time to launder my underwear? This is New York City. No one has a washer and dryer. We go to laundromats, or we send out our laundry.
Unless we’re rich.
Super rich.
Lucky bastard probably has three washer-dryer combos.
Now I’m jealous, but it’s also a reminder. Flynn and I live in different worlds. We’re from opposite sides of the tracks. He’s millions and I’m pennies, and it’s for the best I learned this now. Opposites don’t attract. They repel.
After I make myself a cheese sandwich—I do know how to rock it when it comes to cheap eats—I FaceTime my brother.
“Want to hear a funny story?” I ask him on the screen.
“Of course I do.”
“The guy I like?” I ask, since I told him this morning I met someone.
Kevin wiggles his eyebrows. “Oooh, guy talk. I was hoping for some guy talk before I returned to St. Thomas Aquinas.”
“Oh stop. My guy talk has always been more interesting than a philosopher’s mumbo-jumbo,” I tease.
“Perhaps because it often requires me to be philosophical,” he says, then flashes me his dimpled smile.
“I wish I could give you a knuckle sandwich through FaceTime.”
“No, you don’t. You love me and my non-knuckle-sandwiched face. So, tell me what happened. Did this one take off for Chile? Nova Scotia? The Arctic Circle?”
“He might as well have,” I say with a sigh. “It turns out he’s the guy I’m covering for my new article.”
“Ouch,” he says, frowning. “That would be a bit of an ethical quandary. Are you going to recuse yourself?”
I recoil, staring at him as if he were speaking in tongues. “No! I didn’t know who he was when I met him at the party. I’m going to start this with a clean slate.”
He nods, a thoughtful look in his eyes.
My chest squeezes. I need the money from this piece. My bills are looming. “Don’t tell me you think that’s a bad idea,” I say, nerves thick in my voice.
He holds up his hands in surrender. “Of course I’m not going to say that. I’m simply processing the news. Trying to consider all the angles.”
“Do you think I’m crossing a line?”
He sighs, and I brace myself for a yes. Kevin has always been a barometer for doing the right thing, and I’ve needed that, especially since our mom rarely does. Hell, our mom is the reason I don’t eat roast beef. For my twelfth birthday, she asked what I wanted for a special dinner, and I told her I would love one of her delicious roast beef sandwiches.
“Consider it done,” she said, then took me to the grocery store, snagged some cold cuts, stuffed them in her purse, and proceeded to earn her first shoplifting arrest.
It wasn’t her last.
I stare at Kevin, swallowing as I wait for his answer.
“I don’t think it’s an issue,” he says, and I picture him as a pastor, doling out advice to a congregant. “Just keep things on the business level with him going forward and that’s the best you can do. You’re not at fault for something you didn’t know and I have faith you can do a fair, and fantastic, interview.”
I smile. “Me too.”
When I say goodbye to Kevin, I send an email to Flynn.
Not to Duke.
Not to Prince Charming. But to my source. To the man I’m interviewing.
I send it from my work address.
From: Sabrina G
To: Flynn Parker
Hello! I see we’re meeting at your office, but can we change the location? I find people are more comfortable and open up more easily if we’re not talking at their office. We can have a thoughtful conversation if we’re someplace else. Do you have a favorite spot?