Chapter 41
Two weeks later, I’m exhausted.
The job market is awful. I’m done being an advertising shill, but it’s all anyone wants to hire me for.
“I just need to find a real story,” I tell Lucky as he strides out of his bedroom, and everything stops.
He’s helping launch a new bar, but with the way he looks, he’ll also be sending a thousand hearts into orbit from that stage.
My eyes almost drop out of my head.
Loose black denim hangs low on his hips, paired with an equally low-cut vest. His tattoos are worn like a shirt. Like bait. Like he’s a siren, ready to lure you into the deep blue sea.
His hair is let down tonight, soft and tucked behind his ears, dusting his chin, and the black eyeliner he’s wearing stands out like a beacon.
Holy shit, he’s so gorgeous; I can’t breathe.
“Start with yours,” he says, and I completely forget what we were talking about.
“Huh?”
He has to know the effect he has. Has to. And, yes, that glimmer in his eyes before he pulls me into a deep, longing kiss tells me he knows exactly what I’m distracted by.
He tugs on my bottom lip, then straightens. I manage to catch my laptop before it drops to the floor.
“All those articles you wrote, how many people do you think took them at face value? Wouldn’t you want a friend to help you understand if you were being led on? So, be that friend.”
Huh. He’s right. I don’t have his stage presence, but I have brains, a camera, and an internet connection.
Better people have done more with less.
“Help me set up my phone before you go?”
He kisses me again. “Happy to, love.”
* * *
I didn’t wake when he came home, but it must have been late. His boots were kicked off by the door. A half-finished glass of water sits beside his keys on the counter and a note.
The scribble is almost indecipherable, swirling across the page at an angle. It says, Wake me when you read this. Bring coffee. I pocket the note, unable to hold back a smile as I change the coffee filter and wait.
Lucky is sprawled across his bed the same way his words were, freely haphazard, and I place the coffee gently on his bedside table before jumping on the bed, straddling him.
Lucky is already gripping my hips before he blinks awake, a smile slowly curling up one side of his mouth. “Need you like this every morning.”
“Guess what.”
Lucky’s grip grounds me, the only thing keeping me from flying apart in the face of last night’s experiment and this morning’s rewards.
“I’m incredible, and you couldn’t wait another second to kiss me.”
“Obviously,” I tease, leaning down with the intention to keep things chaste, but Lucky slips one hand up into my hair and holds me there, sucking on my lower lip.
I pull back, a thrill running through me at how dark his eyes are.
“Check this out.” I pull my phone out of my back pocket, bringing up the video from last night.
After Lucky left, I followed through on his advice, filming an introduction and promising to share an insider’s look at what journalism has become.
I’ve already planned it out. Using my own articles as examples, I’ll do an entire series, pointing out all the tricks used to hide advertising and consumer persuasion techniques.
People deserve to know when they’re being manipulated, and from the analytics on last night’s video, they agree.
“Look at that view count, and it’s still climbing. Comments too.”
Lucky opens the comments section and starts to scroll. “Well done. You’ve given them enough to chew on, but left them wanting more, and, boy, do they. They’re scrambling to hear the rest.” The admiration in his eyes sends a shiver down my spine. “Have you planned out what you'll do after this?”
It’s a good question and one that kept me up last night. “Mostly. I was hoping I could run it by you though. I watched a lot of your videos last night, and you really know what you’re doing. It’s the perfect mix of vulnerable and fun.”
“As much as I like hearing you compliment me, I won’t pretend that I don’t get by mostly on looks.”
He’s not wrong; at least half his videos feature a half-buttoned shirt, filled with comments asking him to finish the job.
“I’m sure that’s what you want everyone to think, but you’re smart about what you share and how often you share it.
I already know what I want to present, but you know what people respond well to.
If I were writing this all down, it would be different—the medium changes things.
But I want to reach more than a single article could, especially since I don’t have a platform to publish it right now.
But this proves that there are people who want to hear what I have to say, and I really think this is going to be my best shot at doing what I want to do. ”
Lucky takes my phone, discarding it on the side table and grabbing my ass with both hands. “Then put me to work, boss.”
The erection pressing into my thigh is a pleasant distraction, and I sink my fingers into his hair as I pull him up for a kiss.
“You got in late,” I say. “How did it go?”
Lucky pauses in his mission to cover my throat in kisses and groans. “Gig was great until Sterling showed up.”
“What?”
Lucky raises himself enough to make eye contact, but we’re still plastered together. “Bad timing all round, I’d say. Now, where were we?”
“Uh-uh-uh.” I hold him back, my hand on his chest. “What happened?”
His head falls back to the pillow with a sigh. “I played, rocked some worlds; he came to talk to me after. We had it out; I left. My biggest issue is the gorgeous reporter in my lap who isn’t kissing me right now.”
“That’s it?”
“For now,” he says, threading his fingers through my hair. I sigh at the touch. “I know what I want, and she’s right here in front of me.”
My heart thumps loudly in my chest, pestering me to let Sterling go. This is where I want to be.
“Let’s start fixing your other issue then,” I say, grinding into him.
“Best idea you’ve ever had.”
* * *
Groaning, I silence my third alarm and sit up, choosing to linger in bed instead of getting coffee started.
I know; I barely recognize me either.
It’s now been six weeks since I left The Observer.
I have a shiny new job at the second-biggest newspaper in Chance, and I didn’t even have to work the lifestyle beat to get it. My front-page dreams are within reach now, closer than they’ve ever been before, and I’m having a hard time believing I’m not hallucinating.
Mentally, I flip a coin—heads, doomscrolling; tails, emails—and I open my mail.
“Oh my God.”
There’s no way.
“Hnrg?” Lucky groans beside me. He rolls over and drapes an arm across my waist.
If this is an elaborate fantasy, I’ve got to hand it to myself—it’s damn good.
Lucky’s a pretty great cheerleader, gorgeous and distracting, but always behind me, encouraging every win.
He’s more than his songs, more than the success or the box the public has put him in—the troubled past with a bleeding heart.
He’s loyal and sweet and a phenomenal cook.
I shuffle against the headboard, staring down at my phone, eyes barely open, still trying to believe what I’m looking at.
An email. Not unusual on its own.
No, it’s who it’s from that has caught my breath in my throat.
“Sterling emailed me.”
Sterling knows my personal email address?
More importantly, why is he using it? I have to know.
Lucky cuddles closer, eyes closed, head almost in my lap now. It always takes him a while to wake up.
Technically, I still live in the guest room.
In reality, we pass out in whoever’s bed is closest at the time, and I’ve had more sex in the last six weeks than the last two years combined.
“What’s he want?”
I have no idea.
Opening the email is more confusing.
“He’s apologizing for what happened with Monica.
” Which makes no sense because it was hardly his fault, and why the hell does he even care?
Then there’s the last part. I look forward to being dethroned as Chance’s number one reporter.
If there’s ever anything you need, you only have to ask. “Strange, right?”
“Not really. He’s relentless when he sets his sights on someone.”
I scoff, “Sterling Ross doesn’t have his sights set on me.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure about that,” Lucky says, awake now and slipping his hand under my shirt. His touch is electric. “Mac’s clever enough to know brilliance when he sees it.”
I’m still pinching myself that The Herald has hired me as an investigative reporter. I finally feel like I’m doing the job I was born to do.
I know you will achieve great things, the email says, but does he mean it?
“Whatever,” I whisper as I lean down to kiss Lucky.
“Come on. You can be smug about it. I know you admire him.” Lucky’s voice is rough with more than sleep. He drags his fingers along the waistband of my underwear, pulling them lower to kiss my hip.
“He’s the reason I picked journalism as my major. The reason I came to Chance.”
He smiles up at me, the coincidence not escaping either of us. I’m glad for it. This connection between us is a lovely thing.
“And?” he coaxes, tossing my phone to the side and pulling me down the bed. “Is that all?”
“What are you implying?”
Lucky drags his lips along my neck. “You want him.” My first instinct is to deny it, but I don’t. “I’ll let you in on a secret, love. I want him too.”
“Oh,” I whisper.
This morning just became infinitely more exciting.
* * *
Make Your Choice:
keep that door wide open, please* (go to 43)
I prefer it closed (go to 46)
go back (go to 34)