Chapter 18
Chapter Eighteen
Hill
A commotion pulls my head up from editing Menace’s piece a few weeks after we get back from Australia.
“Who the fuck is Hill Washington?” a voice bellows from the office doorway.
I step out of my cubicle, my hands tucked in my pockets. “That’s me.”
A white man with light brown hair and a beet-red face has his eyes narrowed on me as he holds up a newspaper and takes a few steps in my direction. “Who the fuck gave you the right to do a piece on me?” He throws the paper at my chest where it flutters to the ground, nostrils flaring in anger.
Ticking up an eyebrow, I look down at the paper and toe it away toward him.
“Didn’t think a man like you would actually pick up a physical paper.
” Looking back at him, I say, “No one has to give me the right or permission. You’re an interesting man, so I figured the world would want to get to know you better.
Didn’t think I’d find such…interesting information. ”
Not only does Robert Beningfield the fifth not know how to keep his hands to himself, he doesn’t know how to run a good business or pay people what they’re owed.
From the information Lucian and I were able to dig up, he’s close to three million dollars in debt and has very little liquid funds. He’s been borrowing money from friends and colleagues, promising things he can’t deliver, like a return on investment when the market turns.
On top of that, he’s harmed more women than the ones Menace knows about, making them sign NDAs to keep their silence.
But what Beningfield didn’t know is that in a clause one of the women’s lawyers added in, if information about his indiscretions came to light, the contract would be void and she could come forward about her ordeal.
I plan to interview her in the coming weeks, after she goes to court to ensure the clause is binding and she’s no longer beholden to the NDA.
He gets in my face, his hot breath wafting over me. “You don’t know who you’re fucking with,” he sneers.
“A broke rapist?” I ask, tipping my head to the side. “You don’t scare me.”
We’ve gathered quite an audience, my co-workers watching everything play out. A few have flanked Beningfield and the two men that came with him, ready for shit to pop off. I’m not sure why people think journalists aren’t about that action. We’re always ready to tussle if it means we’ll get a story.
“What’s going on here?” Clifton asks, hurrying from his office. “What’s the meaning of this?”
With one last snarl, Beningfield steps back and fixes his jacket, smoothing his hair back like ninety-nine percent of the office didn’t just see him lose his shit.
“Nothing. This…man,” he sneers the word like it’s foul, “wrote inflammatory lies about me and this paper will be sued until it’s just a fucking footnote. ”
Clifton bends and picks up the paper, reading the headline.
He looks back up at Beningfield with a bored expression.
“Hill is one of my best, most diligent journalist. I can assure you, if there’s anything here, it’s not lies.
You can sue if you want, but remember, if nothing in the article is proven to be false, we can counter-sue for more than court costs. Think wisely, Mr. Beningfield.”
Beningfield looks taken aback, like he thought his money and status would have me in some sort of trouble.
Clifton might be a dick sometimes, but he didn’t fuck around when it comes to his people.
He knows that our work—while it might not be found in the most legal of ways—is never wrong. He goes to bat for us when need be.
Sputtering, Beningfield says, “You’ll hear from my lawyer!” To me, he points his finger and says, “I’d watch myself if I were you. Accidents happen, Mr. Washington.”
“Okay,” Clifton says, pushing up his already rolled up sleeves as if he’s ready to go toe to toe with Beningfield, “time for you to leave, sir, or I’ll have you trespassed.”
After one last withering look, Beningfield storms out, knocking over some boxes as he does.
“Nothing to see here, people,” Clifton says, shooing everyone away. “Get back to work and make more people that mad.” A few people chuckle as they go back to work. “My office, Washington.”
Sighing, I follow him to his cluttered office, moving files to the floor so I can sit down in the only available chair.
He looks at me, tapping his finger against his lips. I meet his gaze unwaveringly, not wanting him to think I have something to hide.
After a few more beats, he says, “I’m not gonna ask where you got your information, I just want to make sure you have a way to prove it’s legit in case he goes through with his threat.”
The guys and gals we pay for their services may not come by their information legally, but they always come with receipts. As long as we don’t leak their names, I can show Clifton proof that everything in that article is legit.
Nodding, I reassure him. “It’s all true. You know me, Clifton. I dig up information I need and never publish fabrications. Trust me, everything I wrote is true.”
He doesn’t question me further, just tells me to get back to work and have Menace’s article on his desk before I leave work tonight.
When I get back to my desk, I grab my phone and immediately text Menace.
Me: Beningfield showed up to my office today. He’s pissed. lol.
I don’t get a text back right away, so I get back to work cleaning up his article.
I’m surprised more people haven’t shown up to my job when they found out me and Menace were together.
After my name was put on blast in some Australian tabloid, I expected more than a few American paps to be waiting for me, but most of the photogs here know my reputation and have stayed away.
One person has tried their luck to ask for a sound bite, but that didn’t last long.
Not after the long, deadly look I shot him.
Hopefully, our relationship remains this low key.
If not, it’ll make it so much harder for us to do what we do on our off times.
There are plenty of people that slip through the cracks of the law that need to be taken care of.
If fucking paparazzi follow us around, it’ll only be a matter of time before they see more than they’re supposed to and Menace and I end up behind bars.
We’ll just have to be extra careful. He’s had to do that far longer than we’ve been together, so he can teach me how to navigate this new territory.
My phone beeps just as I’m sending the finished article over to Clifton for review.
I pull it out and smile when I see Menace’s name.
Menace: That fucking asshole! Are you alright? I’ll come get you.
Smiling, I text him back, loving that I can feel his anger through his text.
Me: I’m good. He’s all bark, no bite. You know I can handle him.
He sends me the ‘hot’ emoji, making me smile.
Menace: I’m coming over tonight.
Me: I’ll be waiting.
Smiling, I put my phone away and get started on my next article.
My eyes hurt and I’m fucking exhausted by the time I leave work. I push out of the back entrance into the alley nearer where I parked my car. I pause for a moment, breathing in the crisp night air, the gentle breeze ruffling the ends of my hair.
Instead of Clifton being wowed by my journalism skills, he sent back my article with so many red marks it made my eyes cross.
I spent the rest of the night making it perfect.
Clifton left an hour ago, telling me he’d check the article tonight so he could run it the day after tomorrow.
We’re on a tight deadline, what with Clifton hinting that there would be a big article coming.
Most thought it would be what we released on Beningfield, which has blown up both online and in print.
Hopefully his bullshit doesn’t overshadow Menace and his charity.
Before it was released, I told Clifton that we should push it for another week to give time for me to finish up my man’s article as well as give time for donations to roll in. But Clifton said people were anticipating hearing more about Menace and would—
Light glints off steel and suddenly a knife is swiping at my belly.
I dodge back on instinct and use my messenger bag to block the next slice.
A man is in front of me. Knife by his side. Mask on his face. Dressed in all black.
A fucking hit.
Beningfield isn’t too smart. It doesn’t take a genius to know what this is about. The bad thing for him is he threatened me in a room full of people. No matter which way I play this, I’ll get off on self-defense.
Huh, I could kill this fucker and it’ll up my rep. People will leave me and Menace alone, probably worried I’ll kill them for fucking with us.
With the cameras posted everywhere around the building, anything that happens will show me in a defensive mode.
I fight to keep the smile off my face as the man rushes at me again, knife held out in front of him like he wants to poke me.
“Help!” I yell, just for the benefit of the cameras. The streets are always empty this late at night. No one will hear either of our screams.
The man chuckles as he comes at me again. “You fucked with the wrong person,” he snarls and kicks at me as he moves in.
“No, you did.”
With that, I drop my guard and allow him to move closer, making it seem like he’s going to make his kill. When he takes a step forward, knife outstretched, I grab his wrist, twist him around and bury it in his chest.
The man jolts, a howl leaving his throat. Just to be a dick, I twist the knife, knowing it’s overkill, but whatever. He started it.
“Who sent you?” I ask, though I know the answer.
“Robert…Bening…” he releases a long breath and goes limp in my arms.
I drop him, then stumble back, playing up my reaction for the camera. “Help!” I scream again, fumbling in my pocket for my phone. “Help me please!”
I call 911 and wail into the phone, letting them know that I was attacked, and I think I killed someone.
It sucks that I’ll be under a microscope for a few weeks—maybe months—but it’s the price I’m willing to pay to send a message to Beningfield: He might think he can reach me, but I’m fucking untouchable.
After I get off the phone with dispatch, I call Menace, still crying though I hope he reads through the bullshit. I let him know what happened and he says he’ll be here shortly.
While I wait, I go over to my car in our well-lit parking lot, just in case Beningfield was smart and hired a backup for his fucked-up assassin.
But I doubt it. When people look at me, they only see an eccentric journalist that spent way too much money on tattoos.
They don’t know that I will lay a motherfucker out without losing a wink of sleep.
Sirens blare and cop cars screech around the corner. I roll my eyes. They can chill out; the threat has been neutralized.
The cops rush over and I affix a vacant look in my eyes and point to the alley. “He’s back there.”
There’s a bunch of commotion after that, the scene full of cops, medical examiners, and press. I hide my face only after they’ve taken a few shots of me with tears and blood covering me.
Clifton comes back, a look of bewilderment on his face as he walks up to me. “Jesus, he made good on that promise.”
“What promise?” a detective says, walking over to us.
“Robert Beningfield the fifth,” Clifton says with attitude. “He threatened my journalist today. In front of the entire office. Now look! This is a nice area! No one would come after anyone here without reason.”
The detective jots down some notes, nodding as Clifton gives him play-by-play of what happened and Beningfield’s exact words.
Twenty minutes later, Menace arrives and I rush into his arms, playing the grieving victim. He holds me and shushes me while I bury my face into his chest, grinning at everyone’s stupidity.
“I’m so sorry, baby,” he whispers as cameras shutter nearby. “You okay? Can I take him home?” he asks the nearest detective.
The one that took notes comes over and points to the cameras mounted on the corners of the building. “From what Mr. Reacher showed us on the cameras, it looks like a clear sign of self-defense. But we’ll need to go down to the station and get his statement.”
Menace growls, but I place a hand on his chest as if to calm him. “It’s okay. I’ll go. Anything to get this nightmare over with.”
“Can I drive him?” Menace asks.
“Yes, sir, you can. We’ll be there shortly. Here’s my card in case I forget to give it to you later.” He hands me his card and Menace escorts me to his car.
When I’m behind his tinted windows and we’re a few blocks away, I huff and wipe my face, checking myself in the mirror. “That motherfucker has to die. Quick,” I say.
“He’ll meet his maker sooner than he thinks. I have a plan.”
Taking his hand, I grin and say, “I really love you.”
“Right back at you, little psycho.”