Chapter 17 #2
Lies. Bullshit. A spin of poisonous webs leaving out anything good or sane to create a tragic story.
But I know Tate Fontanna is anything but a tragic story. He’s no more tragic than I am. Unless I let the station air this Perspective bullshit. Then I turn into a tragic loser who should be a decent broadcast sports journalist. Or hell, any kind of decent journalist or decent human being.
The file is large, even compressed. I sit down in front of my computer, staring at the screen, staring at the paper file, the scattered zip drives on my desk. It’s dark and everyone’s been gone for an hour.
My phone rings. It’s Sarina.
“Where’s the file, Chloe? I asked you to send me the whole thing today so I could work on the narrative. All I have so far is a skeleton outline and very few details and no images or video clips. I need the file tonight.”
“I know you do.”
“Where are you? At the studio? I’m coming in—”
“No. Don’t bother. I’m not sending the file. I’m not giving it to you.”
“What the—why not? What’s going on? You can’t do this—I’ll give you credit.” She pauses and I let her go on, gather herself. “I’ll give you a guest spot, bring you in for a thirty-second interview—”
Now I have mercy and stop her, “No, you don’t understand. I’m not blackmailing you for credit. I have no intentions of handing over the file to you or Henry. I won’t let it air.” There’s dead silence for a beat and then a scream.
“You have a job to do!” I keep the phone to my ear to hear her hysteria, make sure I know, get the full picture of what I’m in for. “I’ll see you’re fired if you don’t—”
She goes on, enraged, but I don’t blame her.
When she finishes, I laugh. “Don’t worry about getting me fired, Sarina.
Because I’m giving my resignation. Tonight.
” I hadn’t realized I would say this until I do.
The weight of misery lifts, but it’s replaced with fear and the odd sensation of being untethered, floating with no direction.
Who the hell am I if I’m not a sports broadcaster, a reporter, the daughter of Oscar the Mouth Smith? His darling little girl, Smitty?
You’re my little girl. I hear my mother’s and grandmother’s voices but they don’t comfort me. I want to be my father’s daughter. Of course, I still am, will still be a broadcaster and all those things I’ve dreamed of, worked for, strived to be—just like my father.
This is nothing but a hiccup along the way.
He’d said the same words to me when he’d been fired once when I was nine.
I didn’t know what it meant back then, to be fired, to have that rug pulled from under your life and your dreams, but I know now he must have been terrified.
In true Oscar Smith form, he never let on.
Working quickly, I delete the files from my computer and the shared file system, wiping it clean because I know how.
Dad had had one of his IT friends tutor him and me in hiding evidence a while back and I’ve kept up to date ever since, understanding the value in the ability to defeat forensic computer investigations and file recovery.
Knew I’d need it someday. Someday is today.
Gathering up the files and zip drives, I grab my bag and sweep the rest of the paraphernalia that’s mine on the desk into it.
Taking one last look around, I breathe in the air, push my eyes past the studio set to the exit where I head now.
Hitting the stairs, I concentrate on the sound of my heels clicking as I make my escape.
Fully aware that Henry can claim all the information I’ve gathered belongs to the station because I was on the job, and that he can sue me and make life otherwise difficult, I can’t help the shaking of my hand as I grip the stair rail at the bottom and pause.
It wouldn’t take long for Henry and Sarina and whoever my replacement is to piece the story back together and run the show and I can’t stop them from doing that. But fuck if I’m going to be part of it.
I can’t let them run my story, can’t be guilty of a monumental betrayal.
This mean starting over. So what? If I have to start at the very bottom again, I will.
I’ll do freelance print reporting if I have to.
I’ll turn into a pathetic vlogger and scrape together an audience from the Internet masses if need be.
Not the station nor Henry will stop me from my ultimate dream.
As I get into my car, I wonder if they have any openings at Barstool Sports, the popular online sports news outlet and podcast, and laugh out loud as I toss my file and bag onto the passenger seat and slam the door.
I need to call Henry before Sarina does, if she hasn’t yet.
But I’m betting she’s on her way in to the studio now.
Pulling out of the garage, I tell my car’s dashboard to call Henry.
“Smitty—what the hell—?”
“I resign, Henry. As of now.”
“What the fuck is this about? What are you doing? Don’t go off the deep end about some guy—some player. They come and go, but you and I, we have staying power. I can see you going places—”
“I am going places, Henry. But not with you. Not like this. I quit and I’m taking the story with me.”
He laughs. “You can’t take the files, they’re on the hard drive.”
“I erased them.” He’s silent for a few blinks, the kind of blinks where I’m squeezing back the tears, trying to keep them from falling as I drive. Trying to keep my hands steady on the steering wheel, even while the rest of me keeps shaking.
“You can’t know how to do that.”
“Think again. You know me better than that. Dad prepared me for every eventuality in this business. First and foremost, how to protect the work.”
“You—”
“I gotta go Henry,” I say, because it sounds a lot like his next sentence is going to be a threat.
“Before either of us says things to ruin a perfectly good niece and uncle relationship.” That quiets him.
I end the call, damning hands-free technology because I don’t even have a phone in my hand to throw as I sit at a stoplight.
Without realizing it, I’m driving to East Boston. To Tate’s house. I need him. I don’t know what we have or don’t have, but I need whatever it is right now.
I need this one last untroubled night with him before I confess my sins, before I’m forced to wait for his forgiveness because I know he’ll give it. After all, I pulled the plug myself, didn’t I?
He has to forgive me. Because I’m falling in love with him.
When I get to his underground garage, I realize I can’t get up to his floor on the elevator without a key card, so I call him.
“I’m here. I need to see you,” I say.
“I’ll be right down.” He ends the call. No questions asked.
No doubt. No hesitation. I swipe at my eyes and squeeze them shut, demanding of myself that I not shed another tear, not in his company.
I want this one last night with him before I tell him.
Because I know, my screaming heart knows, that this could be our last night.
The elevator door opens and I rush into his arms, knocking him against the back of the elevator. When his arms close around me, wrapping me tight and he whispers something soothing into my hair as I bury my face in his chest, the anxious part of me calms. And the rest of me gets all excited.
But he has to know something is wrong and I don’t want to tell him what it is.
He presses the button to move the elevator.
“Chloe, what is it? You act like someone’s chasing you.”
“No, nothing. I’m fine. Stress at work.” I take a breath before I say my next words, but I’ll tell him the truth tomorrow. “I miss my father.”
He strokes my hair and holds me tighter and I push past my flaring conscience to let his comfort get to me.
It’s so late and I’ve clearly gotten him from bed. Backing up, I look at his messed hair.
“Were you asleep?”
He smirks, but the tenderness doesn’t leave his expression.
“For hours. But it doesn’t matter. Because I’m wide awake now.
” He’s shirtless and wearing worn-out sweats and no shoes.
My chest tightens and a well of strong emotion rushes through me knowing he’s charged to my rescue from a dead sleep.
He pulls me back into him as the elevator doors open and he takes me back to his bed.
All the pent-up energy in me, the tension, coalesces and regroups into passion and lands between my legs.
I can feel my juices flowing as I lie on the sheets still warm from his body.
Watching him slip off his sweats, I lick my lips at the glorious sight of him, all rippled muscle and hard protruding cock pointing in my direction. Kicking off my shoes, I sit up and shimmy out of my dress.
“Now this is what I call a dream come true,” he says. “You can call me in the middle of the night anytime.” He comes to me and helps me out of my bra and panties, then gingerly lies next to me. There’s a gel patch on his back and I’m reminded that he’s still not over his injury.
Kneeling up, I straddle him without prompting or warning, reveling in the hot feel of his cock under my pussy and I can’t help moving back and forth rubbing myself against him.
“Jesus,” he says. “You are a sight.” Reaching up, he palms my breasts, circling his rough hands over my nipples as I rock.
“You feel so good, babe.” His voice is gruff and I can feel his muscles tense and his cock swell.
“We’re just getting started.” I lift off him and take his cock in my hand, caress the length of him, making it jump.
He squeezes my nipples, moves his hands to cup my ass, then slips his finger around to my pussy and strokes.
He brings his fingers up to his nose and breathes in, then puts them in his mouth, sucking and licking my taste from them.
“You don’t know what a turn-on you are,” I say, breathy, and moving my hips to rub my clit against his balls while I still hold his cock, squeezing and playing with it, feeling the silky tip for precum.