What We Give Away (Bold Journeys #4)
1. Chapter One
Chapter 1
Leslie
M y four-inch heels echoed off the shadowy Manhattan sidewalk, the lonely sound reverberating off the glassy skyscraper ahead. Tugging down the miniskirt barely covering my ass sent my handbag sliding off my shoulder. The bag too small for my laptop. Hence my 11:00 p.m. detour to our co-working space in my streetwalker garb.
How do women wear these?
Every muscle in my weary body ached from hours of standing, especially the balls of my feet. But blending in was the only way to get close to informants at the heart of my sex trade articles without raising suspicion.
After following their lives for nearly a year, I’d grown attached to these women. Online commenters cried for updates. So I allowed myself one last check-in to say goodbye before putting this story behind me. Being a journalist meant there was always another story waiting, all impatient, and tapping her foot. But no such story had inspired me, and sitting in my empty apartment got old fast.
I pushed through the building’s revolving door, the lobby warmth chasing away late May’s chill. I rubbed my arms as my shoes clacked on the marble floors.
Chuck, the night security guard, glanced up from where he sat reading the New York Daily News . He smirked, shaking his head. “Evening, Miss Allen.”
“Chuck.” I nodded hello. He’d long since gotten used to the crazy getups I wore to chase stories. Besides hooker garb, there were the tight dresses and wig disguises essential for getting close to organized crime bosses. Sometimes tattered jeans and vests, a bandanna, and fake tattoos for biker gangs. Even a suit and skirt when skulking around City Hall. The guard rarely stopped me, except when I disguised myself as a man and he didn’t recognize me. Tonight I sailed through to the waiting elevator and pressed 47.
When the doors closed, the car’s polished chrome interior left me alone with my reflection. Ignoring the microscopic miniskirt, halter top, and fishnets, my eyes sought that stubborn bulge of skin where my waistband pinched. The bump of flesh marred the otherwise smooth contour from my abdomen to my ribcage. No matter how I sacrificed, skipped meals, and suffered through juice cleanses and sit-ups, that annoying mound reappeared above every waistband without fail. It tormented me almost as much as the loudmouthed reporters upstairs were about to.
I sucked in my gut as the pressure from the slowing elevator forced my legs to flex. The balls of my feet screamed bloody murder, but I slapped on a game face to run the heckle gauntlet ahead.
Showtime.
The doors opened into our co-working space, a huge bullpen of desks separated by cubicle dividers, barely high enough to prevent people from seeing their neighbor’s keyboard. Everything else stared back at you. The shitty seating plan forced many of us to stalk the office at night for privacy. Though all journalists, we worked at a menagerie of publications. Lucky me sat next to the poor slobs writing for tawdry men’s magazines. Their patrons were the ones keeping the women I just visited selling their bodies on dark street corners.
“Yo, yo, yo! Check out what Allen’s got on tonight!” Tony, the loudmouth, clapped, rubbing his palms together with eager anticipation.
Justin clawed at the air like a cat. “Rawrah! You’re one tasty piece of—”
“Watch it!” I yelled back.
“I’m on deadline,” he continued. “But can definitely squeeze you into my calendar!”
As if he had the stones…
I made my way to my desk, ignoring their hoots and whistles. Unlocking the drawer, I grabbed my sweatshirt and slid it over my head to a chorus of boos.
“Now why’d you go do that?” Tony yelled. “Ruined my view!”
“I can’t believe you wear that out in public, but thank you!” Justin slapped his palms together, praying to whatever god would have a brute like him.
“Hey,” Vince said. “Imagine that tub of lard, Victoria, in a getup like that?”
Vince laughed so hard his own rolls jiggled. The other two joined in an escalating round of insults at Victoria’s expense.
What idiots.
Victoria Cooper Rawley had more reporter chops than the three of them put together. While they wrote about bustlines, Victoria made headlines. She was the reason two corrupt New York City mayors had to resign. Once exposed, they had no choice. She owned politics in this town and had for decades. Victoria had a steady gig at a local TV network and published noteworthy articles on the side. It was a career path I emulated. As I surveyed my fishnet-clad legs, ripples of shame washed over me. She would never be caught dead in the outfits I wore chasing stories.
But my approach helped me get close to sources others wouldn’t attempt and invest fully in the people at the heart of my stories. Walking in their shoes helped me better empathize with their struggles. I infused that passion into my writing. It was a delicious high that kept me going all day. Exposing ugly truths alongside the despicable people who lined their pockets by letting corruption flourish. Meanwhile, innocents suffered. While I wasn’t at Victoria’s level, my trophy case proved I was doing something right. Unlike the hyenas, who continued catcalling me over my head.
I slammed my desk drawer and stood up to block their line of sight. “Will you jokers fucking shut up? Christ, if one of you got laid once in a while, you might have a whiff of self-control. God, you’re pathetic.”
Vince’s face fell. “No need to get bitchy, Allen. We’re just appreciating your… ASS-ets.”
They broke into rolling laughter.
“Is that what you call it? Appreciation? It’s as lame as your circulation.”
“Ding!” Tony yelled between gulps of air. “You’ve been KO’d by a skinny broad dressed as a hooker!”
“Dumb cow,” Vince muttered under his breath, tossing a half-eaten sandwich into the trash can we shared.
Turkey, cheese, lettuce, tomato, loosely wrapped in white wax paper . My stomach knotted at the sight. The tang of the vinegar dressing assaulted my senses, causing my stomach to churn. I grabbed a bottle of water out of my desk drawer, chugging it until familiar fullness quieted my hunger pangs. I then dropped into my chair and swiveled away to swap shoes. My feet moaned in relief. The faster I slipped on my sneakers, the quicker I’d escape these assholes.
My phone chirped from within my purse as it came off Do Not Disturb mode.
Fishing for it, I found a series of text notifications on my lock screen. A message from my editor, Viraj, and another from the host of The Kaelen Reed Show . Reed was number one in prime time news and an insufferable jackass. You’d never know it to look at him, and I certainly hadn’t before we’d briefly dated. The man’s ego could barely fit in the enormous studio where we taped his nightly show. My recurring panelist spot meant I got to see the real man up close, usually at least once a week. A glutton for punishment, he still harbored hopes we’d be a “we.” But I had no intention of letting that happen.
I tapped open my messages.