The Fall Girl Read online

  I massaged my eyes.

  Claire stroked my cheek. “Basically, this interview is the last thing you want to do.”

  “Something like that.”

  “Why’d you agree, then?”

  “Because you asked, and I know how it works. As much as I hate it, I know part of my business is giving the public what they want. I just wish it wasn’t all they wanted.”

  We lay in each other’s arms for many moments.

  Claire roused and straddled my waist. “I can’t sleep.”

  I glanced at the antique clock on the nightstand. “Can’t blame you. It’s not even nine, and after all the traveling, my body doesn’t know if it should be asleep or awake.”

  “Maybe I can help it decide.” She lowered and kissed me. Before I had the chance to deepen the kiss, she pulled away. “And these will definitely stoke your fires.” Claire hefted her newly purchased I Love New York T-shirt off, exposing her full and tantalizing girls. She flung the top over her head, and it landed on one of the leather couches in the corner of the room. “This room is almost the size of the first floor of our house.”

  Not giving another thought about the apartment, I bolted up and cupped one of her soft breasts. “How in the world can I go to sleep without saying a proper goodnight to all of you?”

  “It’d be rude; that’s for sure.” Claire peppered my neck with kisses.

  I buried my face in her cleavage, and she tossed her head back, laughing. That stopped when I took a perky nipple into my mouth, biting and sucking it. She let out a tiny gasp.

  We repositioned on the bed, so I was now on top of Claire, exploring her skin with my tongue, taking my time. We’d already kicked the ruby comforter and satin top sheet onto the bench at the foot of the bed. The air conditioning was kicked into full blast to combat the sweltering nighttime midsummer humidity. Claire’s skin, already pink, was tingling even more with anticipation. It’d been many days since we’d had any privacy.

  My hands slid up and down her body, while she pulled my mouth to hers, keen to taste how much I craved making love to her. Not wanting to break apart from her eager tongue, my fingers slid under her panties, parting her slick lips.

  Claire’s breath hitched.

  I eased two fingers into her warmth, not thrusting much. Not yet. Sometimes the simple act of being inside her brought forth a flood of emotions that bound us closer each time. We continued to kiss, the passion rapidly ticking upward, our bodies pressing into each other.

  When she dug her head into the crisp down pillow, sinking so deep the sides engulfed her face, I knew that was the signal for me to begin my trek down. My mouth left a trail that spurred goose bumps on Claire’s skin, even if the forecast for the night was for temps in the mid-eighties.

  I arrived at her pubic hair, enjoying the way its coarseness scraped my lips and chin. Claire had mentioned once it would be better for me if she waxed, but I’d talked her out of it. If I had it my way, I wouldn’t let her trim it at all, knowing such wildness was exclusively for me. But she insisted on a clean bikini line, and given we took Ian swimming most weekends, I couldn’t argue. Being the mom with the unsightly pubes at the poolside was a social no-no.

  I loved raking my fingers and teeth through it. Oftentimes, while both of us were sound asleep, I would slip my hand inside her panties and rest my fingers on the mound of hair, claiming possession in an archaic manner, not that Claire minded. In fact, I think she thought it was hot. Even in my sleep I needed to feel her.

  I stripped her free from her panties. She writhed underneath me, her breathing becoming more audible. I inhaled Claire’s heady scent, the aroma increasing in strength as I buried my face into her wetness. My tongue replaced my fingers inside so I could swallow her desire more fully.

  Claire’s lower body thrashed now, the bed creaking in protest, making it more difficult to taste her, but the way she moved increased my wanting, which in turn amplified her needs. She fisted the short hair on the back of my head, another way of telling me it was time.

  My tongue flicked her clit while I drove three fingers deep inside. Claire’s hips jumped off the bed, a move I’d been anticipating from our past lovemaking experiences. Claire wasn’t the type to lie still while I did what I wanted. She was an active participant, making me work hard for her satisfaction, and I cherished her even more for it.

  My past experiences with women, of which there had been too many, had been adequate, but only on the physical level. With Claire, and only Claire, I had the best of all worlds.

  There was something so fucking hot knowing the woman I was making love to wanted to be fucked hard. Not made love to mildly, but to be gratified each time like it could possibly be the last, ensuring neither of us ever held back. I wanted to prove without a doubt how much being between her legs and penetrating deep inside meant. There were no half measures when it came to Claire. It was all or nothing, and Jesus, a woman like her made me want to outshine each preceding performance, even if my body was crazed with jet lag.

  “Please, don’t stop.”

  My tongue circled her clit while my fingers plunged in and out. Every muscle in my body was in tandem, guaranteeing the experience would rock Claire’s body and soul.

  I delved deep for a new reserve of energy. My tongue refused to cramp, let alone slow down. My fingers sunk further and further inside. Her body jerked and gyrated, welcoming my efforts by bringing her own A game to the mind-blowing end.

  Claire’s back arched, and her body shuddered, ushering in a satisfied holy shit moan and ragged breaths. It continued for several seconds, while I exerted one final spurt of energy to bring her home.

  Her body collapsed back onto the bed, with me on top, our perspiration comingling. She wrapped her arms around me, not turned off by my skin that was probably sticky hot to the touch. The more worked up I got, the more it turned her on. Not just tonight, but each time, building an unbreakable bond between the two of us. The smell of sweat and sex clung to the air, and I couldn’t stop from guzzling in the potent aroma as if my life depended on it. On Claire, our closeness.

  “Now that’s how to say a proper goodnight and I love you all rolled into one.” She laughed quietly as if the sound would break the spell. At the moment, all seemed right in the world. No money worries, publishing deadlines, a business on the precipice of collapse, or constant fear of the public turning on me once again. Deep down, I think Claire detected the fears. She wrapped me in her arms, as if warding off the thoughts with the power of her love and belief in me.

  Chapter Three

  The lights in the TV studio were brighter than I would have liked. Claire and I sat on a curved burnt orange microfiber sofa on the Welcome the New Day set with Tish Reynolds on the opposite side. The concept behind the morning show was a mash-up of all successful markets haphazardly crammed into two hours. Tish usually handled the soft feature stories.

  The circular rug with black and white geometric shapes and a modest floral arrangement on the glass table did not put me at ease. Far from it. Reynolds wasn’t as formidable as Barbara Walters for the simple reason she hadn’t been in the business for half a century, grilling people like me about their past sins. She had five years under her belt, but I suspected Tish was solely a pretty face with a can-do attitude. The producers behind the scenes were the likely reason for her success. However, this was my first interaction with her. Even during the height of the Miracle Girl hoopla, the interviewer and her team wouldn’t give me the time of day. Relieved back then not to have to appear on her show, I’d never given the rebuff much thought.

  Until now. For the most part, everyone in the media had clamored for my attention, especially considering the scandals included. Why hadn’t the hungry Tish Reynolds? What was the motive to wait so long to get me on her couch?

  Was I being set up?

  I eyed the perky blonde.

  Paranoid much, JJ?

  “First off, I hear congratulations ar
e in order. When’s the big day?” Tish tilted her head, making it appear that the heavily hair-sprayed do was too much for the empty-headed woman.

  I didn’t trust her innocent eyes or warm smile. How could I, knowing all too well the pressure of drafting sledgehammer headlines about sensational scandals to get people’s interest in a scoop? Watergate, Monica Lewinsky, and Abu Ghraib prison abuse, to name a few, impacted reporters, young and old, and many sought the next “Holy shit!” story, as Woodward liked to call it.

  Most interviewers pretended to be sweet with open, smiling faces and soft voices. Then bam! Like the time one trotted out an alleged ex who claimed I turned her into a meth head. Worse, I couldn’t remember the woman’s name or how long we’d dated, if we in fact had. Granted, back when I was strung out I had way too many one-night stands and flings that meant nothing to me and never took root in my memory bank. However, meth was never my go-to, leading me to believe the woman in question was simply a publicity hound.

  Of course, Matthews Daily Dish had recently experienced a flood of attention from our own sledgehammer headline: “Stan the Fancy Pants Man.”

  I was the face of the company, after all. The online site was a play on the names Cora Matthews and JJ Cavendish. Publicity of all types was an unavoidable evil for any start-up digital media company, and any news, including getting engaged, was for public consumption. A factor I foolishly hadn’t considered when I popped the question. It wouldn’t have changed my mind, but I may have kept the engagement a secret while the two of us adjusted to the change in our lives.

  “Thank you, Tish.” Claire smiled at me, love etched in every crevice of her expression. “It was an awesome experience—JJ proposing on the summit of Mount Kinabalu at sunrise.”

  “It’s only fitting for someone of JJ’s stature—”

  I cut Tish off with a fuck you smile. “Are you making a crack about my height?”

  Tish emitted a laugh people like her reserved for when they were on camera. She placed a palm over where her heart would be if she had one. “I would never stoop so low. Never in a million years. I only meant for someone who got her start and became a household name by traveling the world. A proposal that didn’t consist of a life and death adventure wouldn’t fit the likes of you.” She blatantly winked at me like a woman who thought we could be friends. In this cutthroat business, where journalists, interviewers, and bloggers guarded their stories as if protecting their own children from a pack of wolves, there were no friendships.

  The way her tongue had savored the words likes of you made me uneasy. Discussing my accomplishments, such as obtaining a master’s in journalism from Columbia and an MBA from Harvard, or starting up my own business, were about as effective as selling turd pancakes at a church social. No one was buying. The drug and alcohol period of my life was the tasty morsel that stuck in people’s minds. I could singlehandedly save an entire orphanage from a burning building and the headline would read: “Reformed Drug Addict Pulls Off Miracle.” Cora was constantly thinking of ways to spin my past to propel MDD. I wasn’t completely unwilling to go along, although at moments like this when Claire was at my side, it was more difficult to swallow my pride for the sake of my livelihood.

  Part of me believed I’d never be able to overcome people’s perception of “once an addict, always an addict.” As if they waited with bated breath for me to take a wrong step so they could say, “I knew it was only a matter of time until she’d fuck up again.”

  Claire, aware of my gut instinct not to trust Tish, grinned foolishly for the both of us. “I’m surprised I didn’t guess it beforehand, thinking back on it now. All that was on my mind was not falling off the mountain.” She forced a laugh and laced her fingers through mine, staring into my face with a furtive look pleading with me to grin and bear it for a few more minutes.

  Tish stooped forward, again making me wonder how her pile of hair didn’t snap her neck clean off. “So you didn’t have an inkling JJ was planning to pop the question?”

  “Not a clue.” Claire responded too easily, swiveling her face back to the host, unaware of the gotcha glint in Tish’s eyes.

  Tish retreated against the back of the couch, folding her hands in her lap. “Well, I guess that means she’s still good at keeping secrets. Old habits and all.”

  I sucked in some air. It was only a matter of seconds before she entered—cue scary music—the Miracle Girl zone.

  “Tell me, Claire, do you worry you can’t trust JJ completely, one hundred percent of the time? Her past. The addictions.” Tish’s voice was soothing in an effort to trap Claire into believing Tish was her best friend, not a TV personality in front of several cameras angling for the best sound bite to be looped on other news sources, social media, and blogs.

  “Sheesh! That’s a loaded question.” Claire tittered, the way she did when she thought someone was an asshole but couldn’t outright say. She shifted in her seat. “How many people do you trust one hundred percent of the time?”

  Tish grinned as if about to get an exclusive. In today’s media meat grinder business, such a coup was the equivalent of hitting the million-dollar lotto jackpot. Snag one and executives would fawn all over you for as long as the story continued to capture the public’s attention. An elephant’s fart had more staying power. The next big exposé wiped away all traces, ensuring glory hounds like Tish Reynolds would keep digging to uncover even more dirt, true or not. Their reputations, not to mention their paychecks, depended on it. And as an addict, I was qualified to say snaring scoops was a high that demanded being fed.

  Cora and I were pros when it came to hunting stories that grabbed the public’s attention, although we struggled with the balance between newsworthy stories and features about frivolous celebrity drivel. It was impossible and frankly bad business to cram what we deemed important down the public’s throat. What plagued me was how to make news entertaining without focusing solely on the sensational aspects. Even Woodward and Bernstein’s Watergate source was nicknamed Deep Throat.

  Claire continued, “I, for one, after working in the newspaper business all my adult life, can state without any reservation I don’t trust anyone completely. Except for JJ, of course.” She gripped my hand a little too tightly as if the firmer she crushed my fingers into submission the truer her words.

  The sneer on Tish’s face tightened into a malicious one. Her eyes communicated, You cunt, but she said, “Of course you do. Why else would you agree to marry JJ?” Tish hesitated, and I sensed someone was whispering in her earpiece. “JJ, have you let Janie, your ex, know you’re engaged to Claire?”

  The question caught me off guard. Claire’s fingers clamped down on mine like a python going for the kill.

  “Excuse me?” I said in an obvious effort to stall for time.

  “Did you call her personally to tell her you’re engaged to Claire? If I were her, I’d want to hear it from the horse’s mouth.”

  I associated the question, and Tish, with a different part of the horse. “I haven’t seen or spoken to Janie since she tried to blackmail me.”

  Claire swallowed.

  “So you two haven’t mended fences, even after you settled the score?”

  I blinked. “I’m not following.”

  Tish’s tongue slid along her lips, reptilian-like. “You weren’t very kind to Janie in your book.” A copy of my memoir, which had been sitting on the coffee table, appeared in her hands. She flipped it open to a dog-eared page and recited, “‘That woman was the worst of the worst. Not in all my years have I met someone who would stoop so low as to invading the sanctity of an AA meeting to dig up dirt about me and to pretend to be an alcoholic to gain my trust. If I never saw Janie again, it would be too soon.’”

  I snorted, but Claire jumped in to save me from saying something I’d regret. “JJ wrote the memoir while the wound was still fresh.”

  “That may be, but Janie hasn’t appeared in public since the book’s publication. There was
an article just the other day how her house was deserted and no one has seen her. Not even her family. Considering she attempted to blackmail you, it seems odd she isn’t trying to cash in on the publicity. Even bad publicity can be profitable.”

  My first thought was good riddance. My second was why hadn’t Cora or I considered that? Was Janie waiting in the wings for the perfect moment? I softened my stiff upper body, but I didn’t trust myself to speak, knowing I couldn’t pull off sincere concern.

  “Do you feel guilty?” Tish asked.

  My mind switched into protective mode. “It’s regrettable that others got caught up in the whole Miracle Girl storm. However, she had been hired by a politician with the mission to blackmail me so the media company I worked for would endorse him for president. In my book, I came clean about my past and the mistakes I made. Maybe it’s time for Janie to come clean about her own transgressions and poor decisions.”

  “Would you publish her apology on Matthew’s Daily Dish?” Tish fluttered her lashes excessively.

  I tasted bile but managed to spit out, “Of course.”

  Tish turned to the camera. “Hear that, Janie Evans? JJ Cavendish wants to talk.”

  I was about to set the record straight, but Claire tapped my thigh to shut me up.

  “And what about Stanly Flynn? Do you think you owe the politician an apology?”

  Was I on some type of apology tour? I steadied my breathing and waited three seconds before replying. “Not one bit. I think he’s the one who should be apologizing. For years, Mr. Flynn has railed against same-sex marriage. He’s advocated redirecting money used for AIDS research to fund going straight conversion therapies. In every photo op, he stood smiling with his wife and two daughters, and for two decades he had a male lover.”

  “Was it necessary to bring his underwear choice into the dialogue?”

  Again, I rued the title “Stan the Fancy Pants Man” because of his proclivity to wear sexy woman’s lingerie when speaking publicly. “Considering he’s against rights for transgendered people, yes, I think the observation has merit.”