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Chapter 12
Saffi
I’d stumbled onto something big.
No, not big. Monumental.
My story would shake the city. I’d no longer have to accept crummy little assignments—well, not all of them, anyway. They’d entrust me with good, high profile work, and with the chance to prove myself over and over. People would ask my opinion. They’d listen to what I had to say.
But as soon as I was handed the usual list of Chinese food to pick up for the office, I realized my dream was still a ways off.
Ugh.
I went to the Chinese place so often they knew me by name. How sucky was that? Saffi Bartlett belonged on the byline of a brilliant piece of journalism, not a hand-written receipt from a takeout restaurant.
Trudging back to the office with multiple plastic bags, I struggled to hold my head up. It wasn’t easy to do when one smelled of fried wontons and sweet and sour pork.
“Saff. Yo, thanks for flying. I’m starved.” Tom snatched a bag from my hand and emptied its contents onto the break room lunch table. Chopsticks and fortune cookies clattered to the floor.
Jerk.
“Yeah. You’re welcome.” I sat next to him. I was hungry, too.
“Geez, Saff,” he said, diving into his noodles. “Why so glum?” He tried to hook some of his lo mein with his chopsticks, but the slippery noodles slithered right out of them and landed on the grimy table.
“I don’t know. I guess it’s the job.”
This was part of my ploy, to tell no one about the story until the last minute, with the exception of Ed. That would guarantee maximum impact at the paper. They’d all be blown away by my investigative skill and writing talent.
I pictured for a moment how great it would be for someone else to get the damn Chinese food my coworkers seemed unable to live without.
Seriously. How much lo mein can a person eat?
“Oh, Saff.”
Why did that douchebag have to keep calling me that? At one time, I’d thought it cute. Now it was annoying as hell.
“You know,” he said, leaning toward me as if in confidence. “Some people are meant to do the serious work. And some people are meant to support us.”
Oh, hell no.
“Excuse me?” I leaned back toward him, just inches from his nose.
His head snapped back. “Oh, Saff,” he said with a weak laugh. “I was just kidding. You know me.”
“Yeah,” I said with a fury that surprised us both. “You’d better be fucking kidding.” I grabbed a container of moo shu pork and returned to my desk before I lost control and dumped the slimy goo over his head.
* * *
Happy hour lasted till six p.m., and with just a few minutes left I ordered another beer. I was waiting on my perpetually late best friend, Nelle. She normally arrived when I was on my first drink. But I since I was into beer number two and wondering where the hell she was, I pulled out my phone to track her down.
And to my surprise, there was a text from my new Club Silk friend.
G.
I saved it for later.
I had to get back to Club Silk, and soon. There was no way around it, not that I minded; I’d only just started gathering information, although I sure as hell hadn’t planned on hooking up with anyone, especially not my first night there. On the other hand, if I just kept showing up without ever playing with anyone, well, that wasn’t going to help me fit in at all.
I had to figure out what to do about G, and sooner rather than later. He’d be there when I went back. Plus, he was sexy as hell even if he did wear that damn mask.
A hand fell on my shoulder, startling the crap out of me.
“Geez,” Nelle said, out of breath and flustered. “Why’re you so jumpy? Relax.”
I waved for the bartender.
“Hey there. You made it just in time.” I ordered her a beer with seconds left in happy hour.
“I haven’t seen you in ages,” she said, getting situated on her barstool. “How’s things at the paper?”
“I’m liking it better. I mean, I think I’m going to be getting more challenging work.”
Nelle’s face brightened. “No kidding! Tell me.”
I opened my mouth to tell Nelle everything, but I stopped. No doubt she could deal with it but…way too soon. I didn’t want to answer a bunch of questions that I probably wouldn’t have answers for, anyway.
So I fibbed. “Well, there’s nothing in particular to tell yet. It’s just a feeling. I think my editor is listening to me more.”
Who wouldn’t listen to a story about a freaking sex club?
