Matteo (3 page)

Chapter 4

I lean back in my swiveling chair and chew distractedly on the fingernail of my thumb as I stare out of the floor-to-ceiling glass wall that allows me an unrestricted view of the small but modern open-concept newsroom. A dozen or so workers are milling around, putting together the stories that will go up on our blog over the next few hours.

My best editor sits cross-legged on a beanbag tucked against a wall, tapping way on his laptop. A trio of freelance photographers are huddled around my graphic designer’s desk pairing up images with stories coming down the pipeline. The two new interns are off in the kitchenette stuffing their faces with doughnut holes like they’re going out of style.

This may not look like your traditional newsroom, but we’re damn good at what we do and New York City is finally starting to take notice.

So, I’m still furious. How dare Matteo Moretti downplay the business that I’ve spent the last three years building? I may not be a lawyer but I’ve worked hard nonetheless and built up something valuable. It’s been tough but we’re finally starting to get the results we’ve been striving for.

Just three years ago, this blog was nothing but me working late nights out of my dorm room while I slogged towards my degree in journalism. Today, I have five full-time employees and work with dozens of freelancers. Our website gets hundreds of thousands of hits per month and our newsletter subscribership is growing daily. Our experimental print-run last year was lucrative enough that I’ve begun seriously considering whether permanently offering a print-version of our blog is a smart move.

The
New York Flame
is dedicated to exposing the dirty, little secrets of the city’s socialites and influencers. And we’re damned good at what we do…wait, I already said that.

But it’s true.

I’m proud of what I’ve built. The
New York Flame
is a success. And if Matteo Moretti wants to underestimate me, he’s the fool.

I’m pulled out of my reverie when I notice Dove – dirty blond dreadlocks hanging down her back and red canvas sneakers casing her feet – as she approaches my office. She holds a plastic-wrapped sandwich in each hand.

“Pulled pork?” she says brandishing the sandwich in her left hand, “or beef brisket?” she waves around the sandwich in her right hand.

“Beef brisket,” I say with a small smile, reaching for the sandwich. I can never turn down anything that comes out of that woman’s kitchen. She’s an amazing cook. “Thanks. I’m starving.” I unwrap it and take a greedy bite.

“Forgot to eat again, huh?” she says as she sinks into the modern plastic chair opposite my glass-top desk. She eyes my outfit suspiciously. Usually, I wear jeans and a stylish blouse to the office, but I came into work straight from my meeting at Cartwright Moretti Stevenson, so I’m a bit overdressed in my blue shift dress and my 4-inch heels.

“Yeah – I was in a rush this morning,” I say as I reach over to the far corner of my desk and grab two bottles of water. I slide one across the desk to Dove. “Had a personal appointment.” The look on her face tells me that she’s curious to know more but she won’t ask. Although Dove is the closest thing I have to a friend, we still keep the requisite professional distance from each other. I’m her boss and I don’t want her to get comfortable enough to forget that. Our Monday morning meetings sometimes dip a toe into girl-talk territory, but not too much. She knows that I have things that I guard close to the chest and so does she. Unless a matter is work-related, it’s pretty much ‘don’t ask, don’t tell’ between us.

She and I make a good team. I’m the blog’s editor-in-chief. I also oversee operations and manage the office. I’m also not afraid to roll my sleeves up and do some good old-fashioned reporting when the occasion arises. But, lately I’ve been too busy with the business aspect of running the blog to get any writing done. Dove, for her part, is my chief financial officer and she’s also responsible for our marketing and human resources. The
New York Flame
is a small publication so she and I both wear multiple hats. We’ve talked about hiring someone else to manage marketing but despite our recent successes, I won’t allow us to splurge on unnecessary expenses.

“You’ve gotta remember to take care of yourself, doll,” she says to me with a sympathetic look in her eyes. I’m a workaholic and she knows it.

I scrunch up my nose. “I’m trying,” I say unconvincingly as I grab my smartphone off of my desk and distractedly type out a quick text message to my mother. I haven’t heard from her in a few days and I can’t help but wonder what corner of the world she’s off exploring right now.

Dove shakes her head at me before changing the subject. “So, the
WSJ
website just picked up that story we posted yesterday about those NuVoTron Mobile executives who blew half-million on a wild weekend in Vegas,” Dove says wearing a hopeful expression as she shoves a handful of her long, thick dreadlocks over her shoulder. “We’ve already seen a serious uptick in traffic on the blog over the course of the morning.” She takes a bite of her sandwich.

“That’s awesome,” I say beaming. “Do we have any other stories lined up to ride the wave of traffic?”

She opens a manila folder and plops a few sheets of paper onto my desk. “They’ve all been verified. We have quotes. Sources. We’re just waiting on your approval, boss,” she says with a wink before biting into her sandwich again.

I shuffle through the proposed stories and select the four with the most potential to go viral. “These,” I say handing them to her and tossing the rest into recycle bin under my desk. Unlike our competitors, we value quality over quantity. I won’t post a story just for the sake of volume. I need to be fairly certain that our stories are, not only interesting, but also accurate. Do we make mistakes? Do erroneous stories slip through the cracks? Occasionally. But if you read a story on the
New York Flame
, more likely than not, it’s accurate.

“Great – we’ll get these stories up on the blog right away.” Dove wraps up the rest of her sandwich and eases out of her seat.

“Anything else I should know about?” I ask before taking a huge gulp of water.

“Umm…” she glances briefly at the face of her smartphone. “I’m interviewing a new freelance photographer in the morning. Do you wanna sit in on the meeting?”

I shake my head. “Nah – I think you can handle that.”

She nods at me before her eyes drop back to her phone. “Also, you’re meeting the ad guy from Hampton Fresh Juices tonight for drinks. I’m sure he’s gonna make another big ad buy when you show him last quarter’s traffic numbers.”

I roll my eyes and groan. “Ugh – Lester Buntlake? I hate that guy.”

Lester is well aware that Dove does our marketing but he insists on meeting with me every quarter on the off-chance that I might someday get drunk enough to hook up with him.

Dove flicks her hand at me dismissively. “He’s a total goner for you, doll. Just look cute and bat those pretty gray eyes at him and we’ll all have our rents paid for the rest of the year.” She laughs at my annoyance.

I groan. “I hate you…but you’re right.”

Chapter 5

“Hey. Sorry I’m late,” Domenic mumbles as he slips into the leather-upholstered armchair across from me.

“No problem, man,” I say nonchalantly taking a long swallow of my scotch before lifting my empty glass in the air to catch the cocktail waitress’s attention. My eyes survey her as I speak to Domenic. She’s wearing a little black skirt that’s dangerously tight and her tits are about to spill over the low neckline of her stretchy white top. “What the hell is going on with you and my sister? I met her for lunch today and she was falling apart. Some gossip column is reporting that you’re about to call off the wedding.”

Domenic looks at me and shakes his head, frustration wrinkling his face. “I told her to just ignore that rag. Me and Madison have never been better. I can’t wait to make that woman my wife.”

Domenic and Madison, got engaged a few months ago. They’d been friends their whole lives, so when they started dating last year, it took everyone by surprise but they’re in love. It shows. It’s almost nauseating. The wedding is just around the corner. So, I’m relieved to hear that all is well in paradise.

“I told her to stop fussing over those tabloids. You wouldn’t leave her. You know that I would kill you if you did.”

Although there isn’t a single note of humor in my tone, Domenic chuckles. “You don’t have to threaten me, man. I wouldn’t dream of leaving her. My life is nothing without Maddie in it.”

I finally get the cocktail waitress to bring her provocatively-clad ass over to our table and get me a second scotch. Domenic orders a gin and tonic.

He looks nervous as he shoves his hand through his curly blond hair. He leans forward and drops his voice to a whisper. “But, she wants a baby, man.”

“
What
?” My fist slams into the table and I jerk backwards in my comfortable leather chair as I laugh. “Maddie wants a baby? You guys aren’t even married yet and she’s already pressuring you for kids!”

“That’s what
I’m
thinking,” Domenic says with pure anxiety in his blue eyes. “I
do
want to have a family with Madison. She’s the woman of my dreams. But, between our law careers, her ballet studio and my rugby contract, I just don’t think we have the time. Besides, at this point, I just want to get married to her. I want to have fun without having to be responsible for another human being. Is that selfish of me?”

“No, that’s definitely not selfish. Having a kid is a big deal. Maddie needs to understand that.” The waitress approaches and places my drink in front of me. I give her a generous smile and she grins down at me. I watch her deliberately lean forward, displaying her ass to me as she places Domenic’s drink in front of him. She throws me a wink over her shoulder.

She’s…
adequate
.

Long brown hair to curl my fingers into. Slender waist to grip firmly as I fuck her from behind. Tempting cleavage that my face can get lost in as she straddles my lap.

Sure – she can be the one for tonight. Why not? She seems like she’d be pretty easy to coax into bed. Plus, she’s hot in a cocktail waitress kind of way.

Just as she’s about to walk away, I reach out and grab her hand. “Sweetheart, come here for just a second.”

She bats her eyes innocently at me. “Yes?” She’s acting coy. I don’t appreciate the act. It’s phony. But whatever. Later, I’ll punish her for playing games with me.

I slide my hand into the pocket of my suit jacket and pull out the business card of the hotel where I usually take women like this, women I would never take back to my home. “I’ll be in room 1406,” I say flashing her a dimpled smile. It may be sleazy but I use those dimples as an insurance policy to make sure that I get her right where I want her.

But I’ve already sealed the deal with this one. I can tell by the way her eyes go wide and her thumb rolls over the luxurious cardstock of the business card.

“Your fuckpad?” She looks impressed – honored, actually – that I would invite her to lie in the sheets where I’ve exchanged bodily fluids with countless other women before her. I resist the urge to roll my eyes.

Some women have
such
low standards.

I crook my finger at her and she bends towards me. I run my finger along her jaw line, nudging her ear to my lips. “Gimme your pen,” I command in a soft growl before I nibble tenderly on the lobe of her ear.

She’s biting her bottom lip, cheeks flushed as she straightens up and stretches her pen towards me. I take it from her and reach for her hand again. I scribble the digits of my cellphone number on the inside of her wrist. “Call me the minute you get off of work tonight,” I whisper. “I’ll have my driver come pick you up.”

She only nods, eyes lingering on my smiling lips for a long moment. She’s already mesmerized. I can see it in her expression.  In the way she sucks on her bottom lip. The way her nipples have pebbled beneath her thin white blouse. I can tell that she doesn’t want to walk away. She wants to straddle my lap right here, right now and feel me sink into her hot, silky folds.

I want that, too.

“I’ll call you,” she says breathily as she spins slowly on her heel and walks back towards the bar.

Domenic chuckles as she leaves. “Are you ever gonna settle down, man?”

I throw him a wily glance. “Some men aren’t meant to settle down.”

My focus shifts back to the waitress. I want to see her merchandise from the back as she walks away. So, I twist around in my chair to watch her leave.

But then, someone else catches my attention. Long, wavy blond hair with electric pink ends. Soft, gray eyes. A body that makes my cock twitch every fucking time I see it.

Left. Right. Left. Right.

Ellie Parker’s hips swing dramatically as she follows the hostess to a table near the back of the restaurant. Her curvaceous body is draped in a knee-length red dress and she’s wearing sky-high heels. Her beat-up leather jacket hangs over her arm.

I feel my jaw clench and there’s a stinging in my chest as I watch her slither into a seat opposite a skinny old fuck. Receding hairline, yellow teeth and a shirt that’s three sizes too big.

She smiles at him.

And my heart stops.

What a beautiful goddamned smile. Her full lips curve dramatically and the corners of her hypnotizing eyes crinkle ever-so-slightly. She brushes a strand of loose hair out of her face and she’s glowing, even in this dimly-lit bar.

She looks like a fucking angel.

So what the hell is she doing on a date with that loser?

Wait…Am I jealous?

Nah – it can’t be…Can it?

Jealousy is definitely not my style. Besides, I’ve got that cocktail waitress hot and bothered and ready to devour my cock as soon as her shift is over. So, if Ellie Parker wants to hook up with the geriatric case over there, then it’s her prerogative and I don’t give a damn…at least that’s what I tell myself.

Domenic clears his throat to get my attention. “Matt, are you even listening to me?” My eyes dart to him as I snap back to my senses. I’d forgotten he was even here.

I nod my head distractedly at him. “Yes, yes,” I say, a note of annoyance creeping into my tone. The truth is, despite my best efforts, I’m vibrating with rage, seeing the way that old fart is looking at Ellie. Inching his chair closer to hers. Leaning in close to her ear. And she doesn’t move away.

Damn it – I think she likes him.

“So, what do you think?” Domenic tilts his head to the side, deliberately blocking my line of vision in order to draw my attention back to him and our conversation.

“Huh? What do I think about
what
?”

“Dude – what’s wrong with you? You haven’t heard a word I’ve said since that waitress walked away.”

As if on cue, the waitress reappears. “Can I get you gentlemen anything else?” she asks in a seductive voice. I wave her away with a dismissive flick of my wrist. Out of the corner of my eye, I see that she’s pouting, disappointment all over her face.

To think that I was about to fuck that broad…Her face is
barely
tolerable ever since Ellie Parker walked into the room.

Now, the old fart is putting his hands on her. I clench and unclench my fist, stomach roiling as I watch him lean in close to her. My blood boils as his fingers crawl up the exposed flesh of her thigh. I feel my shoulders tensing up at the sight of that creep’s hands on her body.

But then, she pulls back. She gives him a modest smile as she pushes his hand away. His eyes narrow and his lips move. I can’t tell what he’s saying to her. She shakes her head, more insistent this time. And despite all that, the fool has the nerve to touch her again. He puts his hand even higher on her thigh and squeezes. She gasps softly and jerks harshly out of his reach.

I’ve reached my threshold. Possessiveness roars up my spine. I can’t just sit and watch this anymore.

The sound of my chair grating against the floor rises above a momentary lull in the ambiance music filling the restaurant. All eyes in the room shift to me. “Excuse me, Domenic,” I growl as I charge towards the creep who has his hands all over Ellie Parker.