Jameson
“I had to go,” she stammers.
“Why?”
“I needed to be at work early.”
“You didn’t think to wake me?” I snap. “You piss me off.”
“Don’t start your righteous shit with me. I’ll leave when I fucking want to.” The phone goes dead.
I inhale sharply; nobody hangs up on me.
Nobody.
I clench my jaw and throw my phone onto the couch. This woman is fucking infuriating.
I walk into my office, open my laptop, and log in to my security footage. I take a seat as I wait for it to load. An image of my front door comes up, and I hit rewind and watch as it goes back in fast-forward. I catch sight of her leaving, and I stop the film. What time was it?
It was 3:58 a. m. She had to go to work early? Bullshit.
She waited for me to fall asleep and then immediately left. I sit back in my chair as my anger escalates.
“I don’t know what the fuck you’re playing at, Emily Foster, but I won’t have it. If you’re with me, you’re with me. And you’ll do as I fucking say.”
I slam my computer shut and storm upstairs.
She’s looking for a fight. She just found one.
An hour later, I walk through the foyer of my building and out to my car. “Good morning, Mr. Miles.” Alan smiles as he opens the door of my limo.
“Morning,” I say as I get in.
The usual pile of newspapers is on the seat, along with my coffee, and I begin my morning ritual. It takes us forty minutes to drive the thirteen miles to my building, so I use this time to keep track of our competitors. I flick through the pile and pick up the Gazette, our closest competitor, and I scan the front page.
“Their formatting is appalling,” I mutter under my breath as I flick it open. I read page one and two, and then I get to page three.
Breaking News
The NYPD has closed in on a top-secret investigation.
The murder was originally attributed to a man police had nicknamed Stoneface, who has been linked to more than 85 burglaries in Brooklyn, New York.
But with DNA evidence, investigators now believe the crimes were committed by the same suspect that has been called the Red Ribbon Killer in other parts of the state.
“With this filing, we have officially linked Stoneface to an individual known as the Red Ribbon Killer,” said Matthew Price, Brooklyn County district attorney.
Stoneface, an auto mechanic, is wanted after police tracked him down by matching his DNA with a genealogy website.
He has been accused of killing 5 and raping 45 people in what police are describing as a premeditated crime spree.
He was nicknamed the Red Ribbon Killer because the victims had a red ribbon tied around their neck after they were murdered.
Police have tracked his whereabouts, and an arrest is expected today.
“Fuck.” It’s Emily’s story, just worded differently. I take out my phone and call Tristan as my blood pressure rises to boiling point.
“Hey,” he answers.
“Page three of the Gazette,” I snap.
“You’re joking?”
“Nope.”
“Fucking hell.” He sighs. “See you soon.”
I hang up, and my phone vibrates. The name Chloe lights up the screen; I hit decline.
I sip my coffee and stare out the window as contempt drips from my every pore. It’s one thing to be deceived, but to be sold out by one of our own staff members is a whole new level of betrayal.
When I get my hands on whoever is responsible for this, there will be fucking hell to pay.
Half an hour later, I walk into my office and find three of my favorite people inside. My brothers.
“Hello.” I smirk. “Jesus, you’ve both got uglier since I last saw you. I didn’t think it was possible.”
They chuckle, and we hug. I miss my brothers. Their role in the company requires them to live in the UK; they work out of the London office. I only get to see them once a month when I travel over there, Tristan the same. Although he gets to stay longer, so he gets more time with them.
I slap the Gazette onto my desk. “What the hell is this?”
“Fucking hell,” Tristan whispers as they all take a seat around the board table.
“What’s going on?” Elliot snaps. “I don’t believe this.”
I exhale heavily. “We got a new staff member, Emily Foster.”
Tristan smirks, and I roll my eyes. “And?” Christopher interrupts.
“She ran a story on her second day and wasn’t sure of the name of the suspect, so she made one up on the spot and planned on changing it when she got back to the office.”
They frown as they listen.
“Only she forgot.”
“Jesus.” Elliot rolls his eyes. “Useless.”
“No,” Tristan says. “Diabolical. The exact same story ran in the Gazette the next day . . . with the bogus name.”
Elliot and Christopher frown as they listen.
“How do you know this?” Christopher asks.
“I know the reporter. We met a while ago.” I pause, not wanting to elaborate.
“You know who she is?” Tristan smirks.
“Who?” Elliot’s eyes flick between us.
“Remember ages ago Jay got a motherfucking huge hickey?”
Their faces fall. “No.”
Elliot pinches the bridge of his nose. “Please . . . don’t tell me.” He laughs out loud. “What did you call it? Stopover shame.”
“I had to wear a fucking turtleneck for two weeks.” I sigh in disgust.
“Remember the black-tie dinner for Mom’s charity?” Tristan throws his head back and laughs. “And you had the hugest hickey anyone had ever seen.” He chuckles at the memory. “And you had to hide from Mom all night and wear cover-up on your neck. That was fucking hilarious, man.”
“Mortifying.” I shiver as I think back. “Anyway, back to the story.” I glare at Tristan for bringing it up. “Emily-that’s her name-unbeknownst to me got a job here. She started three weeks ago, and then this mishap with the name happened. She came to me with suspicions that something fishy was going on. A fake name that she made up on the spot was no coincidence.” I look around at my brothers. “Our stories are being sold on the black market.”
“For fuck’s sake,” Elliot snaps.
“Our share prices are dropping because we are no longer breaking news.”
Elliot shakes his head in disgust.
“Because the reporters that we are paying for are working for our competition,” Tristan snaps.
“We tested the theory this week. We got Emily to write a bogus story and submit it through the regular channels, and look.” I hit the paper with the backs of my fingers. “Here it is, page three of the Gazette.”
They all stare at the paper in front of us, deep in thought.
“So . . . what do we do?”
“Firing everyone works for me,” I snap.
“No, we have to do this properly. There are a hundred people on that floor. Not to mention IT and the mailroom.”
The boys break into chatter as they discuss our options.
I push my intercom. “Can we get Richard from legal up here, please?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Should Emily write another story so we can track it more closely?” Elliot asks.
“No,” I snap. “I don’t want her involved again. I don’t want her up here at all.”
Tristan smirks.