“He’s real.”
“Who?”
“Mister Romance. Joanna was talking to her cousin about him this morning, and the cousin was horrified Joanna had been eavesdropping. She said that everything about hottie-escort is super-secret. The only way you can get to him is through an introduction from an existing client. It’s like some hot-dude lending system.”
“Okay, that’s interesting. Is Joanna’s cousin a client?”
“No. But she knows someone who is. Hold onto your boobs.” She pauses for dramatic effect. “It’s Marla Massey.”
I suck in a breath. “As in the wife of Senator Massey? The ex-televangelist who holds up his Betty Homemaker spouse as the blueprint for all good wives? Are you serious?”
“Deadly. Seems while the good congressman is in Washington, his devoted wife has a sexy playmate. Can you imagine what would happen if this turns out to be true?”
Goosebumps break out over my arms as I register how big this story could be. If I do this right, it could give me the career I’ve always dreamed of. Screw Pulse. I could have my pick of jobs from any number of top-tier media companies.
“So, what do I have to do?” I ask. “Become friendly enough with Mrs. Massey that she introduces me to her professional boyfriend? Seems kind of impossible.”
“Yeah, unless you suddenly morph into a mega-rich housewife who enjoys art galleries and Bible study, you don’t exactly move in the same circles. But whatever you do, be careful. She’s not even going to talk to you if she knows you’re a reporter.”
Asha is right. I have to be clever about this, or my one-and-only lead will go up in a puff of Chanel-scented smoke.
“Okay, so how do these women contact this escort? Phone number? Email? Giant penis beacon in the clouds?”
Asha lowers her voice. “Joanna says that if someone is deemed discreet enough to become a client, the woman referring her will forward a special questionnaire. Once it’s completed, it’s sealed in an envelope, along with a thousand dollars in cash, and delivered it to a P.O. box in Williamsburg.”
I almost fall off my chair. “A thousand dollars?! That’s what this guy charges for a date?”
Toby appears over the top of the partition and whispers, “What the fuck are you talking about?”
I wave him away and grip my phone tighter.
“No,” Asha says. “A date costs five thousand. It takes a grand for him to even consider taking you on as a client.”
“Jesus! I don’t care how good-looking he is, there’s no way any man is worth that kind of money.”
“Well, apparently, these ladies think he is.”
I lean back in my chair and grip my desk. “Do you have the address of this P.O. box?”
“Yes, I’ll text it to you. But it’s no good unless you can dig up the questionnaire. Joanna’s cousin doesn’t have one, and even if she did, I doubt she’d give it to us.”
“Would Marla Massey have one?”
“Probably. But how would you get it without asking her?”
I look at Toby, who’s still frowning at me and trying to figure out what the hell I’m talking about. “I’ll work something out. Thanks for the info, Ash.”
“No problem. It’s for my own benefit as well. God knows, if I have to hear you complaining about your job one more time I’m going to cut my ears off.”
I smile. “Such a supportive sister. Toby says hi, by the way.”
“Uh huh. Byeeeee!”
After we sign off, Toby asks, “So, how is she?”
“Still not interested, I’m afraid.”
He shakes his head. “Doesn’t she understand how much awesome she’s missing out on?”
“Clearly not, but I promise to put in a good word for you if you help me with this story.”
“I had a feeling that was coming. Tell me more.”
As I fill him in on all the details surrounding Mister Romance, Toby becomes more and more animated.
“Eden, this could be huge. Especially if more of his clients turn out to be as high profile as Marla Massey.”
“Exactly.”
“So what do you need from me?”
I give him a pleading smile. “I need you to hack into Marla Massey’s email account and find a client questionnaire.”
Toby’s expression darkens. “You’re kidding me.”
“Not even a little.”
This is a sensitive area for Toby. The only reason I know he freelances as a hacktivist in his spare time is because he confided in me one night when we were super drunk. Until now, I haven’t let on that I remembered, but hey ... desperate times and all that.
“She’s a congressman’s wife,” Toby says.
“I know, but I don’t see any other way.”
“It’s not like she won’t have some kickass cyber-security protecting her stuff. I mean, come on.”
“Are you saying you can’t do it?”
He lets out a short laugh. “Don’t be ridiculous. I’m just making sure you know how much of a legend I am before I crack her system like an egg.”
“Noted.”
He nods. “And you’d also better tell your sister that I’m a beast in the sack or something similar for this to be worth my while.”
“Done. Completely fictional accounts of your sexual prowess coming right up.”
“TATE!”
I look around as I hear my name bellowed from the doorway of my boss’s office. Pulse’s editor-in-chief, and general all-purpose ass-kicker Derek Fife, might be considered attractive if he didn’t have the personality of a particularly nasty dose of The Clap.
He scowls at me and hitches his thumb toward the door. “My office. Now.” Without waiting for my response, he heads back to his desk.
“Nice knowing you,” Toby says as he disappears. We both know that Derek’s tone means someone’s getting their ass handed to them, and it looks like it’s going to be me.
I stand and take a deep breath before pulling back my shoulders and striding into his office.
When I stop in front of his desk, he says, “Shut the door and take a seat.” He doesn’t even look up from his tablet.
After I close the door and sit in the chair opposite him, Derek continues to swipe at something on his screen, his brows furrowed.
“Tate, do you know why Pulse has such a diverse range of divisions?”
“To capture a large variety of readers?”
“Exactly. And why do you think we use click-bait articles every day in addition to real news?”
“Because you’re hoping to draw in readers with trash and get them to stay for the good stuff?”
“No. It’s because the click-bait crap generates massive amounts of revenue that helps pay for everything else, including your salary.” He looks up at me, his expression hard. “Do you think that you’re earning your salary right now with the content you’re providing?”
I clasp my hands in my lap. “Uh ... well –”
He holds up his tablet to show one of my articles from a few days ago. THIS WOMAN BENT OVER TO PICK UP A PENNY. YOU WON’T BELIEVE WHAT HAPPENS NEXT!
He raises his eyebrows.