News Blues (10 page)

“Besides the fact that it was the most shoddy, badly written piece of drivel that I’ve ever had the misfortune of reading?”
he asked, picking up a hand mirror and teasing his anchorman hair.

“But—”

“Look.” He set the mirror down and turned to face me. “You obviously only spent about five minutes on that piece of garbage.
If you’re going to be writing for me, you need to work a lot harder. My viewers have certain expectations. I cannot, in good
conscience, let them down.”

I swallowed hard, crossing my arms under my breasts. “I worked hard on that script. I didn’t whip it out in five minutes.”

He shook his head, a disgusted look on his face. “Well, if that’s your best work, darling, we have a major problem.”

I opened my mouth to defend myself again, but the phone rang. Terrance grabbed the receiver.

“Hello?” he said. “Oh, hi Susan . . . Oh really? The new Armani ties are in? Okay, pick me up one red and one blue . . . Oh,
you think blue’s too much? Okay, okay. Well, of course. You’re my personal shopper after all. I simply must trust you.”

He looked over at me, still hovering like an idiot. He frowned and waved his hand in a you-are-dismissed-insignificant-one
kind of way. I backed off, humiliated beyond belief, while he continued to argue the pros and cons of Prada footwear.

I ran upstairs into the safe haven of Special Projects. David was out on a shoot so I had our cube to myself. I put my head
on my desk and started to cry. I knew it was a babyish thing to do, but I couldn’t help it. All the events of the past week—my
parents’ divorce, Lulu’s party, Jamie and the one-night stand, and now being told I was no good at the one thing I knew I
was good at—came crashing together. I couldn’t take any more. I wanted to die. I knew that sounded overly dramatic, but I
was in an overly dramatic state of mind.

“Maddy? Are you okay?”

I felt a hand on my shoulder and looked up, my face probably disgustingly bloated and red from my cry. For the third time
that week, it seemed Jamie would be my guardian angel. He must have thought I was a pathetic blob of a human being, always
crying about this or that.

“Yeah. I’m fine.” I sniffed, my nose running like crazy. Jamie reached into his pocket and pulled out a napkin. He handed
it to me and I blew my nose. “S-sorry.”

He sat down across from me in David’s chair. “What happened?” he asked in a voice that sounded like he really cared.

I related the Terrance story. “But it’s not only that. It’s everything. That was the straw that broke the camel’s back, really.
I’m so sick of everything in my life falling apart in one week.”

Jamie nodded. Then he smiled. “You know what cures life-falling-apart syndrome?”

“What?”

“Starbucks venti white chocolate frappuccinos with extra whipped cream.”

“They do?” I said, trying to smile through my tears.

“My mom swears by them. Says they’re a magic cure for all of life’s ills, ” Jamie assured me with a serious expression. He
rose from his chair. “Though, personally, I like a more manly-man drink myself.” He beat on his chest for mock emphasis.

I laughed, despite myself. “Yeah, right. You’re totally a closet whipped-cream junkie, I know.”

“Hey! Quiet. You’ll ruin my rep.” He winked at me. “Come on, let’s go.”

Minutes later we sank into the plush purple velvet Starbucks chairs and sipped our decadent coffee beverages. Jamie with his
triple Americano and me with my delicious girlie frappuccino.

“You’re going to get sick of being my knight in shining armor, ” I said, feeling much better already.

“Never, ” he declared. “We’re partners. That’s what partners do.”

“But it’s so one-sided. You’re always rescuing me and never needing your own rescuing.”

“Oh, please.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.” He set his beverage down and leaned forward in his chair. “You rescue me from boredom.”

I giggled. “Are you bored?”

“Of course. And I’m a bit embarrassed to admit it, but you’re my first—and at the moment—only San Diego friend.”

“Really?”

“Really.” He smiled. “We are friends, right?”

“Definitely.” I smiled back and lifted my almost empty drink. “To friendship.”

He picked up his cup and touched mine, then took a sip. I watched him, feeling a bit warm and fuzzy inside. It was odd. You’d
think that because we’d slept together things would have been completely awkward. But they weren’t. And I did feel like I
was his friend in a weird way.

Of course I also still wanted to jump his bones, but I wouldn’t act on it. After meeting Jennifer she had become a real person
in my mind instead of a vague idea. And I realized that no matter how much I lusted after her fiancé I had to rein in my desire.
It wouldn’t be right—and not because I was some saint, either. Rather, because I knew how these stories always ended: He and
Jennifer would get married and live happily ever after and I would be the one left with a broken heart.

Much better to stay friends, keep the heart intact.

“Oh, I almost forgot.” Setting down his cup, Jamie reached into his bag and pulled out a worn paperback. “That night at Moondoggies
you said you wanted to read it.”

I took the book and turned it over so I could check out the cover. The artwork depicted a dashing man dressed in black leather,
carrying a futuristic-looking gun. In the background hovered a spaceship and a scantily dressed woman with big breasts. The
gold embossed title declared the man was
Trapped on Mars
. Underneath in smaller letters it said, “A Novel, by Jamie Hayes.”

“Your book!” I exclaimed, fascinated. I turned the novel over to read the back blurb.

AN INTERGALACTIC PRISONER

WITHOUT A CAUSE

All Kayne wanted was a simple life. He and his wife lived comfortably in one of the few remaining Earth cities. But then he
was accused of a crime he didn’t commit and forced to leave everything behind—to serve out a life sentence on the Royal Mars
Penal Colony.

There he meets Marla—the brave, independent rebel who would change his life forever. But could the two lovers hatch a daring
plan of escape? Or would they forever be: Trapped on Mars?

“I know it’s not Hemingway, ” Jamie said, a bit sheepishly, as I looked up from my reading. “But it’s mine.”

“Are you kidding? This is better than Hemingway. He just wrote about old guys fishing. This sounds really exciting.” I looked
down at the cover again. “When was this published?”

“Five years ago, ” he said with a sigh. “And I haven’t been able to get anything published since.”

“Why? Didn’t it do well?”

“No. It did great, actually. I mean, not best-seller great or anything, but good for a sci-fi book.”

“So what happened?”

He shrugged. “I must be the literary equivalent of a one-hit-wonder. I’ve started several books since and haven’t been able
to finish any of them. Two years ago my agent dumped me. After that, I kind of gave up on the whole dream.”

“But you can’t give up on a dream, ” I protested. “That’s against the rules. I mean, look at me. My dream is to be a
Newsline
producer. Sure, it’s a long shot—especially with what I’m stuck producing at News Nine—but I’m not going to give up on it.”

“You’re cute, ” Jamie said with a smile. “You know that?”

Oh, man. I knew I was blushing a deep purple. “Yeah, yeah.” I brushed him off. “But I’m right, too. Do you think Hemingway
never got rejected? In fact, I read somewhere that before he became a successful writer someone stole his suitcase and it
had almost everything he’d ever written in it. And you know in the 1920s they didn’t have any of it backed up on a hard drive.”

“Man. That would have sucked.”

“Yes. I’m sure it sucked royally. And imagine if Mr. Hemingway, greatest author of our time said, –Okay screw this, I’m just
going to be a lame-ass journalist for the rest of my life and never write shit ever again.’ ”

“I’m willing to bet money that Hemingway never once used the term –lame ass’ in a sentence. Or –screw this’ for that matter.”

I rolled my eyes. “Exactly. And he didn’t quit, either.”

“Fine. I get your point.”

“So you’re going to start writing again?”

“Just for you.”

“Good.” I nodded firmly, ignoring the chills of pleasure running up and down my spine.
Just for me
. I shouldn’t like the sound of that as much as I did. “And I expect to see this work in progress on a regular basis.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“And in the meantime I’m going to read this.”

“If you want to. But don’t feel obligated.”

“Are you kidding? I’m dying to read it!” I stuffed the book in my purse before he could change his mind. “Thanks for bringing
it in.”

“No prob, ” he said. “On one condition.”

I cocked my head. “Which is?”

“You’re not allowed to let those losers at News Nine get you down, either. That bastard with a superiority complex, Terrance
Toller, or anyone else.”

I grinned. “Fine. It’s a deal.”

“And no matter how many exposés you have to do on killer household products, you are hereby not allowed to give up your
Newsline
dreams.”

“Roger that.” I lifted my hand in mock salute.

“Good. As long as we understand each other.”

We did, I thought as Jamie stood to throw his cup away in preparation to go back to work. In fact, we understood each other
too well. And that was becoming a problem. At least for me.

We were coworkers already. We were fast becoming friends. So why wasn’t I content with that? What made me long for more?

CHAPTER EIGHT

FROM:
“Terrance Toller”

TO:
“Madeline Madison”

SUBJECT:
ME!!!!

Madeline,

I took another look at your script and realized what the fundamental problem was. There is just not enough of ME in it. In
fact, besides my voice, I hardly make an appearance at all. When viewers tune into a segment of “Terrance Tells All” they
expect to see Terrance. Why would I bother even having a segment if it wasn’t all about me? I am News 9’s most valuable commodity.
I’m sure I don’t have to remind you how in 1998 I won the “Anchor You Trust the Most” award, voted by the San Diego community.

I’ve taken it upon myself to shoot some video of me examining different killer lipsticks. You can pepper my appearances throughout
the script. Just stay away from the first few shots—the photographer completely messed up my lighting and you know how I abhor
improper lighting!

Thank you for your efforts and please keep the above in mind for future stories. I know you do
not
want to disappoint my public.

Terrance

P.S. As a friend, I want to mention that you might seriously reconsider that Old Navy outfit you had on yesterday. If you’re
going to be interviewing people in the name of Terrance Toller, you
must
look the part. Acceptable designers would include Armani, Dolce and Gabbana, Donna Karan (which does not include that off-the-rack
DKNY!) and Chanel. (And no, knockoffs are not acceptable.)

I closed my e-mail with a groan. Terrance was seriously out of control. Did he really, honestly think viewers cared if he
was physically in the segment? Was he that genuinely narcissistic? I mean, hello!? He was a reporter, not Brad Pitt! Did he
not get that?

But the question was, how did I explain that without having him rip me a new one? He’d already completely rewritten my “Cosmetics
That Kill” script and it now barely resembled my thought-provoking, factual original. Producer-driven segment, my ass! What
a laugh. Why did I even bother showing up to work if he was going to redo everything?

I could have gone to Richard and complained, but I wasn’t sure what good it would do. After all, Terrance had been their number
one anchor for years and held way more clout than some twenty-something, utterly replaceable producer like myself.

No, I had to pick my battles and “Cosmetics That Kill” was not worth fighting for. So I brought the mutilated script and tapes
to Mike, the editor, and put the segment out of my mind.

Anyway, I was already on to bigger and better things—a story so good I could almost smell the Emmy.

The Mexico/San Diego drug cartel.

This was no everyday drug-smuggling cartel, either. Deep in the desert, the bad guys had built an underground tunnel that
allowed importers to skip the high security of the Mexican/US border and instead waltz right into America with their illegal
wares unchecked. Miguel had provided still photos his brother had taken of the Mexican side of the tunnel. He’d also mapped
out the location of the States-side exit and promised that if we came to Mexico, he would arrange an off-hours secret tour
of the Mexican entrance.

I hadn’t yet pitched the idea to Richard or my executive producer Laura. I knew that they’d get way too excited and pin all
sorts of hopes on it. Then, if things didn’t pan out, I’d look like a bad producer and no way was I willing to take that risk.
So I decided instead to work on it on the side, shoot it, and write it. Maybe even edit it in secret, while working on my
other more mundane projects, then present it to them as a major sweeps story bonus. Once they saw it, they’d love it, I was
sure. And if it didn’t pan out, no one would be the wiser.

“So, what do you think?” I asked Jamie after he paged through Miguel’s documentation and photos.

“I can’t believe he sent this all to you, ” Jamie said, handing the papers back to me. “What a scoop.”

“Yup. An exclusive investigation. All ours.”

“So what do you propose we do?”

I grinned. “Head out to the desert undercover, of course.”

“That could be dangerous, ” Jamie pointed out. “The desert is wide open. You and I would be sitting ducks with a news camera.
They’d see us a mile off. If they’re importing what this guy says they’re importing, they probably have armed guards and everything.”

“We won’t bring the big news camera. We have a lipstick cam here.”

“Lipstick cam?”

“Yeah. We call it that ’cause it’s so tiny. Like a tube of lipstick. The whole camera fits into a purse or bag and the lens
peeks out of a small opening. It’s very ‘stealth.’ ” I pulled out the contraption from under my desk. It really was cool.
And so useful for getting all the important undercover video investigative stories needed.

Jamie examined the camera. “Nice, ” he announced. “I suppose we shouldn’t take a news truck, either. Too obvious with all
the antennas and stuff sticking out the top.”

“Good point. We can take my car.”

“If you want to be even more stealthy, we could take my motorcycle, ” Jamie suggested. “A car stopped on the side of the road
might seem a bit obvious. Like, why are they stopped? Are they broken down? But motorcyclists stop and hang out all the time.”

“You’ve got a point.” I felt a small thrill tickle the pit of my stomach. I was going to get to ride on Jamie’s motorcycle!
That meant wrapping my arms around him and feeling the contours of his strong chest. Laying my head against his back and letting
the desert wind whip through my hair.

Whoa, girl.You’re just friends, remember. Friends don’t care
about that sort of thing.

Still, that motorcycle idea did make the most sense. I’d just have to control my hormones and we’d be all set.

Jamie looked at his watch. “When do you want to go?”

“Now’s as good a time as any, don’t you think?”

We walked down to the Newsplex and informed the girl on the assignment desk that we’d be gone for the remainder of the day
“on assignment.” (That was one of the pluses of TV news—no one batted an eyelash if you disappeared for the day.) Then we
headed out the side door to the News 9 parking lot. Jamie’s motorcycle was parked nearby: a sleek black and silver bike with
the brand name “Triumph” molded onto its side.

“Nice ride, ” I remarked, running my hand along the body. I actually knew next to nothing about bikes—it could be a total
piece of junk—but it had a cool paint job. . . .

“Thanks. It’s a British bike, ” Jamie said, grabbing two helmets from a back compartment. “And thus, highly superior to garish,
overpriced American Harleys.”

“Oh, please. You’re a total Anglophile, Jamie, ” I teased. “Between bikes and Brit Pop. You know, there’s nothing wrong with
buying American once in a while.”

He laughed. “Nothing except we Yanks could never make such a lean, mean, biking machine as my baby here.” He stroked the handles
almost lovingly, prompting me to erupt in giggles.

He handed me a black helmet and I pulled it over my head, feeling a little like Darth Vader. Jamie reached over and flipped
up the visor.

“Ever been on a motorcycle before?” he asked.

I shook my head and held my hands in front of me, palms up. “Motorcycle virgin here.”

“Are you nervous?”

Nervous? Me? Okay, so I had butterflies racing through my stomach like they were qualifying for the Indy 500, but I wasn’t
about to admit it.

“Nah, ” I said with a shrug.

“Good. It’s simple anyway. Just wrap your arms around me and hold on tight.”

“Roger that.” Oh yeah, that was a definite ten-four.

Jamie flipped his visor down and straddled the bike. I climbed on behind him, annoyed at the way my body instantly tightened
as it came into contact with his. It was so embarrassing the way he could turn me on without even trying. Attempting to think
of unpleasant things to calm my senses, I wrapped my arms around his chest. My breasts pressed against his back and I wondered
if the proximity was doing anything remotely similar to him as it was doing to me.

He looked so sexy in his black leather jacket and helmet. I never realized I had a thing for bikers before. He turned his
head back to look at me.

“Are you ready?”

“Ready.”

And we were off.

The wind whipped through my thin clothing as we flew down the street. I had no idea how fast we were actually going, but it
felt like a million miles an hour. For a brief moment I pondered the fact that should the bike tip over, I certainly would
be dead, but then put it out of my mind and simply enjoyed the ride.

As he slowed down and stopped at a traffic light, Jamie turned his head toward me and flipped up his visor. “How do you like
it so far?” he asked.

I grinned. “Dreamy.”

He turned back to the road and revved the engine. The light went green and we took off again. I hugged him tighter as our
speed increased, enjoying being this close to him. Even through my helmet I could smell the sexy scent of leather from his
jacket. This was heaven. The world could fly by us at top speed, but when all was said and done, we were completely alone
together.

I definitely needed a biker boyfriend. But a cool one, obviously, not a fat, tobacco-chewing Hell’s Angels type. Someone handsome,
nice, and cool. Someone exactly like Jamie. I wondered if he had a twin. . . .

Stop it
, I berated myself.
You can’t have Jamie. He’s
taken. He’ll be married soon. You need to stop thinking
about it.

But I couldn’t stop thinking about it, I realized. And I’d been trying for days with no luck. I still wanted him so badly
it hurt. And being put in this kind of position, where I was forced to physically touch him for hours on end was driving me
absolutely nuts.

To distract myself, I turned my thoughts to our mission. Truth be told, I was a bit scared going out into the desert by ourselves
to find the tunnel site. What if there were guys with guns? What if they killed us and buried our bones? Would we be dug up
by coyotes and eaten?

Okay, maybe I’d go back to thinking about Jamie. Hmm. Was it too late to stop the wedding?

After swinging by my house so I could grab more-appropriate desert hiking attire, we headed out to the desert. After about
an hour, we exited the well-paved freeway and turned down a winding, bumpy back road—much to my butt’s dismay.

Even though I was a born-and-bred San Diego chick, I hadn’t spent much time out in the desert. Once in high school I dated
this loser motorcross fanatic. He’d been convinced that if he dragged me out to the middle of desert nowhere and sat me in
his pickup truck while he and his buddies rode their bikes around the dunes, I’d grow to love the barren wasteland. After
three torturous outings, I decided dust was a bad look for me and ended it.

We passed dilapidated trailers, sun-bleached shacks, gas stations with one rusty pump, and wooden roadside stands where desert
entrepreneurs displayed Native American knickknacks, hoping for some lost tourist to take pity and whip out their wallet.

But as we got deeper into the desert, the signs of humanity slipped away and were replaced by an almost creepy barrenness.
A vast landscape of scrubby trees, wilted grasses, and rocky hillsides. The road’s pavement began to disappear and soon we
were riding on a completely dirt road. The bike’s tires kicked up dust and sand, generously coating me in grime. The things
I did for this job!

After an hour of this, Jamie thankfully pulled over to the side of the road and killed his bike engine.

“Can you grab the map out of my saddlebags?”

I reached back and grabbed it, handing it to him. He studied it for a moment. “According to this, the dig site is down this
trail, ” he said, pointing to a dirt footpath off the side of the road. “I can’t get my bike down there. We’re going to have
to walk.”

I stared down the trail and gulped. I hadn’t realized we’d be doing part of the journey by foot, away from the safety of our
getaway bike. I looked down at my feet. Good thing I’d decided to wear sensible hiking boots. Still, I wasn’t going to be
able to outrun a drug dealer’s bullet, should one come whizzing at me at some point.

“Okay.” I agreed hesitantly as I slid off the bike, careful not to burn myself on the hot metal sides. Didn’t want Jamie to
think I was some wimpy girlie-girl. I could do this.

He grabbed the hidden camera from the saddlebags. We’d set it in a backpack, creating a hole in the front pocket for the lens
to peek through. You’d never be able to tell there was a camera inside.

“Ready?” he asked.

“Ready, ” I answered, though suddenly I realized my hands were shaking and my heart beating wildly. The trip was about to
get a lot more adventurous. Was I ready? Could I do this?

I took a deep breath and willed my hands to stop shaking.

Jamie studied me. “Are you okay? You look a little pale.”

I masked my concern with a smile. No need for him to know what a wimp I was. After all, Diane Dickson reported live from Iraq,
didn’t she? I could surely brave the San Diego county desert. If anyone approached us, we’d simply tell them we were hikers,
out enjoying a beautiful desert day. No one would ever guess our true mission.

“I’m fine. Let’s go.”

We started down the trail and into the desert. According to Jamie’s map, we had about a forty-minute hike to the dig site.
Luckily he’d brought a bunch of water bottles. That and a fancy high-tech GPS mapping device so we wouldn’t get lost. The
man was a Boy Scout with his preparedness.

The sun beat down on the dusty landscape as we followed the rocky trail. Unlike the stereotypical sand deserts such as the
Sahara, San Diego deserts featured rocky cliffs and scrubby trees. A harsh landscape where only the strong survived. It was
beautiful, in its own savage way. Peaceful. No modern technology to spoil it.

Jamie’s cell phone rang. Of course.

“Hello?” he said, after flipping open the receiver. “Hello?” He glanced at the phone’s screen and then put it back to his
ear. “Can you hear me now?” he asked the person on the other end of the line, mimicking the Verizon commercial.