News Blues (6 page)

“We can come back another time, ” he comforted. “Unless you know another club around here.”

“I know! I have eighties music at home. It’s only a block a way. We could have a dance party in my living room.”

“Hmm, I don’t know, ” Jamie said with a teasing look. “Do you have Depeche Mode?”

“I do!” I cried triumphantly. “I have lots of Depeche Mode. Even some of the early bootleg singles.”

“Then lead the way.”

Argh, my head.

My head really, really hurt.

And I was dying of thirst.

I pulled the blankets over my head to block the rays of strong San Diego sun from blasting my sensitive morning eyes. What
time was it? Why was I naked?

Uh-oh.

A flashback of memory—a snapshot of my body on autopilot—hit me like a rock dropped from ten stories up.

The last thing I remembered clearly was leaving Moondoggies. With Jamie. Getting refused at the next club. With Jamie. Going
back to my apartment.

With Jamie.

The rest was blurry. But what I did remember was truly horrifying. Blasting ’80s music from my stereo. Mixing up margaritas
(like I needed more alcohol!) in my blender. Jumping on my bed, singing and dancing like a retard to Simple Minds.

Making out with Jamie like there was no tomorrow.

I slowly rolled over to face the other side of the bed. To confirm my worst fear. Was there another body in my bed?

There was.

Not just any body, either. But a sexy, rumpled, naked, sound asleep, Jamie body in my bed.

Again. Uh-oh.

I groaned. How could I have been such an idiot? Gotten so drunk I didn’t even remember having sex with the guy? That was so
bad. So alcoholically bad. On about a million and three levels:

a) Having sex and not remembering it.

b) Having sex and not remembering it with a guy I barely knew.

c) Having sex and not remembering it with a guy I barely knew who happened to have a fiancée he was going to marry in three
months.

d) Having sex and not remembering it with a guy I barely knew who happened to have a fiancée he was going to marry in three
months and that I had to work with day in and day out for the foreseeable future.

Now what should I do? Did I snuggle up next to him and pretend I had planned the seduction? Get the hell out of bed and pretend
I’d slept on the couch, hoping he didn’t remember, either? Make breakfast? Leave the country and open up shop as a WWJD bracelet
maker in Tijuana?

Hmm. Speaking of, what
would
Jesus do in a case like this? No, bad question. He wouldn’t have gotten himself in this mess to begin with.

I noticed with some relief a ripped open condom package on my nightstand. One of the ones Jodi had stuffed in a drawer one
time “just in case.” Thank god, even in my drunken blackout I’d still had the wherewithal to be safe.

I tried to crawl out of bed, but at that moment the sleeping Jamie rolled over, tossing a heavy arm over my body and pulling
me closer so I was spooned against him. I was stuck. Extremely comfortable, but stuck.

I felt his hot breath warm my skin and tried to think back to the night before. Damn it, why couldn’t I remember the hot sex
I’m sure we must have had? I bet it was incredible. He was incredible. Not that I should be thinking about that. After all,
he was taken. And not just kind-of taken, but wedding-invitations-and-white-dress taken.

Oh my god, I was the other woman.

How ironic that I’d been out mourning the fact that my father had cheated on my mother and had inadvertently helped some other
guy cheat on his fiancée. And not just any other guy, but my new coworker! How was I supposed to work with him now? Would
I have to go into Richard’s office and beg for a new photographer to combat the awkward morning-after syndrome?

Jamie grunted contentedly and snuggled in a bit closer. Was he conscious? Could he possibly know whom he was holding in his
arms? Maybe he had been completely aware of his actions this whole time. Had he been as drunk as I? I couldn’t remember. Was
he a good guy who made a mistake or a jerk who liked to cheat on his fiancée by taking stupid, drunk girls home and screwing
them?

I suddenly felt disgustingly dirty. Why had I been so easy? Slut girl: give her a drink and watch her spread her legs. Except,
that wasn’t me at all. Hell, I could count the guys I’d slept with on one hand and still have a thumb left over. What in the
world had possessed me to drunkenly hook up with a guy I barely knew who was getting married in a few months?

I thought of Jen, sound asleep in LA, trusting that her fiancé was alone in his bed too and not curled up, buck naked, in
another woman’s arms. She trusted him, and I’d helped him betray that trust. My stomach rolled, and not just from the hangover.
I needed to get up. Now.

I squirmed out from under Jamie and vacated the bed. Scanning the room, I found a pair of boxer shorts and an old t-shirt
strewn on the floor. After donning the ensemble, I walked to the bathroom.

Staring in the mirror wasn’t pretty. I looked like hell on toast. Black circles under my puffy eyes. Makeup smeared. Bleh.

I brushed my teeth and washed my face and then hit the kitchen to make eggs. What the hell, right? Even the “other woman”
needed to eat a balanced Atkins breakfast, and maybe it would get my mind off things at the very least. I tried to swallow
down the guilt, but it determinedly rose like bile to my throat. The smell of the scrambled eggs only served to nauseate me
further.

“Maddy?” a sleepy voice behind me said a few minutes later. I whirled around. Jamie stood in the doorway, deliciously rumpled.
He’d donned his blue jeans but no shirt. I scolded my eyes for straying a second too long on his perfectly sculpted chest.
After all, I’d already done more than my share of sampling the forbidden goods already. Time to get my mind out of the gutter
and behave like a responsible human being.

I realized my heart was pounding in my chest as I waited for what he’d say next. Then I remembered my manners.

“Do you want some eggs?”

“Maddy, I’ve got to ask you . . .” He raked a hand through his mussed hair in a way that made me pretty sure his question
wasn’t whether the eggs came from cage-free chickens.

“Yes?” Cool, calm, collected. Whatever he wanted to ask me, I’d be okay with it.

“I had a lot to drink last night and I wasn’t sure . . . Well I woke up and . . .” He looked around the apartment. “Are we
at your place?”

“Yeah, ” I said quietly. He didn’t even remember agreeing to come here. Guess that answered my question about his level of
sobriety.

“Oh. Right. And I woke up in . . .” He pointed vaguely toward the bedroom. “. . . and I didn’t know . . .”

“You want to know if we had sex.” I spelled it out, shocked at how clear and cold my voice sounded.

“Y-yeah.” His face reddened at my bluntness. He hadn’t been so shy last night.

“I don’t know, Jamie. I don’t remember either. But I woke up in my bed naked. And you were naked next to me. So I’d say chances
are pretty darn good.” I realized I sounded angry. Hurt.
Don’t let him see that you care
.

“Oh God, ” he cried, sinking down onto the sofa, head in his hands. “Oh God.”

I stared down at him, not sure what to do or say. This was so outside of my expertise it wasn’t even funny. I’d never had
a one-night stand before. And I certainly had never hooked up with someone who had a fiancée. What would Miss Manners suggest
in a case like this?

“Don’t worry, ” I said harshly. “It’s no big deal. Just forget it ever happened.” I actually had reservations about letting
the jerk off the hook like that, but it took two to tango and so really, I was as guilty as he was, right? Best to just move
on and forget it ever happened.

He looked up. “God, I’m so sorry, Maddy. I don’t know what I was thinking. I’m such an idiot.” His face was white as a ghost
and it appeared he couldn’t meet my eyes. “I swear to you, I didn’t mean for this to happen. I’m not that guy. I’m really
not.”

“I said it’s
fine, ”
I cried, my voice breaking on the word.
Don’t cry, Maddy! Don’t you fucking cry
! But I couldn’t help it. It was all just too horrible. I felt sick and confused inside. What was wrong with me? I should
be screaming at him and telling him to get the hell out of my house. Instead, I was feeling sorry for the jerk. Like, I hated
him for what happened, but at the same time, his distraught face tugged at my heart.

Jamie rose from the couch and approached me. He took my trembling body in his arms and pulled me close. Unable to stop myself,
I buried my face in his chest and started sobbing like a baby. He smoothed my hair and kissed the top of my head.

“Shh, ” he whispered soothingly. “I’m sorry.”

“I said it was fine, ” I repeated, bawling. He led me over to the couch and sat me down. “The eggs will burn, ” I protested.

He nodded and walked back into the kitchen, switching off the stove. So much for breakfast, I guess. Then he returned to the
couch, sitting down beside me.

“I’m sorry, too, ” I said, staring down at my lap. “I never should have—”

He pressed a finger to my lips, stopping my words. “No, ” he said. “You did nothing wrong. It was completely my fault. Here
I am trying to comfort you over your family situation, and I end up making it that much worse. I’m the only one here who needs
to fucking apologize.”

He pulled me into another hug, holding me close. I could feel his heart beating fast in his chest. He held me there for a
moment, not saying anything. It should have been suffocating, but the closeness was strangely calming.

Finally, he pulled away, meeting my eyes with his own sad green ones. God, he was good-looking, I couldn’t help thinking.
Jennifer was one lucky girl.

“What do you want me to do?” he asked, his expression earnest. “Is it going to be too hard to work together now? Do you want
me to ask them to reassign me to news?”

I swallowed hard. What did I want? Was I going to be able to move on from this? Or would it be eternally awful and embarrassing
and weird between us?

“I don’t know, ” I said truthfully. “I’ve never had to deal with anything like this before.”

He gave me a wry smile. “Yeah, me neither, ” he said.

“I guess if you think we can work through it . . . and be mature adults and all that, ” I mused. “I guess then it’d be okay
to try working together still.”

“Are you sure? I mean, I’m totally fine with that. But I don’t want to make things hard for you. I feel so awful as it is.”

I shook my head. “I’m a big girl, ” I said, though I didn’t completely feel it at the moment. “I’ll be fine. We’ll just have
to keep it professional from now on. Stay away from the Scooby Snacks.”

Jamie laughed. “If I never have another Scooby Snack it will be too soon.” He paused, then held out a tentative hand. “So,
still friends?” he asked.

I shook it, hoping he didn’t notice my fingers were still trembling. “Friends, ” I agreed.

But inside I wondered if it’d really be that easy.

CHAPTER FIVE

FROM:
“Dr. Barbara Wilens”

TO:
“Madeline Madison”

SUBJECT:
re: Leaded Lipstick

Dear Maddy,

Thank you for your inquiry about whether or not lipstick contains dangerous levels of lead. The chain e-mail you forwarded
me is incorrect in saying that lead in lipstick causes cancer. Exposure to lead does not cause cancer. However, lipstick pigments
can contain some amount of lead and while the levels are not sufficient to harm a grown woman, a pregnant woman might be inadvertently
poisoning her unborn child, which could possibly lead to brain damage. It’s a pretty big stretch to say cosmetics can kill,
but we would certainly advise pregnant women to stay away from lipstick, just in case.

Sincerely,

Barbara Wilens, MD

P.S. To avoid bad luck, I did pass the e-mail on to five of my friends. Sure, it’s probably completely unethical to forward
incorrect medical information to the public, but I’m in surgery today and I couldn’t really risk dropping the knife or leaving
a sponge inside the patient’s body!!! That would be a good story, huh?

I was never going out on a Thursday night again. I was way too ofld to handle such hangover potential.

I peeked around the corner of my cubicle to make sure the Special Projects department remained vacant, then plopped my head
in my hands on my desk. So tired. Just needed a minute of shut-eye.

Jamie had offered to drive me to work that morning (on his motorcycle, no less!), but I decided it would look a little strange
to anyone who saw us pull into the News 9 parking lot. Like why were we together in the A.M.? Didn’t need those kinds of rumors
on top of everything else.

I closed my eyes, attempting to block out the world. I felt terrible—both physically and emotionally—and couldn’t stop beating
myself up over all that had happened. How could I have been so stupid? How could I have let things get so out of control?

Deep in my heart, I knew the answer was simple. I had a massive, out of control, raging crush on the guy. And it didn’t seem
to be fading very fast, even with the awkward morning-after syndrome.

I was in such trouble.

“Sleeping on the job, are we, darling?”

I looked up, bleary-eyed. In my hangover stupor, I’d failed to realize David, my very gay political producer cubicle mate,
had sat down across from me. Guess he was back from Senator Gorman’s reelection tour. He grinned nastily, enjoying my pain
a bit too much. I flipped him the bird and returned my head to its resting position.

“Girlfriend, you so
cannot
sleep! I have big gossip.” He reached over to shake me by the shoulder. “Big!”

“I’m listening.” Didn’t have to raise my head for my ears to work.

“I slept with Brock.”

Okay, that was news enough to warrant a head lift. “Brock?” I asked, incredulous. “As in Senator Gorman’s son, Brock? As in
Ivy League, Preppy Crew Captain Brock?”

“There’s only one Brock, sweetheart, ” David said in his flamingest voice. “And let me tell you, he is prime grade-A beefcake.”

“I didn’t know he was gay.” Senator Gorman was the most conservative Republican on the planet. Hell, he’d spearheaded the
committee to make gay marriage illegal and had tried for years to stop gays from adopting children. “Does his father know?”

“Nope!” David looked pleased as punch. “He’d totally kill him if he did. And I’m sworn to secrecy. Of course, I was like:
‘You know, Brock, I could ruin your daddy’s career with this.’ And he’s like: ‘Yeah, I guess I’d better be nice to you.’ ”
David giggled. “And then he sucked my dick, which let me tell you, was very, very nice.”

“Oh-kay then. Too much information alert.”

David grinned wickedly. “Oh grow up, Maddy Pants. You’re just jealous ’cause you aren’t getting any.”

“Yes I—” . . . was stopping right there. I would not say
anything
about sleeping with
anyone
. “You’re right, David. I’m completely and utterly jealous. Cause I am getting nothing. Nada. Zip, zilch. I’m practically
a born again virgin. And I am
so
jealous of all your gay action.”

“Hmm. Methinks my cubemate doth protest too much.” David studied me closely. “Me also thinks she has an I-just-got-fucked
look in her eyes.”

“No, I don’t.”

“You do.”

“I DON’T!”

“You do. You do. You just got fucked. Who’s the lucky guy?”

Unfortunately, the “lucky guy” picked that moment to walk over to my cubicle. I must have turned beet red, ’cause David’s
eyebrows shot up in recognition.

“So what’s on the agenda today?” Jamie asked innocently. He must have gone home to shower and change. His hair was still slightly
damp and he wore a button-down surfer shirt and a pair of khaki shorts. Delicious. Not that I was tasting. I’d already done
too much of that the night before.

“Um, we, um, got a lead on the lipstick e-mail you sent me. I have an, um, interview with a doctor who can talk about it.”
Why could I barely form a sentence? I shot a glare at David who had turned around to check his Gmail, still giggling to himself.
“Want to meet me in the parking lot in fifteen minutes?”

“Okay. I’ll go get a coffee while I’m waiting. You want one?”

“No, I’m okay. Thanks.” I’d already drunk about ten and my hands had the shakes.

After Jamie disappeared, David, as I knew he would, whirled around and started screeching. “Who was THAT? I go away for four
days and we get THAT as a new photog? He is sooo cute. But I guess you already know that.” He looked at me with a mischievous
smile. “So, what was he like?”

“Like?” I asked innocently.

“Oh, come on, sistah soul. I totally gave you the scoop on Brock, and that’s way more of a secret than you shagging the new
photog.”

“Yeah, but . . .” I lowered my voice. “He’s engaged.”

“Oh puh-leeze. Does he have a wedding band on his finger yet? No? Well, then, he’s still fair game in my book.” David clapped
his hands together in glee. “So, I will repeat my question. What was he like? Divine with a capital ‘D’?”

“Honestly, I don’t remember.” I told David the whole story, starting with my family falling apart and ending with Jamie comforting
me the morning after.

“Awh, so sweet. Honey, he sounds like a keeper to me.”

Was he on crack? “Did you listen to a thing I just said? I can’t keep him. I don’t even have him to begin with. He belongs
to someone else.”

“For now.”

“Look, I’m not the type of girl who goes and steals other women’s fiancés. The whole thing was just a stupid, lousy, drunken
mistake that I will never, ever repeat again.”

“Smart. Next time I’d do him sober. So you can remember how divine he is.”

I groaned. “There’s obviously no talking to you. Anyway, I have to go on my shoot. Do
not
under any circumstances tell anyone about this, okay?”

“Please. As if I knew anyone who would care about your little vanilla sexcapades.”

“Good. Keep it that way. I’ll see you later.” I printed out the directions to the doctor’s office and grabbed them off the
printer.

“Peace out. Don’t let the man get you down.”

I rolled my eyes at him and gave him a wave goodbye, then headed out to the parking lot. I found Jamie loading his camera
into the Ford Expedition news truck. Without saying anything, I hopped into the passenger side and took a deep breath. He
joined me moments later.

“We off?”

“Off.” I passed over the directions, looking straight out the window. What did I say to him? This was so awkward.

To make matters worse, my memory decided to treat me with a fleeting flashback of the night before. Namely, us collapsing
on the bed after a particularly rowdy rendition of bedroom karaoke to Duran Duran’s “Save a Prayer.” (A song about a one-night
stand—how appropriate!) Him, kissing me senseless. Me, weak in the knees. Him, pulling my tank top over my head. Me, well,
still weak in the knees. Pretty pathetic, considering I wasn’t even standing up. Hopefully he didn’t regain any memories of
the night in question, as I was becoming quite certain I hadn’t exactly been up to par in the bedroom department. Not that
I necessarily wanted him to have fond memories of my prowess there, either.

“So, got any fun plans for the weekend?” Jamie asked, interrupting my musings.

Well, I had planned on painting my bedroom forest green, but suddenly that sounded overwhelmingly lame. After all, he was
a filmmaker. He probably spent his weekends going to trendy parties with movie stars and complicated cocktails. I couldn’t
possibly tell him I had no plans and was going to stay home and paint.

“Actually, I’ve got a hot date.”

Oh, Maddy? Why did you say that?
Once again, my mouth had blurted before my brain could rationalize that the impulsive idea to tell Jamie I had a hot date
was an extremely bad one on many, many levels. The most basic being because it was a complete and utter lie.

“Oh yeah?” Jamie turned to look at me. “Who’s the lucky guy?”

He said it so casually it made my stomach ache. Not a hint of jealousy in his voice. He’d obviously moved on from last night’s
encounter already. Couldn’t care less that I had a potential new lover. And why would he? He had his fiancée, after all. I
was nothing to him.

Get a grip, Maddy. Forget about last night. Or you’re in for
a world of hurt.

I realized Jamie was waiting for me to describe imaginary-date man. “Um, well, he’s this surfer guy.” Yeah, surfers were cool.
“With blond hair, blue eyes. About six foot.” If I were going to have an imaginary date, he might as well be a hottie. “He’s
sponsored, actually. Does all these competitions.”

“Really? What’s his name? I did a documentary on surfing in So-Cal. I know most of the guys.”

Argh. Maddy, why? Why not just say he was some normal
guy Jamie would have never heard of?

“Oh, you probably wouldn’t have heard of him . . .”

“Try me.”

“. . . because he’s from, um, Czechoslovakia, ” I said, naming the country farthest away from So-Cal that I could think of.
“Just moved here last month.”

“A Czech surfer?” Jamie asked, sounding intrigued. “Interesting, since the country’s so far inland. How’d he become so good
at surfing?”

Oh yeah, I’d conveniently forgotten the Czech Republic wasn’t exactly beachfront property. Duh.

“His father sent him to, um, Ibiza every summer as a kid. He learned there.” Ibiza was an island, right? I was saved.

“The Spanish Island with all the nightclubs? I didn’t realize it was a kid-friendly place.”

Darn. “Um, no, no. Ibiza,
Florida
. It’s near, um, Fort Lauderdale.” I laughed nervously.

“Hmm. Never heard of it.” Jamie shrugged. “I spent a few months in Miami last year, too. Must be a small town.”

“Yeah. Real tiny, evidently.”
Please don’t press me on it
, I begged silently. I was running out of lies.

Luckily at that moment, we turned in to the doctor’s office. I breathed a sigh of relief. Jamie parked the SUV and turned
to me. “Well, I hope you have fun on your date. You just let me know if this blond-haired, blue-eyed Czech surfer who grew
up in a tiny town in Florida gives you a hard time, okay?”

I felt my face heat. Was he teasing me? Did he know I made the whole thing up? I narrowed my eyes in anger. I wanted to protest,
tell him I did have a real date. But problem was, I didn’t.

I know! I’ll find one!

Jodi had been trying to get me to sign up for that online dating service for months. She said it had tons of cute guys. From
all over. I was sure out of the thousands available I could find a blond-haired, blue-eyed Czech surfer who summered in Florida,
right?

Yup, that’s what I’d do. I’d go home from the shoot, find myself a surfer and go out on a date. Then I’d take pictures with
my camera phone and casually show them to Jamie on Monday to prove that I wasn’t some pathetic lying girl who made up a whole
person because she was too embarrassed to admit she planned to stay home and paint her bedroom.

“What are you up to this weekend?” I asked as I waited for him to unload his gear from the back of the Expedition.

He groaned. “Nothing as exciting as your weekend. I’ve got to paint the bedroom of my new place.”

Oh.

“I have to do some major yard work, too. I want to have the place all ready for when Jennifer comes down next month.”

Argh.

I tried to squash the jealous feeling that bubbled deep inside, but no luck. All I could think of was what a nice guy Jamie
was. Why couldn’t I find someone who would sacrifice his weekend just so his fiancée could waltz down from LA and have a great
place to live?

“What does Jennifer do?” I asked, trying to sound casual. After all, we were supposed to be friends, right?

“She’s an actress, ” Jamie said as he closed the SUV’s back door.

Of course.

“Has she been in anything I might have seen?”

He shook his head. “She’s done cameos in some low-budget movies. She’s also a model.”

“And a waitress?” It was cruel, but I suddenly realized her type.

He grinned sheepishly. “How’d you guess?”

Easy. Though he already knew how.

Actress/model/waitress types were par for the course in So-Cal. Just most people sort of tried to hide the waitress part.

“So, what does she think of relocating to San Diego?” I couldn’t imagine if she was trying to have a career in Hollywood she
would think this a very good move.

Jamie sighed. Deeply. “She realizes it’s necessary for us at this time.”

In other words she was pissed off about it. Poor Jamie. Here he was, sacrificing his moviemaking career to work in local TV
news, so his loser waitress fiancée could continue to live in the lifestyle she was accustomed. And did she thank him for
his dedication? No. She bitched about moving from LA where she would compete with two thousand other blond bimbos for lousy
movie roles in even lousier movies that were destined to tank on opening day.