Win a Filthy Bad Boy: A Bad Boy Romance (3 page)

When the conversation was over, she told Johnny she'd see him at work. She hung up, put her cell in her bag, took a final sip of coffee, and made her way to the front door with the breakfast bar in hand, before a vibrating interpreted her autopilot trek to hallway. She dug her cell out to see the caller was Jill.

"Hey, everything okay, Jill?” Bonnie said.

"Have you seen it?" Jill asked.

“Seen what?”

“This morning's announcements on
Win a Filthy Bad Boy
.”

“Jill, are you for real? It's obscenely early to be watching that god awful show. What possessed you call so early?”

“So, I guess you really aren't a fan of it then,” Jill said, sounding disappointed.

“I didn’t say that exactly,” Bonnie said, guiltily. She knew how much her friend enjoyed the show. Her own thoughts on the reality show was how ludicrous it was to have a reality TV show were the playboy always came off as the good guy and the decent girl played the part of the idiot. Even more outrageous was how the show had taken the world by storm.

“Anyway,” said Jill, “the winning lady was announced last night.”

“Oh, that's nice, but hon, I’m just out the door, can't this wait?”

“So you haven't seen it then?”

“Seen what exactly?”

“Oh boy, I didn't think you’d be mad.” Jill sounded guilty. “I must have been drunk when I entered you into the competition, I thought it would be cool for you, you know, now that you're single an all.”

“Hold on a sec, what competition? What are you talking about?” Bonnie bit into the breakfast bar, growing annoyed at the suspense as she descended the staircase one step at a time. “Just spit it out, will you?” she said between chews.

“I entered you into the competition for
Win a Filthy Bad Boy
—”

Shocked and unsure how to respond, Bonnie swallowed the bar, and it lodged in her throat. “Ack-ack!” She clutched her throat and leaned onto a wall.

“—like I said, it was meant to be a joke, I never took it seriously. I even entered myself in—”

“Ack!”

In the midst of choking, Bonnie was suddenly aware of strong arms wrapping themselves around her. She was squeezed hard as a powerful body thrusted her upwards. This was all a sick joke. First, Jill informed her that she had entered her into a competition to be on
Win a Filthy Bad Boy
and now someone was humping her on the staircase.

When the remainder of the breakfast bar went flying out of her mouth, Bonnie gasped, gulping air into her lungs. She folded forward and rested her hands on her thighs. She couldn't fill her lungs fast enough.

In that moment, Bonnie realized that someone must have saved her. Lifting her head to see her hero, she stared into the handsome face of Ken, her arrogant neighbor from the first floor.

“Hey, slow down there. You alright?” he asked in his raspy voice.

She nodded, and held up a finger signaling—
give me a minute
, then put the cell to her ear.

“—why do you think I sound so excited, huh? I sure as fuck wish I was the one going away with him, but I won't begrudge you for jumping at the opportunity,” Jill said.

“I know you had my best interest in mind. Look, I need to get going,” she huffed half-heartedly. “I can't be late for work.”

“You're no fun. Alright, well at least you don't seem too pissed.”

“I'm hanging up now. Get your butt to work,” Bonnie said.

Bonnie relaxed. She knew there was no way in hell that she was going on the reality TV show. She would call and cancel. If they needed an explanation, she'd explain that her friend played a prank on her, apologize, and carry on her life as normal.

“Everything alright, doll?” Ken asked, extending a hand to help her up.

“Thanks Ken, you saved me from death by humiliation.”

“Ha!” he laughed. “So, do I get a reward? What say I take you some place nice this weekend?” Ken asked.

Beneath his bathrobe, Bonnie caught a glimpse of his sculptured abs. He always looked as if he were cut out from an Exercise Magazine, tanned all over with a gorgeous smile full of perfect teeth. He regarded her with pale blue eyes.

“Are you ever even around on weekends?” Bonnie asked. If a person were listening in on their conversation, they might have assumed this referred to Ken’s wild party lifestyle, but the truth was far more mundane. Ken was a resident in a surgery program.

Ken displayed his dimples to-die-for when he smiled cockily. “I’ll definitely make time for you,” he said, tilting his head to the side and wiggling his eyebrows suggestively.

Many female tenants, a couple of male ones too, talked about how drop-dead gorgeous Ken was. He was burn-your-retinas good looking and apparently hot in bed. Add in the ocean blue eyes, dimples and swagger, and as long as you could look beyond his promiscuous ways, he was the total package.

And despite all these qualities, Bonnie was not attracted to him; not in a way that posed a threat, anyway. He never had the raw, sexual, seduction that would leave her feeling cheap in the morning.

Bonnie thanked the gods that most men didn’t have that overwhelming affect on her. It wasn’t like any guy could leave her panting feverishly before screaming in ecstasy. Well, only one so far—Chad.

No sooner had Bonnie tossed the image of Chad to the back of her thoughts had it latched itself onto the ledge of her subconscious and climbed its way to the forefront of her mind.

She checked the clock on her phone.
Shit
. Leaping up, her bag over her shoulder, she hurled herself towards the door and waved to Ken.

“Anyway, what's the rush?” Ken called after her.

“I've got to get to work, and my ass is grass if I'm late,” Bonnie shouted as she ran out.

At seven, Bonnie hopped a train, stuck in her earphones so she could listen to Robin Thicke, and reviewed the work day ahead. In the lull of routine, she would get to talk with her boss, Al Gibson, after her sit down with the editors at the morning meeting.

At just twenty-three, Bonnie Jensen had to be one of the youngest and hardest working journalists in New York and the most prominent columnist and blogger for
The Daily Journal
.

After numerous articles, countless interviews, and her work on feature pages, Al had to give her the go ahead to cover the Stephanie Stein story. But recently, she took it upon herself to arrange an interview with the ex-star, turned recluse. The source who acted as intermediary between Bonnie and Stephanie was positive that Stephanie would do the interview. Bonnie was convinced that if she sprung the information on Al, he'd have no choice but to allow her to take the job.

Pursuing serious journalism was the one thing that kept her on the East Coast. If not for her career, Bonnie would have moved back to the Midwest; more specifically Bloomington, Illinois, where she grew up.

She could manage the rush, and the cold expressions of New Yorkers, but even the required tough skin that she soon experienced from having pitch after pitch ignored, never prepared her for how cutthroat the journalism industry could be.

Her thoughts went to Al Gibson, who was the tough editor-in chief of
The Daily Journal
. Initially, he seemed like the office Grinch that Bonnie had the misfortunate of interning under during her last days at Columbia.

On the surface, Al Gibson appeared resembled J.Jonah Jameson from Spider-man. He was stubborn to the point of denseness, a pompous skinflint who micromanaged his employees with little-to-no life beyond his large executive sized desk. But Bonnie got a chance to see beneath the surface of the dictatorial toothbrush moustache, ever-present Cuban cigar, and shaggy peppered gray hair.

Gibson was a man who interned for various papers in his early teens and worked extremely hard to the point that pictures of him during award ceremonies in his early twenties gave him the look of a man in his late thirties. Through hard work and consistency, he became a big name in the industry, a rare breed of man, earnest and resolute. No family, no friends, and no lovers.

As she ran through her pitch in her head, Bonnie scowled out the window of the cross-town bus. Monday morning New York traffic rumbled along at a nightmarish pace, so that she was almost late arriving to the office.

With seconds to spare, Bonnie got to her office cubicle, removed her earphones, plopped into her swivel chair, and switched on her screen, when a voice startled her.

“So... anything you want to tell me?”

Jolting Bonnie out of her thoughts, the head that popped over the wall of her cubicle offered a broad smile.

“Johnny, you scared the hell out of me,” Bonnie said.

“You think you’d be used to me by now.” Johnny’s shtick was to pop his head up over the cubicle wall unexpectedly, causing Bonnie to jump. He perched on her desk and straightened his gray tie that matched his slacks and lavender shirt. Always dressed in a pressed suit and glossy tie, his sandy blond hair gave him a surfer look.

“Yeah, but today's different, I almost got caught in traffic and today of all days, I want to make a good impression on Al.” The instant Bonnie’s computer came on; her fingers began to work furiously. “I plan on arranging a meeting with him today.”

“So about that, how come you never told me?” Johnny asked, his eyes lighting up.

“I never told anyone, Johnny, I wanted to surprise Al with—”

“Oh, he knows alright,” Johnny interrupted.

“How did he find out?” Bonnie asked. If it weren't for the shock and bewilderment that left her momentarily speechless, she might have felt leaden, maybe even depressed. The day already sucked and she hadn't even sat down with the editors yet. On the upside, a margarita and tortilla chips with salsa waited for her at home.

“I don’t know. Water cooler gossip I guess,” Johnny said with a shrug. “You know how it is around here.”

“Well, how'd he take it?” Bonnie asked.

“Well—”

But Johnny was cut off by a loud shout that ripped through the office.

“JENSEN! GET YOUR ASS IN MY OFFICE NOW!” came the thunderous voice of Al Gibson.

Bonnie craned her neck to peek over her cubicle wall. She fell back into her chair and stared at Johnny, who wore a worried expression.

“He's pissed,” Bonnie said. The third degree from Al Gibson—not the best start to her day.

“You think? Bonnie, seriously. It's like nothing I'd imagine you doing in a million years.”

“It's something I’ve always wanted,” Bonnie explained.

“I just didn't think you’d be into that sort of thing. I didn't even know you were a fan.”

“I'm not a fan, but I think there's a good story...” Bonnie trailed off.

“I think you just want the luxury of kicking back with a—”

“JENSEN! WHERE THE HELL ARE YOU?” Al Gibson’s voice rocked the room like a sonic boom.

Confused, Bonnie shot to her feet and looked over at Al Gibson, who was sitting impatiently in his office.

She gave Johnny a final glance.
Luxury of kicking back?
Then with a deep sigh, she took measured steps towards Al’s office. It occurred to her that Johnny might not have been referring to the Stephanie interview.

"How come you never get in trouble?" Bonnie whisper-asked as she walked away from Johnny.

“Must be my looks.” Johnny shrugged and smiled.

Passing by each cubicle, she noticed every eye was on her. The atmosphere at
The Daily Journal
was dictated by a mishmash of ambitious personalities. If careless, your ideas would be stolen before you could blink, your article written before you could jot down a letter.

Bonnie didn't hate her job, but often succumbed to the frustration of being stuck writing sensationalist articles for a tabloid paper, when she'd once dreamed of writing stories that went deeper and explored the many facets of the human condition.

This put her at odds with her peers who were interested in writing stories that catered to the requirements of
The Daily Journal
, which were to grab the reader by the jugular, at any cost. This wasn't Bonnie’s dream job; she would have liked to work for
Salon
, but being in the job for three years, as an intern, then part-time and now full-time, she had to make do with what she had. Some days it worked, and other days it sucked.