Virginal Headlines: Love Between The Headlines Read online

  “Why?”

  It was a blatant question, but I couldn’t for the life of me figure out why Grayson Pierce was talking to me. Me. Lover of books and lizards. Geek to my core. Fearful of the human species.

  “Excuse me. Are you in line to order?” someone behind me said, impatience dripping from their tone.

  “Oh, no. Sorry.”

  The woman’s face gave way to delight the moment her eyes fell on the man beside me. “Gra-Grayson? Grayson Pierce?”

  The chuckle that left his mouth sounded worn down. “The one and only.”

  “Oh my God! Can I…?” She paused, fumbling for her phone. “Can I get a picture?”

  “Of course.”

  With an empathetic smile in his direction, I hurriedly moved, rushing toward the front door. Maybe even running from Grayson Pierce.

  Once outside, I pulled in a huge breath of stale city air, focusing on the feel of my expanded lungs. A whirling of unfamiliar emotions pressed and stretched behind my skin, searching for a way out. Grayson appeared beside me, his eyes grazing over me. I didn’t like how he watched me openly and without shame. It was too… too intimate.

  I didn’t do intimate.

  At least, not the Grayson Pierce kind of intimate.

  “So… is that a no?”

  “No.”

  “No?” he repeated, the word heavy and dense.

  The flicker of disappointment that curled around the edges of his mouth shook something in me. “I mean no, it’s not a no,” I quickly fixed. “I mean… I guess I don’t know what I mean.” I lifted my hand full of paper bags to my forehead, then rubbed my thumb along the heated skin. “You’re Grayson Pierce.”

  His eyes widened just a fraction, only to return to their normal state of smize eyes. “I take it you read the tabloids.”

  A snort wriggled free. “Who doesn’t?”

  He gave a telling nod. “Shame.”

  The word was so quiet I almost missed it.

  Returning his notorious, panty-melting grin to his lips, he dipped his head and said, “Well, you can shoot me a text or call when you have free time to meet me at the Amazon Bookstore. I meant it when I said I want to replace it. It was nice… nice bumping into you.”

  “Nice… bumping… too,” I said with a faint wave, watching his form disappear into the ever-changing crowd. I stopped. Spun in a half circle as if I were looking for something.

  Oh, yeah.

  My common sense.

  What in the hell just happened?

  Don’t Poke the Bear

  “Leave it to you to graduate from breaking girls’ hearts to breaking girls’ digital means of ignoring us.”

  Finley had his hands tucked into his pockets, a cigarette dangling on the edge of his lips. A poster child for gritty bar owners all around the world. With wayward black hair, a five o’clock shadow, and the smell of last night’s regrets permeating through his skin, one would think he’d be dodged like a silver bullet when it came to women.

  But not Fin.

  And I knew because we shared a loft. The number of women who passed through his bedroom door made all my headlines read like a joke.

  Most mornings, we’d meet up for a quick walk and talk as we made our way to the subway. A ritual that has dated back to college.

  Handing him his coffee with a small chuckle, I pulled the cancer stick out of his mouth, tossing it into a trash can as we made our way down into the city.

  “Hey!”

  His usual protest.

  “That shit will kill you, man.”

  My usual answer.

  With a groan, he pulled out a pack of gum and popped a piece into his mouth. He was trying to quit. I was just there to help.

  “So what’d she look like? Had to be a looker if you’re talking about her.”

  I stepped to the side to avoid a pile of dog shit someone ignorantly left in the middle of the sidewalk. “She was impossibly small. I hadn’t realized she was behind me until it was too late.”

  His grin melted into a pompous slant. “Sure. That’s what I always blame it on, too, when I see a hot girl and want to secure a date. Did she do the whole freeze and giggle routine?”

  “Yeah, but it wasn’t like that. She wasn’t… she wasn’t like everyone else. I can’t explain it.” I felt something when our fingers touched. A spark. The kind that woke slumbering thoughts I’d never realized existed. Saw something in her gaze I hadn’t recognized before… something virtuous and true.

  Something a guy like me would never have the pleasure of knowing.

  “Oh, I’m sure it wasn’t.” He stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, twisting his legs in like a schoolgirl while his hands shot to his mouth.

  Here we go.

  “Oh my God… it’s Grayson Pierce,” he mocked in a high-pitched voice that sounded more like an old aunt who’d smoked for forty years. “Someone needs to call the firemen because he’s lit my panties on fire.” He peered around to the small audience he’d attracted. “Hose me down. Make me yours. Grayson…” he moaned in a high falsetto.

  My eyes rolled in response to his usual goading as an elicited chuckle wheezed past my lips. In the past, it’d piss me off when he brought attention to me. I’d had enough limelight to last me a lifetime. But that was Fin. Always joking.

  “I bet she slyly slid her number your way,” he said as he fell into step beside me.

  I ignored the two women who’d pulled out their phone, taking pictures of me before rushing past us. It was all I could do, because freaking out about it would only further damage my already-bruised reputation.

  “Actually, I had to give her mine. Even then, she seemed reluctant to take it.”

  His head jerked my way. “No shit? The Grayson Pierce had to give his number out?”

  “Like I said, it wasn’t like that.”

  I couldn’t get her out of my head. The auburn-haired enigma I’d managed to attract and scare off within mere minutes. Deep, ocean-blue eyes shielded by rounded black frames that shaped her face. Had I not clumsily bumped into her, I probably would have never even noticed her. She had an air about her that made her somewhat invisible. Not that she wasn’t easy on the eyes. It was her energy. The way she tucked into herself, hiding from the world.

  “You think she’ll call?”

  One shoulder shrugged. “Doubt it. A girl like that doesn’t call a guy like me, let alone have dinner with me. She’s too… good.”

  He snorted a laugh. “Good? You barely know her. She could be a stage-five clinger like that Monica chick.” He tossed a smirk my way. “Whatever happened to her?”

  Every muscle tensed in response to the sound of her name. A name I’d gladly forgotten about until now. “She moved on to a new victim.”

  Thank God.

  Monica came into my life almost two years ago when I’d first started at Stud. We met at a party. Shortly after, she started hanging around. Coming back to my place after late nights at Finley’s bar. Checking off new places to take me into her mouth whenever she could, something she made clear was on her bucket list. The bathroom. A dark alley. In the back of a theater.

  She was funny and sweet in the beginning, until she wasn’t. Until she started wanting more. Demanding. Stirring fights every chance she could. Cutting up pictures of my face and leaving them on my doorstep with a pair of her panties.

  Everywhere I went, she was somehow there, bumping into me by what seemed like chance.

  Only it wasn’t.

  I just didn’t figure that out until it was too late.

  I cut things off shortly after I realized she was leaving more and more of her things in my apartment. She tried to publicly drag me through the mud but, thankfully, I had Harrison on my side to cover up any dirt she tried to kick up.

  Luckily, I haven’t heard from her since.

  We both stopped at the entrance to his bar. “You coming out tonight?”

  “Maybe,” I answered, not wanting to set anything in stone just in case Pr
im decided to call.

  He smirked, lips tilted knowingly with a gleam in his eyes. “If she calls, bring her by. I have to know who has your panties in a wad.”

  I pegged him with a hard look. “Remind me again why the hell I continue to walk with you?”

  “Because I’m the only one who won’t put out when you smirk. It’s annoying, you know… that fucking panty-melting smirk.”

  A solitary eyebrow rose in his direction. “Looked in the mirror lately? I might be able to wield it, but you’ve turned that shit into foreplay.”

  I dodged his fist with a chuckle. After waving him off, I pulled out my phone. Fin was the only one who got away with talking shit to me, because I knew he was one of the only ones who wasn’t intentionally out to hurt me.

  My finger scrolled through the slew of messages stacked up like the dollar bills in my bank account. Some were from women I’d slept with hoping for another shot. Others from various businesses that wanted me to endorse their products. None, though, were from my father, and I preferred to keep it that way.

  Every morning, I took the same route to work. It was one part of my life I actually could control. A boring, normal thing the tabloids wouldn’t be interested in exploiting. A time when I could gather my thoughts for the day, before I had to put my game face on. Ever since the incident, I had to tread carefully with every decision I made within the public eye. It didn’t matter if I was at a church praying, the tabloids would find a way to put a spin on it that painted me in the worst light.

  And while in the past I loved every juvenile minute of it, now I really just wanted to make a name for myself doing something less superficial.

  My phone vibrated in my hand. It was my boss and mentor, Harrison’s, assistant calling.

  “Good morning, Gwen. Tell the old man I’m almost there.”

  A small sputter of laughter fluttered through the speaker. “Good morning to you, too, Grayson. I’ll be sure to let him know.” There was a short, weighted pause. “Also… there was a call from a Mrs. Pierce. Harrison asked me to let you know.”

  I came to a halt in the middle of the sidewalk, causing the man behind me to bump into my shoulder.

  “Watch it, pal,” he said with a glare.

  I lifted a hand in apology, then resumed walking, my stomach tied into a swift knot. The only Mrs. Pierce I cared about was gone, planted beneath our favorite oak butted up against the lake at my childhood home. A home my father has since paraded countless women through. Tainted with shame and lies.

  Mom’s fading smile was the only memory I’ve since clung to.

  “What does she want?” The words sputtered through my teeth.

  “She’s invited you to the annual charity ball for the Badgers.”

  The Badgers. My dad’s football team that was passed down to him by his father. A team that secured him a dynasty. A team I wanted nothing to do with.

  “Please regretfully decline.” Regretful was the least of what I felt, but I wasn’t the same young kid with a chip on his shoulder looking to get revenge. I was past that phase of my life. Ready to turn a new page.

  “Okay. Should I send anything?”

  Yeah. A middle finger.

  “That would be great, Gwen. How about a bottle of scotch and a bouquet of yellow tulips?”

  That would get his attention. Mom loved yellow tulips. And if they’re given to his fourth wife who openly and knowingly labeled them as too cheap, then he’ll be given his annual reminder I still don’t forgive him, I thought, enjoying what I imagined would be the expressions on their faces.

  “Will do.”

  The end of the call left me alone with my sullied thoughts. With a staggering amount of memories that stirred awake the dark inside of me. Just the mention of my father fired my blood. Made my fingers itch to destroy something. Anything.

  And it was that very hate, a hate I’d publicly spoken about, that brought me to the worst moment in my life.

  A moment I was still recovering from.

  The building where I worked loomed over the street like a giant, pointed incisor. I followed the crowd of suits up to the tenth floor, then made my way through the slew of cubicles and early morning office chatter. Set the box of bagels I’d brought on the table in the break room. Everyone worked better on a full stomach.

  Carrying the blueberry muffin I bought, I set it on Gwen’s desk, then headed past her to start my morning.

  Harrison was located on the other end of the office. His personality was larger than the state, and just as energetic and boisterous. I found him standing at the window like a king overlooking his kingdom.

  In some ways, he was a king in New York. With just a few words, he could make or break a person. His opinion on just about everything was sought after. Anticipated. Desired.

  “You’re late.”

  His back was still to me, one hand on his hip, the other holding a black marbled mug.

  “I had somewhat of a hiccup.”

  He swiveled around, tucking a hand into the pockets of his trousers. There was a shadow of a grin at the corners of his mouth… a sign I’d come to learn as dangerous.

  “What is it?”

  “Oh, nothing. Just waiting for Quinn’s call.”

  My insides tensed at the mention of Quinn. His rival. His ex.

  “You posted it?”

  I knew Harrison had approved a story to be run that was a subtle poke toward Virago—Stud’s mirror blog for women. A blog that surfaced shortly after the end of their relationship nearly twenty years ago.

  “Not quite. They’re running it through one more round of edits, then it will go. Any moment now.” He set his mug down and clapped his hands together, a jolt of excitement crossing over his face. It was his favorite past time, stirring the pot. Especially when it came to Quinn.

  “Haven’t you learned not to poke the bear?”

  He chuckled. “Poking is half the fun.”

  I took a seat across from his desk, then grabbed the paper off it. Harry was a stickler for the simpler things in life. He liked ink on his fingers and whiskey in his coffee. A cab ride to the local deli and a face-to-face conversation.

  “So, what have you got for me?” His head dipped, and I knew what was coming next. “You sure you don’t want to try your hand at sports? With your name and history, people would flock to hear what you have to say.”

  I set the paper down. “First off, I don’t watch sports. Second, I actually enjoy writing about style. I was style not too long ago.”

  A snort rested in his throat. “So what’s it going to be this week? How to dress for a date? What to wear in your Tinder profile pic? Are man buns in or out?”

  “Leveling up your casual look,” I finished for him. “Old Hollywood style.”

  Glancing down at himself, he let loose a smirk. “If you need pointers, let me know.”

  That warranted a chuckle.

  “Sir,” Gwen buzzed in.

  “Yes?”

  “The article just went live.”

  He glanced up at me. Held up his hand and counted down. On one, his phone rang, and his face lit up like the fourth of July. Quinn’s voice boomed on the other end of the line so loud even I could hear the profanities she tossed at him.

  “Hi, Quinny,” he said, waving me off, his lips tilted in the widest smile.

  Leaving his office, I made my way to my desk that overlooked the city. Signed on to my computer. Pulled out my notepad muddled with notes, then set it in its designated spot. Grabbed a pen and set it on the pad. Everything was where it should be.

  Only this time, my phone was right beside my keyboard instead of in my drawer.

  Just in case.

  Did You Forget Something?

  The chaotic buzz in the office sang a wild tune in my heart. Phones vibrated against their cradles. Papers belched out of fax machines and copiers. A hustle of bodies wove around one another, talking into headpieces in their ears.

  I stood there, staring at the brightly lit, v
iolet logo in scripted font on the entry wall, my lungs expanding with an unfamiliar excitement.

  Virago.

  A solitary word that held such strong meaning. Female warrior. Empowerment. Heroic and morally just. Everything the leading women’s blog stood for. Virago was the Joan of Arc in a male-lead industry. Carving a path in our march toward equality.

  Twelve years I’d waited for this moment. For this dream to become a reality. To find a pad of paper to press my pen to.

  I took a step forward into the office, ready to take hold of today, but that thought was interrupted as my body shot forward.

  “Shit,” someone said from behind me as I scrambled to pick myself and my dignity up from off the floor. Papers were scattered all around me as if I’d shaken the leaves loose from a tree. A sharp burn tingled around my knee, no doubt carpet burn.

  The bagels were feet away, spilled from their box.

  Such was my life.

  “Are you okay?” the woman asked as I stood and tried to help her gather papers. Her hair was a stark teal color, tendrils swimming on either side of her face. Long thick lashes shaded a deep hue of sunset violet eyes. She was a few inches taller than me, dressed in black-and-white checkered pants and a mustard-yellow top.

  She was the color wheel embodied.

  “I’m fine,” I managed to squeeze out in between wincing. “Me and the ground seem to be in the midst of a dangerous tango today.”

  A giggle ripped past her cherry-red lips. “That bad, eh?”

  “You should see my Kindle… she has it worse. After I pulled it free from my tote, I waved it in front of her.

  She clasped her hands against her chest, her lips marring in the shape of a frown. “That’s a literary tragedy.”

  “An electronic bloodbath,” I added with a smile.

  “The worst calamity to ever happen to a bookworm.” She touched at the Kindle. “Shall we say a little prayer?”

  With that, we exchanged unfurling grins. “Name’s Poppy.” She extended her hand. Thin, long fingers with nails painted black. Small diamonds tipped the sharp edges.

  I took her hand and shook. “Primrose.” My lips mirrored the raise of hers.