But come tomorrow, distractions would become costly. I had to take whatever threats were coming seriously.
I had to consider the possibility that the Black Reapers may be worth listening to.
Hailey
“So let me get this straight. You didn’t get anything on the record, but now you’re going to a party tonight so that you can gain their trust to launch an investigative, thorough piece on the club?”
Mr. Roberts, sitting across from me at an old, splintering conference table, with his arms folded in front of him and his eyes looking an extra couple of years older than before, said those words with the sort of exhausted ennui of a boss disappointed in an employee on a perpetual basis. I had thought this idea, one more or less spun on the spot, would work well. Apparently, I’d been too long-sighted.
“I asked for quotes today, Miss Cook. Where are my quotes today?”
“I couldn’t get anything, but sir, this could be the big break the news station needs!” I said. “Think about it. People are always attracted to rough and tough men. Everyone knows about the Devil’s Patriots, but when was the last time anyone got any access to them?”
Mr. Roberts nodded, starting to see my point. I already knew the answer—The Arizona Republic had done a piece about a dozen years ago that had so angered the guys that they had left graffiti on the office buildings and slung flyers across all of Phoenix declaring the Republic the enemy of the state. The police had given the bikers a fine for destruction of property, but no one faced any jail time, and everyone in the community understood that they were an angry dog best left in its own yard.
“You do this well, and you’ll be the greatest journalist to ever move out of Phoenix,” he said.Because they’ll harass you out.“Do this poorly, and your career will be over for many reasons.”
I grimly nodded.
“I’m sorry I couldn’t get quotes, sir, but in the moment, it just felt—”
“Miss Cook, if you can produce an award-winning investigative report from this, then your apology will be fully accepted,” Mr. Roberts said. “If, on the other hand, you fail to do so, then I would recommend starting looking at restaurants seeking waitresses.”
I silently fumed at that comment. I knew he didn’t mean to offend. But I wasn’t a pushover. If I could handle a man namedSatan,I could handle a man who fancied himself Mr. Rogers but was more Mr. Asshole.
“I understand, sir.”
“Just remember, too, Miss Cook, a good journalist always gets a good story faster and harder than anyone else,” he said as he motioned for me to leave. “I understand this will take time, but I do not want the calendar to turn to a new month without having something in my hands.”
The next month? Jesus Christ.
Maybe I do need to go look for waitressing jobs.
Nevertheless, I nodded, walked out, and put it all behind me. Tonight, I was going to go to a Devil’s Patriots’ party. And while I would not forget that I was there as a journalist to get more out of the club, I also was going to let my hair down and enjoy myself.
After all, as Leigh said, I was due for a good night out. Who said it couldn’t also just happen to be a work night as well?
* * *
I found myself stressing far more than I ever would have anticipated about what I would wear.
On the one hand, it was “for work.” But just as how I would dress for a Phoenix Suns game differed from how I’d dress for a local inauguration, I knew I couldn’t dress up in anything nice. On the flip side, though, I could not show up looking like I was offering myself as a sacrificial whore to the Devil’s Patriots.
I found myself striking a weird balance, then, where I wore tight jeans and a tank top that, if I pulled it down even just half an inch, would reveal some nice cleavage, but I wore it a bit higher than normal. Leigh would have given me so much crap if she were here, but I made sure to keep her in the dark on this. When she’d asked what I was doing tonight, I just replied, “Work.”
The last thing I needed was her getting any ideas about tagging along for this party and getting into trouble with these guys.
I called an Uber, and as soon as I got in the car, the first thing the guy asked was if I knew what I’d input as the address. Peaceful as the Devil’s Patriots might have been in recent times, their potential for chaos and disorder was never far from people’s minds. I confirmed it—twice, as the driver looked concerned I might have been coerced into something—and got dropped off with a hesitant, “Good luck.”
I could hear AC/DC blaring the second I stepped outside of the car. To the far left of the building, two dudes were pissing on the sidewalk. They were turned away from me, but—
“Hey, pretty lady!”
That changed. Their cocks hung out from their jeans, and they looked as unconcerned as someone wearing a bracelet in public. I swallowed and kept walking forward.
I was here for one co—no, onemanonly, and that man would protect me.
I sure fucking hoped.
