Barking a laugh, I push out of the car. I drop my smile and give every camera my trademark squint.
Yeah, Hill is a good man. And he’s all mine.
Chapter Eighteen
Hill
A commotion pullsmy head up from editing Menace’s piece a few weeks after we get back from Australia.
“Who the fuck is Hill Washington?” a voice bellows from the office doorway.
I step out of my cubicle, my hands tucked in my pockets. “That’s me.”
A white man with light brown hair and a beet-red face has his eyes narrowed on me as he holds up a newspaper and takes a few steps in my direction. “Who thefuckgave you the right to do a piece on me?” He throws the paper at my chest where it flutters to the ground, nostrils flaring in anger.
Ticking up an eyebrow, I look down at the paper and toe it away toward him. “Didn’t think a man like you would actually pick up a physical paper.” Looking back at him, I say, “No one has to give me the right or permission. You’re an interesting man, so I figured the world would want to get to know you better. Didn’t think I’d find such…interesting information.”
Not only does Robert Beningfield the fifth not know how to keep his hands to himself, he doesn’t know how to run a good business or pay people what they’re owed.
From the information Lucian and I were able to dig up, he’s close to three million dollars in debt and has very little liquid funds. He’s been borrowing money from friends and colleagues, promising things he can’t deliver, like a return on investment when the market turns.
On top of that, he’s harmed more women than the ones Menace knows about, making them sign NDAs to keep their silence. But what Beningfield didn’t know is that in a clause one of the women’s lawyers added in, if information about his indiscretions came to light, the contract would be void and she could come forward about her ordeal.
I plan to interview her in the coming weeks, after she goes to court to ensure the clause is binding and she’s no longer beholden to the NDA.
He gets in my face, his hot breath wafting over me. “You don’t know who you’re fucking with,” he sneers.
“A broke rapist?” I ask, tipping my head to the side. “You don’t scare me.”
We’ve gathered quite an audience, my co-workers watching everything play out. A few have flanked Beningfield and the two men that came with him, ready for shit to pop off. I’m not sure why people think journalists aren’t about that action. We’re always ready to tussle if it means we’ll get a story.
“What’s going on here?” Clifton asks, hurrying from his office. “What’s the meaning of this?”
With one last snarl, Beningfield steps back and fixes his jacket, smoothing his hair back like ninety-nine percent of the office didn’t just see him lose his shit. “Nothing. This…man,” he sneers the word like it’s foul, “wrote inflammatory lies about me and this paper will be sued until it’s just a fucking footnote.”
Clifton bends and picks up the paper, reading the headline. He looks back up at Beningfield with a bored expression. “Hill is one of my best, most diligent journalist. I can assure you,if there’s anything here, it’s not lies. You can sue if you want, but remember, if nothing in the article is proven to be false, we can counter-sue for more than court costs. Think wisely, Mr.Beningfield.”
Beningfield looks taken aback, like he thought his money and status would have me in some sort of trouble. Clifton might be a dick sometimes, but he didn’t fuck around when it comes to his people. He knows that our work—while it might not be found in the most legal of ways—is never wrong. He goes to bat for us when need be.
Sputtering, Beningfield says, “You’ll hear from my lawyer!” To me, he points his finger and says, “I’d watch myself if I were you. Accidents happen, Mr.Washington.”
“Okay,” Clifton says, pushing up his already rolled up sleeves as if he’s ready to go toe to toe with Beningfield, “time for you to leave, sir, or I’ll have you trespassed.”
After one last withering look, Beningfield storms out, knocking over some boxes as he does.
“Nothing to see here, people,” Clifton says, shooing everyone away. “Get back to work and make more people that mad.” A few people chuckle as they go back to work. “My office, Washington.”
Sighing, I follow him to his cluttered office, moving files to the floor so I can sit down in the only available chair.
He looks at me, tapping his finger against his lips. I meet his gaze unwaveringly, not wanting him to think I have something to hide.
After a few more beats, he says, “I’m not gonna ask where you got your information, I just want to make sure you have a way to prove it’s legit in case he goes through with his threat.”
The guys and gals we pay for their services may not come by their information legally, but they always come with receipts. As long as we don’t leak their names, I can show Clifton proof that everything in that article is legit.
Nodding, I reassure him. “It’s all true. You know me, Clifton. I dig up information I need and never publish fabrications. Trust me, everything I wrote is true.”
He doesn’t question me further, just tells me to get back to work and have Menace’s article on his desk before I leave work tonight.
