In my Arms Tonight (NYC Singles Book 2) (3 page)

Present

I
f there was something Kat had learnt in over a decade of being a political reporter, it was that bad news had a way of popping out of nowhere.

Like every other reporter, she began her day with bad news or looking for what could be turned into bad news.

But this bad news was different. It involved her. Or it could involve her.

‘
New York Times
to begin layoffs,’ was the title of a press release from the Newspaper Guild that had popped into her inbox several moments ago.

Kat scanned the article quickly and the key phrases were enough to give her a headache. Seven am. It was too early in the day for this.

She hadn’t even had coffee yet and she was sitting around in a nondescript café waiting for John Anderson, the councilman who’d called her yesterday and asked to meet with her.

Meeting John was a tricky proposition. Over the last few months, she’d been carrying out a secret investigation of suspicious movements of money from his campaign account into the account of an escort. With her evidence cemented, she only had to turn over the story to her boss. By the end of the day, his money laundering would become public knowledge through the
New York Times
website.

“Hurry up.” Kat shot an impatient glance at the barista, who was taking his own sweet time to make her a cup of coffee.

Cortisol was rising in her system with every letter of the press release she read.

The
New York Times
is expected to lay off thirty journalists this week…

Employees will be informed starting Wednesday…

Wednesday was tomorrow.

Laid-off staff will be offered severance packages and two weeks’ notice…

More jobs are expected to be cut in the future as the
New York
Times
restructures its business under new management.

And it went on and on, followed by statements from the president of the Newspaper Guild and the
NYT’
s management.

Kat crossed her legs, her lip quivering and her heart galloping at the speed of a racehorse.

Losing. Her. Job.

Just the prospect knocked the air out of her lungs. Giving up being a reporter was too horrible to imagine. Being a journalist was her identity, her purpose in life, her dharma, her nirvana and her everything else. It was what she was. It was who she was.

And the
New York
Times
was where she belonged. Where she’d grown up and become herself. Where she’d found her feet and learnt to walk, jump and sprint. It was her home.

And now she could possibly be homeless. Both literally and figuratively.

The money in her bank account, adding in the severance pay, wouldn’t cover more than three months rent. She was smart enough to know that getting hired anywhere else would be tough. The
Washington Post
had culled a hundred newsroom staff last year. The
Wall Street Journal
had slashed even more journalist jobs. Many of the local newspapers, in the aftermath of the recession, had wound up altogether.

Not the best time for the newspaper industry, really.

Coffee. She needed her coffee to think.

She could get another job in a different industry, couldn’t she? Marketing, public relations or consulting, maybe? She had good credentials, good writing skills… What was she thinking?

Nobody was going to fire her. She was a beat reporter. She had the most secure kind of job one could possibly have at a newspaper.

This was her coffee-craving mind going into overdrive. Nothing else.

A sharp tap on the table jerked her away from her worries.

“Mr. Anderson.” Asserting control over her thoughts, Kat greeted him with professional poise.

Paunchy, with a frame weighed down by years of hedonism, John didn’t bother smiling at her. He slammed one fleshy hand on the table and folded himself onto the chair opposite hers. “What do you want?”

“A hot cup of cappuccino would be great.”

John gave a smothered laugh, like she’d pulled a killer punch line. “I meant what do you want in exchange for burying that story about me using an escort service.”

Kat snapped awake. The adrenaline in her system roared again and compensated for the lack of caffeine. This was getting interesting.

“So you’re admitting that you used campaign funds to pay for an escort service.” Smearing lip gloss onto her dry lips, she deliberately irritated him.

“You don’t need my admission. You already have enough to go on.”

“I won’t ask you how you know about—”

“Camila talks. And not just to you.” Camila was the escort Kat had interviewed in connection to this case. “I’m telling you. Don’t do it. You’ll regret it. You might think you’re invincible, but you’re not.”

“Are you threatening me?” Indignant, Kat brandished a tube of Maybelline Great Lash mascara at him.

Another supercilious smirk came her way. Just because the tube was pink didn’t mean he could mock it. Pink had power, too. “I’m giving you a chance to have a better life. Be sensible here. You could work a lifetime and never save up enough being a reporter. Don’t you want things? Just name the figure and I’ll have it in your account. Believe me, one little article is not worth it.”

He tried to seduce her like he seduced the public. But she was immune to these tricks.

Kicking her heels, Kat raised her butt from the seat. It was time to unleash some strong body language. Planting her feet in a wide stance, she wagged her finger authoritatively. “No amount of money can shut me up, Mr. Anderson.”

“Oh, drop the ‘I’m an honest reporter’ act. The economy’s in recession. You could lose your job any minute. Ideals won’t feed you. Money will. Imagine your future. You could retire early, buy a home in France and move.”

Ideals might not feed her, but they were what let her sleep at night. Her one fatal flaw was that was that she couldn’t violate her principles. Democracy and integrity were the two most important principles.

“Your empty promises might work on voters, but I have more discrimination than to fall for them.” Averting her face, Kat started to leave, only to have him latch onto her wrist.

For one instant, her spine tingled with fear. Spit choked her throat. The face of her stalker burst out from nowhere. She went to the place she hadn’t gone to in months.

For all her bravado, she wasn’t invulnerable. She could be stupidly cowardly at times.

“Let go.” The weak words somehow squeezed past her tight vocal cords.

John slanted his gaze up. His blue irises were almost translucent. Kat didn’t sense any danger in them. “Think about it. You have twenty-four hours.” That line was stolen right out of a James Patterson thriller novel.

“Thank you for the offer, but my answer remains a no.”

Without wasting a second, Kat bolted out of the door.

At nine-thirty am, all the politics staff writers gathered in the newsroom for an editorial meeting. From the slumped shoulders and tense smiles, it was clear that they’d all read the press release the Newspaper Guild had sent around this morning.

Motivation had been low among the newsroom staff for months now after the new CEO had taken over and talk of restructuring had become watercooler gossip.

“Good morning, everyone,” Bill, the politics editor, said, his optimism out of place in the general sobriety of the surroundings.

Well, he could be energetic. He wasn’t going to lose his job.

Bill had worked at the
NYT
since Kat was in primary school. Ruddy-complexioned, with a healthy beer belly and vocal cords of steel, he had been a respected reporter with a few big awards to his name before becoming an editor. Probably because his son was going to college soon and a few extra thousand dollars never hurt anybody, as Mr. Anderson had been kind enough to remind her this morning.

“What stories have we got for today? International?” Bill asked, shooting a glance to Nate, the chief political correspondent who covered international politics.

“Women in Saudi voted for the first time and twenty female candidates won seats on the municipal councils across the country.” Nate read off his laptop screen.

“Can we change the angle slightly to focus on the reaction to this victory? Get something from prominent politics and sociology experts on what this means for Saudi Arabia and for women’s rights,” Bill said, waving his hands about. He had a habit of overusing his hands during conversations, which was distracting.

Nate nodded. “I’ll do that.”

Bill moved on to cover all the other pitches. Kat was relieved when he finally got to her. Of course she had to tell him about the John Anderson thing.

“Push, people, everything needs to get in as early as possible for tomorrow’s paper. Let’s do this.” Bill clapped, a sign for all the reporters to scramble to their desks and start typing.

Glad to have the opportunity to write the biggest story in city politics for the year, Kat scurried away, but Bill tapped on her shoulder.

“Kat, I need to talk to you in my office. It’ll only take a minute.” He motioned to the red staircase that sloped up from the newsroom to the floor above.

“Now?” Kat fidgeted, pretending to look busy.

“Now.”

One look at Bill’s expression and she knew it would be her. They were going to lay her off. No wonder Bill hadn’t looked excited when she’d told him about John Anderson and the escort.

He’d been trying to find a way to tell her this would be her last story.

Bill shuffled ahead, nervous.

Oh, no, oh, no, oh, no.

Her head spun. Tears began to claw at her eyes, but she knew they’d never spill out. She was extraordinarily good at holding her emotions in.

Bravely, she angled her chin up and followed Bill to his office. The door shut behind her automatically, locking her into the stifling silence of the room.

Positioning himself behind his desk, Bill leveled his gaze on her. He was creating distance. A sure sign that he was going to drop the bomb on her. Kat’s muscles tensed and her heart stopped in anticipation of what was coming.

“Kat.” He shook his head ruefully. “You know the company is planning to axe about thirty journalists—”

“I read the news.” Duh. The news was her life. How would she not know?

Bill clasped his hands behind his back. “Don’t worry, that’s not what I wanted to talk about. You’re not going. We still need you here.”

Kat clamped her lips so she wouldn’t smile or cry out in happiness.

Making a loop in the air with his index finger, Bill carried on. “But sadly, there will be some people in our division who’ll be leaving. And that means we don’t have anybody to cover the city’s mayoral race. I want you on it. You were on the 2008 presidential campaign trail, so you can handle this without a problem.”

Kat gave a confident nod. “I’ll do my best.”

Some people would be irritated by extra responsibility and more work. Not her. She was excited. Energized. Honored that Bill had considered her for the extra work because it meant she was valuable.

Besides, writing about the mayoral race was a great opportunity for her. This was the part of journalism she’d been missing the most—covering campaigns. She could experience the thrill of interviewing, debating, analyzing and informing the public of issues that could affect their future, rather than sifting through mind-numbingly boring press releases and begging grumpy city hall officials for documents and statements.

“There’s an affordable housing forum today at New York University. Attend it. It’ll help you get up to speed with the candidates. I’m sure you’re abreast of the race in general. Last Quinnipiac polls showed Summer leading.”

“I know.”

Although she hadn’t been directly involved in the coverage of the mayoral race, Kat had been keeping tabs on the candidates, as any concerned citizen would. It was very early in the race, but Alex Summer, the progressive Democratic candidate and former congressman, was starting to emerge as a favorite already. Twitter was abuzz with his campaign slogans and even people usually uninterested in politics, like her grandmother, were posting memes of him on their Facebook walls.