Ten Beach Road (53 page)

“He was doing live shots from outside Kabul early this morning and one of the New York producers told him. And, um, I think he might have seen the, um, video on . . .” There was a long drawn out bobbing of his Adam’s apple. “. . . Um, YouTube.”

Her gaze moved from Marty’s throat to his face, which was strangely flushed. “Did you say YouTube?”

Marty shifted uncomfortably in his chair, his long frame clearly too large for the piece of furniture just like his Adam’s apple seemed too large for his throat. He looked away.

“What does YouTube have to do with me?”

Marty met her gaze, swallowed slowly and painfully again. “I hit my head when I fell and missed most of what happened after that.”

She waited. As an investigative reporter, silence had always been one of her best weapons.

“But apparently the target sensed something was up from the beginning. When the undercover guy approached him to complete the transaction, he got nervous and pulled out a gun. I never expected a commodities trader to show up armed. Isn’t white-collar crime supposed to be nonviolent?

“Anyway, he must have been really nervous, because the agent said the guy’s hand was shaking so badly they’re not even sure whether the first shot was intentional. That was the bullet that came between us and made me drop my camera.”

“So how’d I get shot? What were all the rest of those bullets?”

“It just got out of control. Somebody on the FBI’s side fired back—some rookie, it looks like—and then it was the shoot-out at the O.K. Corral. I don’t think they even realized we were there. I sure would like to know why your contact kept that tidbit to himself.”

It was Vivi’s turn to look away and for her Adam’s apple to feel too big for her throat. She hadn’t actually notified her contact that they’d planned to be there. She’d thought they’d get better footage if no one was mugging for the camera. And she hadn’t expected the commodities trader to have a gun, either.

“The target is dead,” Marty continued. “And there’s going to be an internal investigation. It was a real screwup. And, um, strangely enough when I dropped my camera it got wedged up against a tire, rolling. And, um, trained on you. I mean what are the odds of that happening? It’s actually kind of funny, really.” His voice trailed off when he saw her face. “In a bizarre sort of way.”

“Yeah,” Vivien said. “It’s hysterical.”

“So anyway, while I was out cold the FBI took my camera and watched the video to see if it would provide any clues as to what went down, who was at fault. But, um, unfortunately the only thing on the tape was . . . you.”

“And?”

“And someone made a copy. And, um, posted it on YouTube.”

Vivien stared at him in silence, not intentionally this time, but because she couldn’t help it.

“It’s been extremely popular. Phenomenally so. I think you’ve already had fifty thousand views in less than twenty-four hours. You’ve got four and a half stars.”

Now
Vivien’s life flashed before her eyes. In Technicolor and 3-D. She watched it in painful slo-mo. Those first years in New York, alone and friendless, a southern-fried fish out of water in a sea of self-assured northern sharks.

Then came the long grueling years spent building credibility, honing her interview techniques, building her contact base, developing her research skills. Not to mention the endless hours spent smothering her southern accent, mercilessly shortening and clipping those lazy vowels and drawnout syllables so that she could have been from anywhere, or nowhere, under the equally merciless tutelage of New York’s most expensive voice coach.

The years of working twice as hard as any man around her. Of always putting the job, the story, the next break before anything else. Before family, before friends, before lovers. She had worked with single-minded determination until the name Vivien Gray became synonymous with “inside scoop.”

All of it ground to dust by a ten-minute video of her butt.

Scooting on her side, she managed to swing her legs off the bed and lower her feet to the floor and ultimately to stand. Marty jumped up from his chair, concerned. “What are you doing? Are you allowed to get out of bed?”

“I don’t know and I don’t care. They’ve poked and prodded me since I got here. And when they weren’t poking or prodding they were laughing. Or trying not to. One of the doctors actually told me I should have ‘turned the other cheek.’ ”

A snort of amusement escaped Marty’s lips, and she shot him a withering look. “Don’t you dare laugh. Don’t you dare!”

Wincing with each step, she carried her clothes into the bathroom and removed the hospital gown. Her body was bruised and battered. Her underwear and jeans had holes laced with blood where the bullet had passed through. Vivien pushed back the nausea she felt at the remembered feel of steel slamming into her flesh. Gingerly she stepped into the jeans, careful not to dislodge the dressing on her wound as she pulled them up, then tossed the underwear into the trash can.

She was about to slip an arm into the shirt she’d been wearing the night before when she noticed that it, too, had a hole in the same spot. Holding it up in front of her, she opened the bathroom door and reached out a bare arm. “Give me the T-shirt you have on under your long sleeves.” She held her hand out until she felt the cotton cross her palm, then pulled it on over her head and down over her rear end.

As she walked back into the hospital room ready to bully Marty into helping her slip out of the hospital and into a cab, it occurred to her that the well-bred southern girls’ code of conduct might be in need of an addendum. Because surely if such a girl should have the bad taste to not only get shot but
survive
, she’d better make damned sure her abject humiliation wasn’t captured on camera, aired on national television, or uploaded to YouTube.

7 DAYS AND 7 NIGHTS
LEAVE IT TO CLEAVAGE
HOSTILE MAKEOVER
SINGLE IN SUBURBIA
THE ACCIDENTAL BESTSELLER
MAGNOLIA WEDNESDAYS
TEN BEACH ROAD