The expose 2, p.1
The Exposé 2, page 1
THE EXPOSÉ 2
By Roxy Sloane
Dedicated to the Seducers: Not a day goes by where you don’t make me smile. Thank you for your support, friendship, and for sharing your dirty fantasies!
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Copyright © 2015 Roxy Sloane
Cover Design: British Empire Design
Cover Photography: Perrywinkle Design
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
CHAPTER ONE
ZOE
I’m so close to my dream, I can taste it.
Sitting in the waiting area at the New York Daily newspaper, I have a front-seat view of the newsroom through a glass divider wall. The room is buzzing with activity: phones ringing, people hurrying from one cubicle to another, a group having a lively discussion in the conference room. People work, focused on the breaking news reports on their screens, and everywhere I look, the energy is incredible.
This is what it would be like to work at the best newspaper in the city.
I hug my portfolio to my chest. My stomach twists tighter with nerves. I’m not even supposed to be here. The last time I sat in these chairs was a month ago: fresh out of college, I applied to every paper, magazine, and blog in the tri-state area -- and everyone told me the same thing.
“We’re not hiring.”
I couldn’t believe it. I knew it wouldn’t be easy, that’s why I busted my ass for four years in college, making sure I had a ton of experience and clips by the time I graduated, but even after all of that, it turns out I’m still at Square One. All my experience: my freelance articles, my work on the student paper, it all counts for nothing. In this economy, news jobs are like gold dust, and even getting an unpaid internship is impossible.
Unless you have a super hot story that nobody else does.
And I do.
When I came in to interview here last month, the editor took pity on me. He explained that to get a foot in the door, I needed to prove myself. Bring in a juicy scoop, and maybe he’d find a spot for me. Which is why I’m back here again, ready to pitch my big exclusive and take him up on that challenge.
Unless he was just being polite.
I look around, my heart sinking with the thought. Maybe it was a way to let me down gently, the same line he gives every wannabe journalist who walks through his doors.
I feel a surge of determination. Even if that’s true, I’ve still got an amazing story to pitch him. It’s my ticket to the job of my dreams, a kick in the balls to my scumbaggy ex Troy, , proof that I’m not just a small townnobody), and I won’t back down without a fight.
I’m going to make it happen.
“Hey, can you pull the land registry files for the South River lot?” A man passes the reception desk behind me. He’s in his late twenties, maybe, with an armful of files and a flustered expression. “I need the environmental impact report too, thanks.”
I look around. Is he talking to me?
“I’m sorry, what was that?” I ask.
He looks up. “Land registry,” he repeats slowly. “You’ll need to go to city hall, the planning department. First time?”
“Yes,” I manage to reply. “I mean, no. I don’t work here.”
“You don’t? Shit, sorry.” The guy grins. “I just started. I haven’t got everyone straight just yet.”
“That’s OK,” I smile back, ignoring the jealousy that’s suddenly burning in my stomach. “Your lips to God’s ears. I’m trying to get hired.”
He gives a wry grin. “Job-hunting, huh? I don’t envy you. Man, it’s tough out there. I had to move back home to Nebraska, work a couple of years on my regional paper before these guys would even look twice at me.”
“And then you reapplied?” I ask.
“In a way. I landed a big corruption story, got picked up all over the place,” he explains. “It’s the only way to cut through the noise, you know? After that, I got a bunch of offers. Put my name out there for good.” He catches sight of someone waving from across the room. “Anyway, I’ve got to run. Good luck out there!”
He hurries away, back to the buzz of the newsroom. I watch him go, still battling envy. But if anything, his words make me even more determined to knock this pitch out of the park and make the editor here sit up and take notice.
“Zoe Warren?”
I look up. The receptionist is gesturing for me. I bounce out of my seat. “Mr. Granger is free. Last door on the right,” she nods across the room to the corner office.
“Thank you!”
I try to calm my nerves as I walk over. You’ve got this, Zoe, I tell myself. Just stay cool, be concise, and let your work do the talking.
The editor’s door is open, so I cautiously edge inside. He’s sitting at his desk, on a call. Late forties, with salt and pepper hair, and wire-rimmed glasses, kind of the hot professor look. He glances up, and beckons me in as he scribbles on a notepad with his free hand. “Uh huh... no, switch the murder to A2, above the fold, and bump housing to the mid-section.”
Just hearing the newspaper jargon gives me chills. I look around. Charles Granger is the managing editor of the city section, and his office looks like a minor disaster zone. Piles of paperwork balanced on every surface, and stacks of past editions knee-high in the corners.
I love it.
He hangs up, and turns back to me with an interested look. “Miss Warren, back so soon?”
“Well, you said to see you if I had a story.”
Granger leans back in his chair. “I’m all ears.”
I take a deep breath.
“It’s about The Underground.”
Granger looks blank.
“It’s an exclusive members-only sex club,” I explain. I rush to elaborate before he can shoot me down. “Rumor has it, it’s frequented by all kinds of big names. Celebrities. Businessmen. Politicians.”
Granger looks mildly interested now. “Rumors? I can’t print news off of hearsay.”
“I know. I’m going to investigate from the inside, and write a big exposé about the people who go there.”
I pass Granger my preliminary notes. He glances through them, thoughtful.
“When you say ‘sex club,’ you mean...?”
“It’s hard to describe.” I think of the luxurious club, the private booths, the extravagant suites where every fantasy can be indulged. “It’s the ultimate in high-class BDSM. They have bondage, multiple partners, public shows... Anything the clients want. This isn’t some amateur swinger’s club,” I add. “There could be a huge story there.”
“You say everything’s anonymous, with a screening process for new applicants?”
I nod.
“With this kind of security, how would you even get the story if there is one? Do you have a source, inside?” he asks.
“Me,” I say, feeling proud. “I’m already in. I got a job there as a hostess. I made it through my trial shift, and I start for real on Monday.”
“You’re sure this is safe?” He’s skeptical.
“Completely.” I hope he doesn’t see my gaze waver. “And I’ll do what it takes to get the story.”
He looks impressed. “You took the initiative.”
“That’s what a reporter does, isn’t it?” I reply. “I even used a fake name as a cover story, so they couldn’t trace me to my old journalism articles.”
“Still, I don’t know...” Granger sighs. “Sex scandals sell copies, but they’re the cheap junk food of the industry. Is it any of our business how some guy gets his rocks off after-hours?”
“I’m not interested in that part,” I agree. “But think about the bigger picture. If someone’s mixed up in the club, that makes them vulnerable to all kinds of other things. Blackmail, extortion. And what kind of insider deals are getting struck behind closed doors?” I ask, my enthusiasm pouring out of me. “Put the most powerful, richest people in the city in one place, and there’s bound to be corruption of some kind!”
“True,” Granger nods. “So what’s the deal with the owner, this Dax Ryan?”
I feel a rush of heat, just at the name. His deal? Try being powerful, sexy, and devastatingly gorgeous. The kind of man to run an empire.
The kind of man to get me spread-eagled on his desk within hours, lost in the most amazing orgasm of my life.
I flush, and clear my throat. “He’s pretty secretive, but I’m certain he’s mixed up in something big. I overhead a conversation, he was talking about cash payments and keeping his trail clean.”
Granger nods again. “Well, it sounds like you have the beginnings of a big story here.”
I straighten. “So you’re in? You said, if I brought you something, you would find a job for me.”
“Not so fast.” Granger looks amused. “Right now, you have rumor and assum
I beam. “I won’t disappoint you.”
He scowls, but I see a smile hiding under there, and I know I’ve impressed him. “Keep in touch. I’m here to help, if you have any questions. Let’s see how this develops, OK?”
“Deal.”
I reach across the desk and shake his hand. I manage to keep up the professional act as I walk back across the newsroom, and take the elevator down to the street below. Then, I can’t resist grinning and giving a little bounce of glee.
My plan is working!
First, I managed to get myself hired at the club, and now Granger is on board with the story. Soon, I’ll have the exposé I need to jump-start my career for good.
As long as I can handle myself around Dax Ryan and his delicious, wicked, filthy mouth, everything will turn out great.
That won’t be so hard.
Will it?
CHAPTER TWO
DAX
There’s another note in the mail when I arrive at the club.
‘You are going to pay for what you’ve done.’
I take a seat in my office, and think hard. It’s the same as the first one: same plain white paper, same block printed words. That one was simple: ‘I know what you’re hiding.’ It was hand-delivered, like this one, with no clue about who sent it. Or why.
“We checked the security footage again,” my head of security, Griffin, explains. “Looked like it was delivered by some homeless guy from down the block. I talked to him myself, he says some guy paid him twenty bucks to put it through the door.”
“Can he describe the man?”
Griffin shakes his head. “He’s pretty out of it most of the time. Started ranting about government surveillance, and the CIA.”
“Dammit!” I slam my fist against the desk. “It’s been a week now, and we’re no closer to finding out who’s sending these.”
“My guess is, he’ll make himself known.” Griffin looks calm. Fifteen years in the Navy SEALS will do that to a guy. “You don’t go to this kind of trouble on a prank. ‘Going to pay,’ he says it right there. Next step will be a blackmail demand, cash.”
“Or what?”
He shrugs. “Depends what kind of cards he’s holding. Some things are always worth paying to keep quiet. You sure you don’t know what he’s referring to? Everyone has skeletons…”
I shake my head, ignoring his probing question. “I don’t let people extort me, particularly those who are too cowardly to even show their face.” I toss the note down. “There’s been nothing unusual in the club?”
Griffin checks his tablet. “Nothing big, no. A drunk scuffle over a check last night, one of the members complained about a waiter getting too friendly.”
I look up sharply. “That’s unacceptable--”
“I know, I already fired him,” Griffin interrupts me. “It’s dealt with.”
“Good.” I nod. “Any issues with the new hostess hires?”
“Anna Banks and Kate Kendell? None so far. They’re keeping their head down, learning the ropes.”
“Even Kate?”
Griffin looks interested. “Something you want to tell me, boss?”
“Not yet. Just keep an eye on her,” I tell him. “She’s a new face, and at a time like this, I don’t like having people here I can’t trust.”
“Understood.” Griffin exits the office, and closes the door behind him.
I sit back in my chair.
Kate.
Not forty-eight hours ago, she was here in this office: thighs spread apart on my desk, giving me a taste of her sweet, juicy pussy. She came her brains out for me, begging for more, completely out of control. The sexiest damn thing I’ve ever seen.
I don’t trust her one bit.
Sure, her resumé says she’s a saint: volunteer work, glowing references, but I’m a good read of people, and something about her doesn’t add up.
There’s a curiosity in that wide-eyed stare that could be dangerous. And if she’s connected to these threatening notes...?
Griffin won’t be the only one with his eye on her. I’m going to watch that girl like a hawk. Nothing happens in my club without my say-so. I’ve built my reputation on secrets, and one slip could bring my whole empire crashing down.
“Mr. Ryan?” my intercom goes. It’s Dominique, at the front desk. “There’s a man here to see you.”
“Does he have an appointment?” I say gruffly, wondering if this is the man behind the notes, ready to make his demands.
“No, and he won’t give his name.”
I’m already on my feet, reaching for my jacket. “I’ll be right out.”
I stride through the club, my temper rising. If this anonymous asshole thinks he can blackmail me, he’s got another thing coming. I’ll break his face -- and then have Griffin take care of the rest of him.
I head downstairs, to the lavish entry lobby. Dominique is standing in front of someone, and I charge over, ready to give him a piece of my mind. Then she stands aside.
“Nikolai?” I stop, seeing the man waiting there. For a moment, it’s like I’m seeing a ghost.
“Dax, my boy.” The man breaks into a smile. “I’ve been saying, we’re old buddies. Go way back,” he says to Dominique. “I knew this one when he was just a skinny brat, running around the old neighborhood causing all kinds of bullshit.”
Two muscly guys are loitering behind him, looking threatening. “He didn’t have an appointment.” Dominique glares.
He’s looking older than I remember, his dark hair turning grey, but the rest of him is the same: the compact, wiry body dressed in an immaculate suit. The gold cuff-links, the tanned, weathered face and coal-black eyes.
I give Dominique a nod. “It’s fine,” I say shortly. “I have time.”
“Sure you do,” Nikolai snorts. “Come on, let’s see this club of yours.” He starts towards the stairs. His muscle begins to follow, but he stops the two men with a gesture. “No need, we’ve got this. Right, Dax?” He slaps me on the back.
“They’re welcome to wait here,” I offer. They scowl.
“Behave,” Nikolai warns them, then laughs. “C’mon.”
I lead him up. “Charming gentlemen, your associates,” I note. “Do you travel with them a lot?”
“Twenty-four seven, can’t be too safe,” Nikolai replies, and I wonder what new business he’s mixed up in these days.
Back when I knew him, Nikolai had a hand in every shady deal in the neighborhood. Gambling, protection rackets, and worse, it all went through him. He was feared and beloved in equal measure, and if you had a problem you needed settled, or a favor in mind, he would be your last stop, if not the first.
I started working for him when I was just a kid. Running errands, passing messages. There weren’t many ways to make an honest buck in that part of the city, but Nikolai always had cash to spare if you could show you had value. I had a head for numbers, even then, and soon I was helping him figure the books and calculating odds for the Friday night fights. He took me under his wing, training me in the ring and out of it too; became like a father to me.
Until I chose a different path and left that life behind.
I show him into the lounge, and politely offer him a drink. “Scotch?” I ask. “I’ve got a bottle of twenty-year Glenfiddich.”
“Don’t mind if I do.” He settles in a booth and looks around. “Nice place you’ve got yourself here. Moving up in the world.”
I go to the bar and pour our drinks.
“What happened to the place on Ludlow?” he asks, as I walk back over.
I tense. The speakeasy was the first place I opened, back after scraping my way through night classes and business school. Even sinking my life savings into the joint, I still needed help to make it a reality.
Help I went to Nikolai to get. Reluctantly. He put up the rest of the cash right away, but it was a deal with the devil. Even though I paid his loan back in a matter of months -- with generous interest -- he still feels like I owe him something.
