Kathleen O'Reilly - Beyond Daring

“Oh,” muttered Jeff, going over his notes. Mercedes had a sex blog that she wrote anonymously. The Red Choo Diaries. Most of his friends’ sisters wrote their secrets in their diaries. Not Mercedes. No, the whole freaking world had to know about her secrets.

“I don’t have time for this, Mercedes,” he said, sending off an e-mail to a reporter at the Daily News, his last reminder before today’s event.

“Why not? Don’t you care about the freedom of the press? You, of all people, who depend on the media in order to do your job? I think you’re a traitor in disguise, Jeff. I can’t believe you’re my brother.

“Oh, calm down, Mercedes. You write a sex blog, not Gone with the Wind.”

“And isn’t it a fact that you lie, cheat and brainwash people for a living?”

“On a good day, yes.”

She humphed and went back to the paper. “The least you could do is help me write an Op-Ed piece. You know, something with a great hook and pizzazz. I need to work on my platform.”

“What platform?” he asked.

“A marketing platform. My agent told me that.”

Jeff frowned. “What agent?”

“Do you pay attention to anything I tell you?”

“No.”

“At least Andrew listens to me.”

“I got him the other day.”

That brought the joy back into Mercedes’s eyes. “Really? How?”

“I told him that Jamie wouldn’t wait forever for him to propose.”

“Oh, what did he do? Pale, pasty complexion, the eye dodge, or the back-brace-posture-pose.”

“All of the above.”

“I bet he proposes next week.”

“Nah, three months. At his heart, Andrew’s too conservative.”

“With Jamie? Hello! They played hide the salami in a limo. On a workday. We have to bet. One thousand dollars says he proposes within the month.”

“You don’t have a thousand dollars to lose, Mercedes. You quit your job as a real journalist, who knows why.”

Mercedes gave a careless shrug. “It was too structured. I felt like the paper limited my creative endeavors. I’m an artist.”

“And as an unemployed artist, you don’t have one thousand dollars to lose.”

“Do too. Got my first advance check the other day.”

“Advance for what?”

“My book deal.”

“You sold a book?”

“I told you,” she started, then noticed the smile on his face. “You’re such a jerk.”

“A thousand dollars? You’re on.”

Mercedes laughed. “Putting your money where your mouth is, big boy?”

“’Course I’m in.”

“Now you have to help me write the essay.”

“Can’t right now. Have to meet Sheldon at the electricians’ strike.”

Her eyes skimmed over him, for the first time taking in the faded blue jeans, the Rolling Stones T-shirt. “A strike? What the heck are you doing on a picket line? They fired you at Columbia-Starr didn’t they, and you’ve got this new secret career and never told us. Andrew is going to love this mess, Jeff. I can hear the lectures already.”

“Nice try. It’s for the job.”

“Columbia-Starr is representing the union?” she asked, raising her eyebrows.

“It’s not that far-fetched, but no. I’m working on Sheldon Summerville’s image. She’s going to go out on the picket line and walk it for a bit.”

Mercedes began to laugh. “You’re kidding me, right?”

“No, it’s part of a new plan to redesign her image.”

“And she’s okay with this?”

“’Course,” he said, although he wasn’t exactly sure she was okay with it. In fact, he suspected that she was not okay with it, but she seemed to be going along with his ideas. So, uh, she must be okay with it.

Mercedes choked on a laugh. “I’ll go with you. Who knows, maybe I’ll come up with some fodder for the blog.” Then she got a faraway look in her eyes. “You know, I should really talk to her, I bet she can give me some great material.”

“Don’t even think about it, Mercy.”

“Alright,” she agreed, but the faraway look never left her eyes.

THERE WAS SOMETHING ABOUT Times Square that appealed to Jeff. The lights, the gaudiness—it was commercialization gone wild. When he was a kid, Times Square had been a different sort of place, a little seedy, a little trashy, but he’d watched the transformation take place. A butterfly coming out of its cocoon. Some days he’d take the subway to Times Square just to be in the presence of all that energy.

Today, people were wall-to-wall, a combination of the Wednesday business lunch crowd and the summer tourists, along with some street preachers and the Naked Cowboy, and he thought he spotted a guy walking a llama.

Just another day in the city. And on any given day, a union strike was happening. Doormen, sanitation workers, electricians, babysitters, bartenders and Broadway musicians. Today, in the heart of Times Square, the electricians were up at bat.

The picket signs were out, men in blue-collar clothes fighting for fair wages, and naturally, the giant blow-up rat that looked as if it came out of a Tim Burton movie. No strike was complete without the rat.

He and Mercedes stood outside the ESPN Sports-Zone restaurant, waiting for Sheldon.

And waiting.

And waiting.

She was late.

Jeff checked his watch and was considering calling her on his cell when he spied the blond hair blowing in the summer wind. Heads turned as she walked by, they always did, wondering who she was. Some people knew and whispered. Those were the ones who followed the tabloids.

Yeah, Sheldon drew eyes. She always drew Jeff’s eyes. He didn’t understand her, but he liked to look at her, that was for sure.

There was an energy about Sheldon, an electricity, and no matter how empty and unthinking she appeared, she couldn’t hide the energy. Sometimes, like now, she let it shine, and when she did, even Times Square looked dim.

She saw him and waved, and half of the picket line waved back.

“That’s her, right?” asked Mercedes, poking him in the ribs.

“Yeah.”

“Why’s she wearing a suit?”

Hallelujah, Sheldon was wearing a demure blue blazer and matching skirt. Yeah, the skirt was kinda short, but he’d take his victories where he could.

“Because she’s finally starting to listen to me,” answered Jeff.

“Sorry I’m late,” Sheldon said, coming up through the crowd, flushed and out of breath. She looked at Mercedes. “I know you, don’t I? I really suck at names. I’m Sheldon.”

“Mercedes Brooks.”

“Ahh…” she said, and she looked at Jeff, wheels spinning behind expressionless blue eyes. “This is your sister? The Red Choo Diaries?”

“You know?” said Mercedes.

“Hell, yes. I never miss it.”

And that was a disaster waiting to strike. Jeff took Sheldon by the arm, away from Mercedes’s sly maneuverings before his sister could damage Sheldon’s reputation even more. “Right. Sheldon, let’s go over to the picket line. I’ve talked to the union boss, and there’s some press lined up, too. I wrote a few lines for you. You don’t have to say much. Pick up the picket sign, walk with the workers, maybe do some chanting. Smile and wave. Look pretty. That’s pretty much it. Can you handle this?” Jeff handed her the piece of paper with his notes.

She looked over the paper, looked back up at him, blinking fair, soft-looking lashes. “Smile, wave, look pretty? Sure. Not a problem.”

There was something different about her today. Too eager, too cooperative, too peppy. Sheldon was never peppy. Jeff tried to ignore the pit in his stomach that said something was wrong with this picture. He watched her walk toward the line, brisk, businesslike and completely confident.

Yeah, something was definitely wrong.