Nic Tatano - It Girl

Nic Tatano

A division of HarperCollins Publishers

www.harpercollins.co.uk

Nic Tatano Nic Tatano I've always been a writer of some sort, having spent my career working as a reporter, anchor or producer in television news. Fiction is a lot more fun, since you don't have to deal with those pesky things known as facts. I grew up in the New York City metropolitan area and now live on the Gulf Coast where I will never shovel snow again. I'm happily married to a math teacher and we share our wonderful home with our tortoiseshell tabby cat, Gypsy. You can follow me on Twitter @NicTatano.

Dedication For Myra, my real life It Girl

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

CHAPTER THIRTY

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

CHAPTER THIRTY FIVE

CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

BONUS MATERIAL

About HarperImpulse

Copyright

About the Publisher

I've always been a writer of some sort, having spent my career working as a reporter, anchor or producer in television news. Fiction is a lot more fun, since you don't have to deal with those pesky things known as facts. I grew up in the New York City metropolitan area and now live on the Gulf Coast where I will never shovel snow again. I'm happily married to a math teacher and we share our wonderful home with our tortoiseshell tabby cat, Gypsy.

You can follow me on Twitter @NicTatano.

For Myra, my real life It Girl

"My network's twenty–million-dollar-a-year morning anchor just got arrested for soliciting a prostitute."

While I've made a habit of getting major exclusives as a television reporter, this latest juicy scoop brought the conversation at our dinner table to a screeching halt.

And the next words you hear should tell you that you need to get out of your conventional mode of thinking.

"She hired a prostitute?"

That's right. She.

See what I mean? You naturally assumed said morning anchor was a man looking for a hookup with some silicone babe on a Manhattan street corner. But nooooo, in this case we're talking about television's reigning "It Girl" who heretofore was assumed to be pure as the driven snow by the network executives who hired her.

At least they got the driven part right.

Snow White in handcuffs.

Film at eleven.

This simple text message from my contact at the cop shop meant the bigwigs who ran my network would be looking for a replacement. Immediately. You can't exactly get the kids ready for school while watching an anchor who thinks half 'n' half is something other than what you put in your coffee. Anyway, it wouldn't take long for the vultures who wanted the job to start circling.

I would not be one of them. But even the chance that the network might pluck me from the local affiliate for this job from hell sent a chill up my spine.

Yeah, you heard me. Twenty million dollar job from hell. It was a gig this intrepid television reporter didn't want.

And in the back of my mind I knew, thanks to Murphy's Law, they'd want me for it.

Sonofabitch. I hate it when people offer me huge contracts.

My best friend Layla raised one perfectly plucked dark eyebrow like a question mark. "Veronica, you gonna throw your hat in the ring?"

"Hell, no!" I said, as I grabbed my wine glass and took a bigger sip than normal. A pre-emptive strike in case said hat ended up in said ring.

Since you're probably wondering why a local TV reporter wouldn't want a network anchor slot that pays a fortune, I should probably tell you a little about my method of deductive reasoning. I'm Veronica Summer, the top hard news reporter for the network's New York City flagship affiliate. The local version of an "It Girl." And at the age of thirty-two, this tall, green-eyed redhead has her career just where she wants it. I get the lead story almost every night, take no prisoners, and am generally considered to be the best old-school journalist in town. So the last thing I need is a job that forces me to talk about purses, hair color and breast feeding at the crack of dawn. There's a network job I want, a dream job, and that aint it.

Even if it pays about a hundred times more than my current salary.

"Why the hell don't y'all apply?" asked Savannah, the sultry Southern brunette who is the most logical in our group.

"Because the morning show is a bunch of soft bullshit," I said. "That's not me."

"I watch that show while I'm on the treadmill," said Layla, who probably saw the dollar signs that came with the job before anything else. "They do some serious interviews. You could still do your Brenda Starr thing."

"Yeah, and that's about ten percent of the show," I said. "The operative word being show, not newscast . The other two hours are a flying Mongolian cluster of fluff consisting of musical guests, dieting tips and how to avoid picking up killer germs from shopping cart handles." I threw up my hands and shook them. "Run for your lives!"

Layla sat up straight and smiled as a cute guy walked by our table, then twirled a few strands of her jet black hair as she made eye contact. "You're gonna get a call."

"Pffft," I said, waving my hand like I was shooing a fly even though I knew she was right. "They've got a deep bench at the network. I'm not even a blip on their radar."

The discussion was thankfully interrupted as dinner arrived. Our regular waiter, a cute thirtysomething guy named Frank, slid a huge plate of fettuccine Alfredo with shrimp in from of me. I licked my lips. "Lotta cheese, as usual?" he asked.

"You know what I like," I said. His cheese grater hovered over my plate as he carpet-bombed my dinner with parmesan. I was thinking that even with twenty mil per year I'd still eat at this place. Loud and brassy, always busy with hardly any space between the tables, it had great food and portions large enough to end up with a to-go box for a midnight snack. The waiter finished serving and moved on to another table, while I turned my attention to one of the many flat screens that hung around the perimeter in the hopes of changing the topic. "Hey, the Mets are actually winning." I twirled some pasta with a shrimp into a neat ball and popped it in my mouth. Nothing like butter, cream, cheese, pasta and crustaceans to take your mind off things.

"Don't change the subject," said Layla. "You need to apply."

"They don't have someone like y'all," said Savannah. "You're pretty, smart, have the quickest wit of anyone I know. I'm sure men wouldn't mind waking up to you."

"The jury's out on that," said Layla, "because she throws them out the night before."

"I meant on television ," said Savannah.