Crystal Green - Born to be Bad

She did, too. She did like nice guys, even if they’d never been enough to hold her interest. But that was her fault, not theirs. She’d tried a few normal, home-by-six-for-dinner relationships, tried men her family approved of.

But there was something untamed in Gemma. Maybe something might be wired wrong in her. Was it normal to lust after men like Theroux? To find yourself in a position like this?

She reached down and captured his wandering hand with hers, putting an end to the spell.

For a moment, he froze. Without moving, he created a space between them with the sting of his gaze.

“I think my break’s over,” she said, voice wavering. She cleared her throat. “First night. Good impression. All that.”

A calculating smile settled on his mouth. Reaching up, he grabbed a packet of napkins, deposited it into Gemma’s hand, then backed away.

“Roxy’ll wonder what took you so long,” he said. “Should I tell her?”

He was baiting Gemma, so she sent him her toughest glance. “Your call, boss.”

“As I said, Roxy’s in charge. I’m inconsequential to this bar.”

She’d see about that.

He ushered her away from the shelves with a sweep of his arm. “After you.”

Had she alienated him with her hot/cold change of reaction? Way to go, Duncan. Gemma could almost hear Waller Smith congratulating her on messing up already.

Much more painfully, she could hear her first boss saying, When you’re assigned a story, you get your ass out there and do it. Don’t piddle around. Your scaredy-cat caution has no place in this business, girl.

She left the room, feeling her redemption—Theroux—following right behind her.

Toughen up, she thought. Next time, don’t stop. Get your man, no matter the consequences.

When she emerged into the bar again, she turned around to fire a parting shot at her mysterious subject.

But he’d already disappeared.

WALLER SMITH LIKED A proper nap.

So, as he sat at the Cuffs bar, his body relaxing on the scuffed wood, Waller sighed, content.

In his forty-four years of life, he’d sat on a lot of bar stools across the country, liking how the chattery, friendly voices made him feel a part of something. In fact, even if he nursed one gin and tonic all night, he always fell asleep to the lullaby of conversations.

New York, L.A., Dallas, Miami, Chicago. He’d lived in all the big cities, getting jobs at local papers to support himself and trolling the bars for a kind voice or two. Tonight, he’d decided to try Cuffs, not only because he wanted companionship, but because it’d come highly recommended by Ms. Gemma Duncan during her unsuspecting story pitch to The General.

And speaking of the little devil, Gemma had emerged into the bar again.

See, not only could Waller sleep on a dime, he could wake up with the best of them, too. It just took a sound, a feeling. The best sleepers could all stay slightly alert in their slumber.

Screw the fact that his ex-wife had chalked up the ever-increasing number of his naps to depression. Waller merely believed he was getting older. More used up and worn out.

Fully awake now—except for some blurred vision—he watched his co-worker, the newest reporter at the Weekly Gossip, strolling out of a back room, tailed by none other than Damien Theroux himself.

She’d made quick time, hadn’t she?

Waller wondered just how much information she’d gotten out of the guy. How she’d gotten it out of him.

Young pup. Reporters were always bright eyed and eager until a few years passed. Years of seeing bullet-riddled corpses at drive-by-shooting crime scenes. Years of seeing crack babies who’d been stranded by their strung-out mothers living on the street and prostituting themselves for their next fix.

Like Gemma, Waller used to love chasing a story.

That was before the stories chased him, caught him, burned themselves into his memory until nothing on earth could erase the pImages**. Except a good sleep.

As Theroux disappeared into a patch of darkness behind Gemma, she straightened her tank top, turned around and found herself alone. After a beat, she raised her chin and extracted her order pad from a tiny apron while walking to a table of three old men. The few grizzled patrons who hadn’t gone home yet watched her progress, enchanted.

The back room.

Tank top adjusting.

Waller sighed. He remembered the days when reporters had ethics, but if this girl wanted to use her body to get her ink on Theroux, he’d stay out of it. After all, this was New Orleans. Anything went.

After taking the order, she swayed to the bar in her heels. Waller tried to catch her eye.

When she saw him, he saluted with his full glass of booze. She hightailed it over, jaw clenched.

“Good evening,” he said jovially.

“What the hell are you doing here?”

Waller pulled a pained expression out of his collection of reactions. “I’m having a drink, just like everyone else. What are you doing here?” He aimed a disapproving glare at the back room.

“Perv. It’s not what you think.”

“You don’t want to know what I think.”

“You haven’t answered yet.” Her voice lowered. “Are you crowding me?”

“Sweetness,” he said, holding a hand over his food-stained heart, “I’ve got no ulterior motives. Remember, someone with no talent wouldn’t have such drive.”

She seemed to regret what she’d said at the office earlier. Truthfully, the words had whiplashed Waller. He knew he was useless, but the problem came when everyone else knew it, too. Not that he gave a crap.

“Smith.” Gemma crept closer, eyes wide and Bambilike. “Don’t blow this for me. Please.”

Unable to counter the clear ambition—no, it was desperation—in her words, Waller could only stare at his drink. In its clear depths, he saw his past swirl right by him—the hard-earned headlines, the awards he’d so proudly displayed on his desks, the divorce papers he’d burned in the flame of a dinner candle one lonely, bitter night.

He’d never expected to find himself huddled over a bar in the middle of the French Quarter by himself, beaten, mocking a young reporter because of her shining future.

Or was he here because she could still track down a good lead when he didn’t have it in him anymore?

Gemma was shaking her head. “Why would you want to pull one over on me, Smith? You’re already established.”

“Actually, I’m at a dead end.” His words tasted sour. “Isn’t that what you meant to say?”

“No, I—”

“Listen. Maybe I came here to show you that going fishing for shark won’t be as easy as you think. Maybe I came here to see if I could give this a go, myself.”

Now that he’d said it out loud, Waller wondered if it was true. Why else had he taken a detour from another boredom-filled night in his apartment?

“Gem,” said a raised female voice from the other end of the bar. “You okay down there?”

Waller kept his gaze fixed on Gemma, almost daring her to tell him he wasn’t good enough. But she didn’t.

Instead, she nodded at the voice and ran a fidgety hand over her done-up hair. “I’m so onto you.”

“Feisty,” he said. “That’s another excellent quality for a girl in your profession to have.”

With a cautious look, she left him and proceeded to wait on a group of former cops. Their bygone career was obvious from the way they sat—still wary in their advancing age, but less arrogant than they probably had been in their heydays. They joked with Gemma, turning their chests toward her, open books.

Look at that. She was already back to questioning sources. Seeking answers about Theroux. Well, best of luck.

The waitress who’d talked to Gemma was now cleaning glasses two feet to the left of him. He could barely see her fuzzy figure out of the corner of his eye.