freelance investigator for Victory & Associates, one of Manhattan’s most prominent public relations firms. I liked the work, if for no other reason than it paid well and that being an independent contractor afforded me the kind of freedom a nine-to-five gig could not.
I walked along Park Avenue South, a Peppermint Mocha in hand, sunglasses on my face, and Michael Bublé ’s “Christmas (Baby Please Come Home)” filling my ears. Who knows what awaited me when I walked through the door? My duties were varied, including everything from interviewing persons of interest; drafting statement for the press; as well as in-depth research on clients, competitors, and anyone else of importance.
I greeted out doorman with a smile, then rode the elevator up to the fourteenth floor. It was just after nine o’clock, which meant our Monday staff meeting was about to begin. Technically, as an independent contractor, I wasn’t required to attend meetings -- but Kurt Victory, founder and principal of the firm, liked when I did so.
Funny that in a room full of seasoned PR professionals, I was the one Kurt often turned to for advice.
“You’re valuable, Jesse,” he’d said. “Precisely because you aren’t really one of us. We can’t pay for that kind of original thinking.”
But pay he did -- so well that even if I didn’t have sex with a single client of my own for a month or two, I’d still be able to cover my rent. Sometimes I’d consider Kurt’s offer to join the firm on a permanent basis, to become “one of the team” and give up the freedom I had in exchange for health care coverage, three weeks paid vacation and a 401(k) plan with a matching contribution to boot.
I hadn’t taken him up on his offer yet, but that didn’t mean I wouldn’t do so in the future.
The elevator doors opened into the modern lobby, complete with frosted glass walls, recessed lighting and a red womb chair where guests could read The New York Times and The Wall Street Journal on any of our complimentary iPads. Not seeing anyone inside their offices, I assumed everyone had gathered in the conference room for the weekly meeting -- but I was wrong.
“Jesse!”
Kurt appeared in a flash, all but running towards me. I’d never seen him so alarmed, which was either very good or very bad. Everyone was in the conference room, yes. The weekly meeting had gone on as planned, without him. He had more pressing matters to attend to this morning.
“Sorry I couldn’t reach out to you sooner,” he said, ushering me into his office. “We got the call yesterday afternoon. Did you check your email? Not that you had to, but…”
“Kurt, slow down. Just tell me what you need and I can get started this afternoon.”
Kurt opened the door to his office and told me to step inside. I did as he asked, and that was when I saw him. A bit older, yes. His face didn’t quite have the youthful glow it once did, but the last ten years had only made him more handsome.
Same wavy blonde hair, sparkling blue eyes, the stubble that marked his cheeks and chin and the warm, dazzling smile that’d seduced me all those years ago.
“Jesse, meet our latest client: Robert Allen, principal of New Hope Academy.”
* * *
Fuck my life .
Bobby was in the midst of giving us his sob story about how this “scandal” could give New Hope Academy a reputational black eye from which it might not recover. Simone, the teacher accused of sleeping with a student, was nothing more than a narcissistic bitch that got off on the idea of having a teenage boy utterly infatuated with her.
“I didn’t hire her, for the record,” Bobby added. “True, I was an assistant vice principal by the time she arrived, but I did not hire her myself.”
“Then who did?” I asked innocently. “Just so we have all the facts.”
Kurt shot me a quick glance, perhaps having picked up on the cadence of my voice. Still, I didn’t back down. After all, he was under the impression
I walked along Park Avenue South, a Peppermint Mocha in hand, sunglasses on my face, and Michael Bublé ’s “Christmas (Baby Please Come Home)” filling my ears. Who knows what awaited me when I walked through the door? My duties were varied, including everything from interviewing persons of interest; drafting statement for the press; as well as in-depth research on clients, competitors, and anyone else of importance.
I greeted out doorman with a smile, then rode the elevator up to the fourteenth floor. It was just after nine o’clock, which meant our Monday staff meeting was about to begin. Technically, as an independent contractor, I wasn’t required to attend meetings -- but Kurt Victory, founder and principal of the firm, liked when I did so.
Funny that in a room full of seasoned PR professionals, I was the one Kurt often turned to for advice.
“You’re valuable, Jesse,” he’d said. “Precisely because you aren’t really one of us. We can’t pay for that kind of original thinking.”
But pay he did -- so well that even if I didn’t have sex with a single client of my own for a month or two, I’d still be able to cover my rent. Sometimes I’d consider Kurt’s offer to join the firm on a permanent basis, to become “one of the team” and give up the freedom I had in exchange for health care coverage, three weeks paid vacation and a 401(k) plan with a matching contribution to boot.
I hadn’t taken him up on his offer yet, but that didn’t mean I wouldn’t do so in the future.
The elevator doors opened into the modern lobby, complete with frosted glass walls, recessed lighting and a red womb chair where guests could read The New York Times and The Wall Street Journal on any of our complimentary iPads. Not seeing anyone inside their offices, I assumed everyone had gathered in the conference room for the weekly meeting -- but I was wrong.
“Jesse!”
Kurt appeared in a flash, all but running towards me. I’d never seen him so alarmed, which was either very good or very bad. Everyone was in the conference room, yes. The weekly meeting had gone on as planned, without him. He had more pressing matters to attend to this morning.
“Sorry I couldn’t reach out to you sooner,” he said, ushering me into his office. “We got the call yesterday afternoon. Did you check your email? Not that you had to, but…”
“Kurt, slow down. Just tell me what you need and I can get started this afternoon.”
Kurt opened the door to his office and told me to step inside. I did as he asked, and that was when I saw him. A bit older, yes. His face didn’t quite have the youthful glow it once did, but the last ten years had only made him more handsome.
Same wavy blonde hair, sparkling blue eyes, the stubble that marked his cheeks and chin and the warm, dazzling smile that’d seduced me all those years ago.
“Jesse, meet our latest client: Robert Allen, principal of New Hope Academy.”
* * *
Fuck my life .
Bobby was in the midst of giving us his sob story about how this “scandal” could give New Hope Academy a reputational black eye from which it might not recover. Simone, the teacher accused of sleeping with a student, was nothing more than a narcissistic bitch that got off on the idea of having a teenage boy utterly infatuated with her.
“I didn’t hire her, for the record,” Bobby added. “True, I was an assistant vice principal by the time she arrived, but I did not hire her myself.”
“Then who did?” I asked innocently. “Just so we have all the facts.”
Kurt shot me a quick glance, perhaps having picked up on the cadence of my voice. Still, I didn’t back down. After all, he was under the impression
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