one of those new-age magicians, alluring, mysterious and hypnotic. I think he graduated magna cum laude from the School of Lust. But I’m going to unmask him. And I’m going to use Ryan Malone to do it.”
“I like it, Sunny.”
“You do?”
“I do—but the station can’t close down while you work on one story. I’ll give you two weeks and you still have to take assignments.”
“That’s all I’ll need,” she assured him. “If I don’t get something you’ll like, I’ll write promos and make the coffee.”
“You’re on. But remember what I said about Malone. I don’t want you to miss opportunities but I don’t want you to get hurt.”
“Thanks, Ted.”
“By the way, how’s your coffee?”
“Lousy.”
“That’s what I thought. Now, go write your story.”
She took a deep breath. Get hurt? She’d been there, done that and had the “I’ve Been Downsized” T-shirt to prove it. She didn’t intend to let that happen again, either personally or as a reporter. “I don’t want to be hurt either,” she said softly.
Sunny stood, gathering her strappy shoes in one hand and holding herself upright by leaning on the desk with the other. She was physically drained. Thank goodness she wasn’t one of the anchors who’d deliver her story. All she had to do was type the words to go along with Walt’s shots.
“Hey, Sunny,” someone called out, “better hustle, thirty minutes to air time.”
“Thirty minutes?” She was a beginner on television, but she knew how to write a story. And she intended to get home in time to watch the story—only to see how well it looked.
She slid into a chair behind her desk and began to type.
The premier of Gone With the Wind at Atlanta’s Rialto Theater in the thirties couldn’t have been any more remarkable than the Valentine fund-raising gala held tonight at The Palace Of Sin, soon to become a community theater. But the star responsible, both for the donation of the building and the highlight of the evening’s entertainment, is no Clark Gable. Instead, he is the internationally famous, golden-haired male stripper known as Lord Sin. Tonight, Lord Sin packed the house with well-heeled contributors. This is to be his last performance. Now, here’s our own Sunny Clary with more.
Sensational journalism, she decided, cheesy but attention-getting, as had been her dress. She hoped the story worked better than the slit in her skirt. On stage, Lord Sin had professed his desire for her but apparently it hadn’t been enough for him to stick around for a more personal meeting. The only personal meeting she’d been invited to was by a dangerous real estate tycoon, Ryan Malone, who was sexy as sin and thought his father ought to have been in jail. At least he was honest if not honorable. He wanted her in his bed, and he’d told her that up-front. She’d never had a man be so blunt about his intentions, at least not at first. And she’d never been tempted to accept before.
But you’re considering it, Sunny Clary. Malone is your means to an end. If you enjoy him a bit along the way, consider it one of the perks of the trade, like a parking space or a company car. Like the green dress and Ted’s promise of a real assignment. Yeah…
She shook her head. It had to be the spell Lord Sin had put her under. She was thinking about him and Ryan Malone as if they were a dish of M&M’s on her news desk. She’d just eat one. Then the bowl would be empty and she’d swear off sweets until the next deadline. Still, she was in the big time now and to succeed she’d have to be tough. She didn’t have to give in to Ryan Malone if she didn’t want to. She just had to let him try to seduce her.
Malone couldn’t actually be serious about anything more than just getting to know her. He probably used that line about wanting her in his bed with all his dates. And she’d bet her last dollar that every one of them fell for it. He didn’t know it, but she’d be the exception. Her career was at stake. She’d win the bet. Using Ryan Malone to get to Lord Sin would be a challenge, but it would be fun. She could even turn the tables on him. What she wouldn’t give to bring him to his knees.
Bad image, Sunny. The picture of Ryan Malone on his knees was one of the places she didn’t want to go. She could only think of two things that came from a man kneeling before a woman, and a proposal wasn’t the thing turning up her pulse.
“Whoa, girl! Let’s get back to work.” WTRU reported the news and she had about two minutes left to finish the story. Walt’s opening shot was of the building, then he’d cut to her as she explained what the Arts Council had in store for the facility. The mayor would talk about the cultural offerings of the city and a few of the affluent Atlantans who turned out to make the building renovation possible. They’d close with her interview with Ryan Malone.
She ran a quick spell check and the story was timed and ready for broadcast. One of the advantages of being a local all-news station was that the story lineup was flexible, allowing for additions and changes at the last minute. If a story didn’t get on one segment, it would be picked up on the next one, then it, or an update, would be repeated at thirty-minute intervals until the news was stale.
Still carrying her shoes, Sunny slid the strap of her evening purse over her shoulder and threaded her arms into her jacket as she made her way to the parking lot. Outside she stopped and looked up at the night sky. In South Georgia a million stars would have showered the night with brilliance. Here they paled in the city lights, but nothing could conceal the energy she felt. It seemed the very air, filled with new sounds and smells, promised new beginnings. She took a deep breath of cold air and felt a tingle of excitement raise goose bumps on her arms. Staying in the southern part of the state to be close to her father was no longer necessary. He’d gotten through his own tragedy. Now, as a minister, called late in life, he had his own church, made up of senior citizens who needed him. He’d let her go with his blessings and a promise to visit as soon as she was settled.
Leaving the newspaper had been harder; she felt as if she’d betrayed her neighbors when she was forced to suppress her biggest story “for the good of the community leaders.” What she never mentioned was that leaving was, in some way, for her father, too. This new job was her chance to restore the integrity of the Clary name and she intended to do it. The one thing she wouldn’t do again was conceal the truth, no matter whom it hurt.
With a shake of her shoulders, she opened the door to her loyal old Cutlass and crawled in. The first thing she’d do when she got her raise was buy a new car, one with heat. Leaving the small building that WTRU called home, she turned north on Peachtree, driving quickly, lest she miss the airing of her first story on her new job.
Atlanta was famous for its peach trees. Except the only peach trees she’d seen were streets and there were dozens of them: Peachtree Street, Road, Avenue, Hills, Drive and more. But the Atlanta landscape boasted dogwoods in the spring and magnolias in the summer—no peach trees. Now, in February, the worst month of the year, there were no blossoms and, except for the Georgia pines and magnolias, few leaves. Still, there was an energy about the city that made her want to run with the wind. Soon she’d check out the jogging trails at the nearest park.
Turning into the driveway that led to her new apartment which had been creatively described in the realtor’s ad as a carriage house, Sunny smiled. It was a separate concrete block building constructed behind the house. At some point someone had used a pressure washer to blast away some of the layers of white paint, leaving a muted surface
