Corrupted Angel

Chapter 1 Episode 1

It is getting dark outside.

I flick on the lamp at my desk and stretch up in my chair, trying to avoid the inevitable end-of-the-dayhunch. My stomach grumbles and I slide open the bottom drawer of my desk, eyeing the goodiesinside. Ah, yes, the good ol’ secret snack drawer. It’s a secret not because I’m ashamed of how much Isnack, but because Vicky Oberman in the cubicle across from me will pop over the divider like ameerkat if she hears the tell-tale crinkle of a bag of chips.

I pull out a packet of Twizzlers and slide the drawer shut. I stare at the blinking cursor on mycomputer screen while I gnaw on the end of a stick of strawberry licorice. I told my fiancé, Grant, thatI would be home late tonight because I wanted to finish up this story, but I’m not sure I can bebothered.

It’s just a fluff piece—the unlikely story of how a community center caretaker found the exact skateshe used to wear when he visited the center as a child. Mr. Finkel spent half of the interviewreminiscing about how much everything used to cost in those days (a can of soda—a nickel; a hot dog—a quarter; two scoops of ice cream—ten cents), and the rest of the time talking about how kidsthese days have no appreciation for the luxury of having a community center to go to.

Now, it is my job as the dedicated local news journalist to turn that pile of boring jelly into a thought-provoking article examining the role of community centers in empowering the youth of tomorrow.

Or at least, that’s how I’ve decided to spin it. My editor, Debbie Harris, just wants me to write thestory. In fact, her exact words were, “Nobody’s going to read it but that caretaker, so just make sureyou don’t misspell the guy’s name.”

Debbie makes no bones about how she doesn’t expend time or energy on the puff pieces when thereare bigger stories to tell. I just wish she would give me one of those bigger stories. My work at theNew York Union so far has involved precious little in the way of substance.

“Wright!” comes a clipped voice from the entrance to my cubicle.

Oh, boy. Speak of the devil.

I spin to face Debbie, a Twizzler still hanging out of my mouth. She is a stern-looking Scottish womanwith perfectly coiffed blonde hair, black-lined eyes, and lipstick that is never out of place. She has a

commendably infinite selection of bold-colored pantsuits. Today’s number is a fuchsia blazer andslacks with a bright white top underneath. She looks about forty-five, but in my two years of workingfor the paper, I have never heard her discuss her age. I heard a rumor that someone in the office triedto throw her a birthday party once and the person was never heard from again.

“How’s the story going?” she asks in her thick Glaswegian accent.

“Good.” I bite off the end of the Twizzler. “I was just—”

She waves a hand. “Nope, all I need to know. I’m just here to give you your assignment fortomorrow.” She grins. “You’ll like this one.”

My heart picks up. Debbie’s finally going to give me something meaty to sink my teeth into.

“It’s a dog show!” she announces.

“Oh.”

“Don’t look so disappointed.” She leans against my cubicle wall. “You haven’t heard the best part.”

I c**k a brow, waiting.

Debbie leans in a little. “All the dogs are celebrity impersonators.”

“Debbie!” I groan, letting my head fall back in frustration. “That’s just more of the same crap I alwaysget. Why would you get me all excited?”

She kicks the bottom of my chair, startling me upright, then folds her arms and glowers at me.

“You and your lack of patience again,” she scolds. “Do you know how lucky you are to even have thisjob? I’ve got a dozen résumés in the drawer who would love to write a story about a parade of dogsin wee outfits.”

“Yes,” I sigh. “You’re right. I’m sorry. Thank you.”

She smiles and leaves.

I know Debbie’s right, but I can’t help my frustration. As cute as the dog show does actually sound, Iwant to write stories that make a difference.

The clock hits five-thirty and I start to pack up. I don’t feel like staying late today. I just want to curlup on the sofa with Grant and a big glass of red wine and watch some mindless TV. In fact, thatsounds exactly like what the doctor ordered.

It takes nearly forty minutes to get from the newspaper offices in Manhattan to our loft in Brooklyn.Grant is lucky—he was just made junior partner at a commercial law firm in downtown Brooklyn andhis walk to work is less than ten minutes.

It’s an unseasonably warm evening for November, but there’s still a bite in the air that makes me drawmy coat closer around myself as I walk from the subway to our apartment building. I walk up the frontsteps and into the waiting elevator, dreaming of a full-bodied pinot noir.

The apartment door is unlocked, which is surprising. As close as his office is, Manhattan law is nojoke, and Grant works tough hours. He’d said he wouldn’t be too late tonight, though, so I wonderwhere he’s gotten off to. I drop my keys in the bowl and walk into the living room, expecting to findhim there, but he is nowhere to be seen.

“Grant?” I call. The aged floorboards whine under my feet as I walk toward the bedroom, droppingmy bag on the sofa on the way.

Squeak. Squeak.

I’ve been arguing with Grant since we first moved in together about the mattress in our bedroom. Heloves it, but I can’t stand the creaky springs. The thing is, though, that the springs only make noisewhenever he and I get down to some adult business. Seeing as how I’m standing out in the hallway, Istart to realize with growing horror that that means…

Oh, Jesus.

When I push open the bedroom door with fingers that suddenly feel pale and trembly, I’m greeted withsomething I never, ever wanted to see.

The first thing I see is Grant’s pale ass, clenching as he thrusts.

The second thing I see is the horrified face of the woman beneath him, who has just locked eyes withme and realized—way, way too late—that she’s made a big mistake.

My jaw hits the floor.

The woman tries to push Grant off of her and cover up with the comforter, but it takes the big oaf asecond to realize what’s happening. When he finally does and looks up to see me standing in thedoorframe, his face falls.

“It’s not what it looks like!” he yells. He’s leaping out of bed, pulling on a pair of boxers—the ones Igot him for his birthday last year, I notice—and gesticulating wildly.

Looking at him makes me feel nauseous, so I look at the girl instead. She’s huddled beneath thecomforter. Her bottle-blonde hair is in wild disarray and her eyes are wide with shock.

“It’s not what it looks like!” Grant repeats, like I hadn’t heard him the first time.

For a second, I want to believe him. It would be so much easier to drink down his lies than to acceptthat my fiancé, the man I’ve spent every Sunday cuddled on the couch with for the past two years, hasbetrayed me in the worst way.

But there’s no denying that it is exactly what it looks like.

Anger fills my veins like kerosene. All I need now is a match.

“Then what is it?” I demand, eyes widening. “Were you inspecting each other for lice? Did she losean earring down your pants?”

Grant rushes over. His sandy hair is standing up in wild tufts and there is lipstick smudged around hismouth. “Baby, let me explain!”

The sight of those lips—the lips that I thought were mine alone to kiss—sets fire to my blood, singingmy skin from the inside.

He’s got big, soulful eyes. I remember falling for them, for him. They looked good in the candlelightat the Italian place he took me for our first serious date. Even now, part of me wants to soak up theemotion there and forgive him.

I put that part of me in a box, lock it, and throw away the key.

“Get out,” I demand coldly, jabbing a finger toward the front door. “Both of you need to get out rightnow.”

My heart is trying to climb up my throat. I feel like I’m going to throw up. How could he do this tome? I am two seconds from completely breaking down, and like hell am I going to let Grant be here towitness that.

Grant frowns. “But it’s my apartment.”

“I said get the f**k out before I throw you out!” My raised voice does the trick. With a yelp, thewoman runs past me toward the front door.

Grant turns and reaches for a pair of pants. I must not’ve been clear; maybe he needs me to repeatmyself one last time.

“Did I stutter? I said, Get. The. f**k. Out!”