The Stolen - Jason Pinter [57]
She could hear Myron moving about in the bedroom.
She heard the sound of his zipper, laughed to herself that
he was too frustrated to finish the job. Myron was a nice
treat, and thankfully she'd never have to see him again. At
least not in person.
In Sunday's edition of the Dispatch, Paulina would be
running a lengthy article about Myron's decade-long affair
with Mitsy Russell Henshaw, wife of billionaire venture
capitalist Richard Henshaw. Richard Henshaw had been
a longtime critic of the Dispatch, specifically the paper's
editor-in-chief, Ted Allen. It was what Allen called a "have
your cake and eat it, too" story. It was both a juicy bit of
gossip that would sell papers, while accomplishing the
goal of humiliating one of Ted's most vocal enemies.
Paulina figured it only fair that if she was going to report
the piece, she deserved a piece of the cake, too.
Though Myron was in his late thirties and no longer in
the kind of shape that had secured him deals as an underwear model in the nineties--the abs a little softer, the
arms not quite as sinewy--he was still a striking bachelor,
The Stolen
163
the kind of man that would turn heads and make very
wealthy women think very bad thoughts.
She had interviewed him for three hours, at the end of
which Paulina offered to buy him a drink. To make things
a little more personal, she said, rinse off the professional.
And when they were in the comfort of a pair of martinis,
she let Myron know that as long as she was putting her
keyboard out, he'd be putting out, too. And so here she
was, room 1250 at the W Hotel, the beauty of her exorbitant expense account allowing her the beauty of Myron
Bennett.
Yet as much as she'd savored the night's pleasures and
would enjoy the media circus surrounding Myron's affair,
she'd be glad to get back to work on the real story that had
kept her juiced the past few months. Underwear models
came and went. It was a rare occasion that you could do
something that mattered. And in just a matter of weeks,
she'd be ready to bring Jack O'Donnell down like a house
of cards. And with Jack, the veneer that was the Gazette
would tumble as well. And that kind of satisfaction would
last longer than any orgasm.
Cinching up her robe as she left the bathroom, Paulina
took her purse from her wallet and flipped a twenty at
Myron. The crumpled bill landed sadly on the pillow.
Myron stood there staring at it. He was topless in his jeans,
searching around for his shirt. He looked at the money,
confused, then looked up and down at Paulina as if she
were hanging in a freezer.
"You have the most beautiful tits," he said, a sultry grin
on his face that made Paulina feel like retching.
"Please," she said. "Save it for the women who give a shit."
"What, one party and you get all cold on me? It wasn't
good for you, beautiful?"
164
Jason Pinter
"Ugh, don't call me that. I'm sure Muffy or Tiffani or
whatever rich bitch you're going to bang tomorrow night
will love that ooey-gooey shit. You're a good lay, Myron.
I appreciate it. But enough of the honeydoll, baby stuff.
I'm a grown woman, you're a grown man, now help me
find my shirt."
"It's under the bed, doll." He smiled at Paulina's
grimace. She glanced under the bed, came up with a
wrinkled blue shirt. She nodded toward the twenty on the
bed.
"Take it."
"What's that for?"
"Whatever you want. A taxi. A beer. Doesn't matter."
He looked at the money. "Really, you don't have to."
"Listen, I spent the better part of an entire day talking
to you and listening to the most boring shit on earth. I
listened to you whine about your mean parents, your
crummy job, how nobody will hire you as a model
anymore. And I know you have less money in the bank
than you have brains up in that head of yours. I don't think
you'll say no to cab fare. So just say thank-you and go
home."
He watched her for a moment, looked at the money.
"Thank you," he said. "But you don't have to be a bitch
about it."
Paulina's mouth dropped, a startled laugh escaping