Broken Submission

The Press

"They still here?" Derek asked her.

Sam nodded, jerking her thumb toward the front. "I left them in the lobby. I don't trust them not to snap photos if we let them in the main areas."

He let out a sigh. "Good call. What are you even doing here though?"

"Oh." She shrugged. "I promised Garret that I'd help him wipe everything down today. With James down with the flu, it's been tough getting everything done."

He frowned. "Am I paying you for this? You're here enough without using up your free time."

"Garret's going to split his wages with me."

"Just let me know how long you work, and I'll add it to your paycheck." He almost tripped over a bucket of cleaning supplies. "Damn," he muttered.

"Thanks," Sam said, "that'd be great."

He nodded. "I won't keep you. I'm just going to send these assholes packing and maybe finish some paperwork."

Not waiting for her response, he pushed through the door to the lobby. Inside were two reporters, a man and a woman. Anger rose when he noticed the paper clutched in the woman's hand. They must have rifled through the front desk and found the newbies limits pages. It was a good thing that they didn't store any member information in there.

"That's none of your business," he said, snatching the paper from her hand. "I won't tolerate anyone poking around in my members' private lives."

"Mr. Jensen." The woman stood, entirely unconcerned by his hostility. "The City Tribune. We are doing a piece on local nightclubs, and your club was at the top of the list."

Her bottle blonde hair irritated him. He hated blonde hair. Derek drilled his eyes into the reporters'. "I have nothing to say. We are a private club, and I have no interest in our affairs splashing across the headlines."

The woman laughed. "More like page 3, but I understand your sentiment. I assure you, my colleague and I have only the best intentions." She stepped toward him, painted lips lifting in a seductive smile. She trailed her fingers over his chest. "Anything you give to us—"

He grabbed her wrist and stepped forward, forcing her a step back. "Sit. Down," he growled.

She dropped as if the strength had drained out of her legs. Her colleague laughed.

"Sharon, if only I'd known it was so easy to put you in your place—"

"Shut the fuck up," Derek told him.

He looked at them in disgust. "You people have no respect. Not for other people's lives and privacy—not even for each other.

"Just get out." His patience had run out. "I came; I left my home to be here. I heard your request, and I've denied it. We're done here. If I see a hint of either of you near my members, I will sue you for harassment and trespassing on private property."

The man smirked. "I wouldn't think that you'd have a problem with a little law breaking. Tell me, do you wear the handcuffs or do you fuck the handcuffie—"

His voice cut off when Derek stepped forward and gripped his arm. Without any sense of effort, he propelled the reporter through the entrance. The man's mocking laughter quieted as the door swung shut behind him. The woman still hadn't moved. Derek sighed, running a hand over his face.

"Look, I don't want to manhandle you. Just leave, okay?"

She stood. "He's an asshole. And you're probably right not to give him any information." She dug into her purse. "I probably didn't give you the best impression. Working in the business—especially for a glorified rag—you lose sight of what you got into this for." She extricated a card from the bag. "This has my personal number. You probably won't use it, I know."