Born to be Bad. Crystal Green

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СКАЧАТЬ the fact that his ex-wife had chalked up the ever-increasing number of his naps to depression. Waller merely believed he was getting older. More used up and worn out.

      Fully awake now—except for some blurred vision—he watched his co-worker, the newest reporter at the Weekly Gossip, strolling out of a back room, tailed by none other than Damien Theroux himself.

      She’d made quick time, hadn’t she?

      Waller wondered just how much information she’d gotten out of the guy. How she’d gotten it out of him.

      Young pup. Reporters were always bright eyed and eager until a few years passed. Years of seeing bullet-riddled corpses at drive-by-shooting crime scenes. Years of seeing crack babies who’d been stranded by their strung-out mothers living on the street and prostituting themselves for their next fix.

      Like Gemma, Waller used to love chasing a story.

      That was before the stories chased him, caught him, burned themselves into his memory until nothing on earth could erase the pImages**. Except a good sleep.

      As Theroux disappeared into a patch of darkness behind Gemma, she straightened her tank top, turned around and found herself alone. After a beat, she raised her chin and extracted her order pad from a tiny apron while walking to a table of three old men. The few grizzled patrons who hadn’t gone home yet watched her progress, enchanted.

      The back room.

      Tank top adjusting.

      Waller sighed. He remembered the days when reporters had ethics, but if this girl wanted to use her body to get her ink on Theroux, he’d stay out of it. After all, this was New Orleans. Anything went.

      After taking the order, she swayed to the bar in her heels. Waller tried to catch her eye.

      When she saw him, he saluted with his full glass of booze. She hightailed it over, jaw clenched.

      “Good evening,” he said jovially.

      “What the hell are you doing here?”

      Waller pulled a pained expression out of his collection of reactions. “I’m having a drink, just like everyone else. What are you doing here?” He aimed a disapproving glare at the back room.

      “Perv. It’s not what you think.”

      “You don’t want to know what I think.”

      “You haven’t answered yet.” Her voice lowered. “Are you crowding me?”

      “Sweetness,” he said, holding a hand over his food-stained heart, “I’ve got no ulterior motives. Remember, someone with no talent wouldn’t have such drive.”

      She seemed to regret what she’d said at the office earlier. Truthfully, the words had whiplashed Waller. He knew he was useless, but the problem came when everyone else knew it, too. Not that he gave a crap.

      “Smith.” Gemma crept closer, eyes wide and Bambilike. “Don’t blow this for me. Please.”

      Unable to counter the clear ambition—no, it was desperation—in her words, Waller could only stare at his drink. In its clear depths, he saw his past swirl right by him—the hard-earned headlines, the awards he’d so proudly displayed on his desks, the divorce papers he’d burned in the flame of a dinner candle one lonely, bitter night.

      He’d never expected to find himself huddled over a bar in the middle of the French Quarter by himself, beaten, mocking a young reporter because of her shining future.

      Or was he here because she could still track down a good lead when he didn’t have it in him anymore?

      Gemma was shaking her head. “Why would you want to pull one over on me, Smith? You’re already established.”

      “Actually, I’m at a dead end.” His words tasted sour. “Isn’t that what you meant to say?”

      “No, I—”

      “Listen. Maybe I came here to show you that going fishing for shark won’t be as easy as you think. Maybe I came here to see if I could give this a go, myself.”

      Now that he’d said it out loud, Waller wondered if it was true. Why else had he taken a detour from another boredom-filled night in his apartment?

      “Gem,” said a raised female voice from the other end of the bar. “You okay down there?”

      Waller kept his gaze fixed on Gemma, almost daring her to tell him he wasn’t good enough. But she didn’t.

      Instead, she nodded at the voice and ran a fidgety hand over her done-up hair. “I’m so onto you.”

      “Feisty,” he said. “That’s another excellent quality for a girl in your profession to have.”

      With a cautious look, she left him and proceeded to wait on a group of former cops. Their bygone career was obvious from the way they sat—still wary in their advancing age, but less arrogant than they probably had been in their heydays. They joked with Gemma, turning their chests toward her, open books.

      Look at that. She was already back to questioning sources. Seeking answers about Theroux. Well, best of luck.

      The waitress who’d talked to Gemma was now cleaning glasses two feet to the left of him. He could barely see her fuzzy figure out of the corner of his eye.

      “What is this place?” he asked. “Mustang Ranch?”

      She didn’t stop her task. The tall stick-shape of a bartender floated past, also pretending Waller didn’t exist.

      Raising his voice, Waller repeated, “Just what is this place? Look at what you women wear around here—Band-Aid skirts and linguini tops!”

      “You fool.” The waitress, still a blur except for some flaming red hair that was layered down to her bare shoulders, sauntered over to him. “You’re a mess, and it ain’t from havin’ enough of our booze, I tell you that.”

      “So, I’m naturally loaded.”

      She came closer, and Waller hitched in a breath. God, she was a beauty. Two gray streaks of hair framed her face—lightning in a red sky. Fine smile lines surrounded soft, whiskey-hued eyes. Her skin was pale, the color of smooth writing paper before you mark it with the scar of stories.

      “A man with eyes so red should go on home to bed,” she said in a mother-hen scold.

      Waller blinked, donned his most charming smile. He hoped it still worked. “Tell me you’re my guardian angel.”

      “Not likely.”

      The waitress leaned on the bar, showing ample bosom. Waller’s vision cleared to an even greater extent.

      “I deal with drunks every night of my life,” she added. “Your sober imitation of one is not impressing me.”

      “No?” Waller’s pulse actually slowed to almost nothing. Funny. He hadn’t felt keen embarrassment in a while. There’d only been a numb string of days holding СКАЧАТЬ