The top floor was littered with reporters at their desks. The floors were wood, the editorial offices peppered with bright colors and satin cushions, always full of the buzz of phones and people chattering. Instead of the business suits I imagined wearing to work, I wrote in an oversize, trendy T-shirt-with-an-attitude and a pair of socks that had the words I Believed on the toes. It was a crazy magazine, as crazy as some of the stories and columns we put out—and I loved it.
But bloggers were putting us out of work, and our circulation grew tinier by the second. Edge Magazines needed something cutting-edge, and I was desperate to prove to my boss that I could bring it to her.
“Chloe!” I called my roommate when I strolled into our two-bedroom flat.
“We’re over here!” I heard Chloe call.
She was in her bedroom, with Anne. They were my best friends. Anne was a redhead, freckled, pink, and sweet, unlike the dark, sultry Chloe.
We were like Neapolitan ice cream. In height, Chloe and I were the tallest, while Anne was an elf. Chloe and I tried to use logic; Anne was “Team Feelings” all the way. I was the career girl, Anne was the nurturer, and Chloe was the sexpot who hadn’t yet realized she could use men as her personal dildos (if she wanted to). She didn’t want to. Really.
Dropping my bag at the door, I spotted their huge Chinese food picnic and joined them on the floor.
They were streaming an old episode of Sex life.
We ate silently and watched a little bit, but I was not even paying attention to the screen. I was too wound up, and finally blurted, “I’ve got my story.”
“What?” They both stopped eating.
I nodded. “I’ve got my first full story. It might be three pages, four—hell, five. Depending on how much information I end up with.”
“Vicki!” they yelled in unison and came toward me.
They squealed and then eased back, and Anne went to get the Dustbuster. “So what’s it about?” she asked.
“James Godfrey Junior.”
“James Godfrey Junior?”
“What about him?” Anne asked.
“It’s . . . almost undercover.” They were practically popping out of their skin with anticipation. “I get to meet him.”
“How?!”
“I’m trying to get an interview to ask about Interface.”
“Aha.”
“But I’ll also be researching him in secret. I’ll be . . . unlayering him,” I teased.
“VICKI!” Chloe banged my arm, knowing I was usually straitlaced.
Anne shook her head. “That man is hot!”
“What do you two know about him?” Chloe asked.
I pulled out my laptop. “I was just online liking all his social pages, and the guy has over ten million I*******m likes.”
We hopped onto other sites and checked out his Twitter feed.
I was not impressed by what I read.
“Let’s look for a smexy profile pic in case James himself sees it.”
“Not happening,” I said.
“Come on, Vicki, you must make yourself as appealing as possible. This one.” She pointed at a picture in one of my old social media albums where I was wearing a secretarial skirt and blouse, but the three buttons between my breasts were about to burst.
“I hate that shirt.”
“Because it shows off what you’ve got. Come on, let’s do it.”
I changed my profile picture, then sent him a message.
Mr. James, this is Vicki Vale with Edge. I’d love it if you granted me the opportunity for a personal interview in regard to your rising new star, Interface. I’ve put in the request through your office as well. I’m available anytime. . . .
I included all my details and shut it off.
“Okay, fingers crossed,” I murmured with butterflies in my stomach.
“And toes.”
Later, after Anne went home and Chloe went to sleep, I headed to my bed. I settled on my pillow, my laptop on my lap, sucking on a Fruit Roll-Up. “Interesting reading,” I said to an online picture of the man. I stayed up until midnight, reading more and more. I had already dug up quite the dirt on him.
James Godfrey Junior. Twenty-five years old. His family was such old money in Seattle, he got a headline the day he was born. At age five, he was in the hospital with meningitis, and the world was on pins and needles to see if he’d make it.
At age six, he’d already earned a black belt in karate, and on the weekends he flew with his socialite mother from one state to the next on one of his father’s jets. At thirteen, he’d already kissed most girls in school. At fifteen, he’d been the world’s biggest player and the smoothest liar. At eighteen, he was the perfect bastard, and rich to boot. At twenty, he’d lost his mother but was too busy skiing at a Swiss alpine village to reach the funeral on time.
By twenty-one, he and his two best friends, Ivan and Ethan, had become our generation's most notorious trust-fund babies.
He was the owner of four Bugattis: license plates BUG 1, BUG 2, BUG 3, and BUG 4. He had houses all over the world. Luxury cars. He bought dozens of gold watches, including a rose perpetual gold calendar at auction for $2.3 million. He was a collector, you could say. Of companies, toys, and, apparently, women.
James was an only child, and after inheriting his mother’s millions and displaying an uncanny flair for business during the following years, he became a billionaire and an absolute symbol of power. Not political power, but the good, old-fashioned power that came with having money. James wasn’t linked to the shady dealings of the Seattle political machine, but he could press that machine’s buttons if he wanted to. Every politician knew this—which was why being on the playboy’s good side was in their best interest.
James didn’t back just anyone. The public, somehow, trusted that James didn’t give a shit about what they thought—he wouldn’t back anyone he didn’t plan to own, so, indirectly, anyone backed by James couldn’t be owned by anyone else. He was the champion of the underdog. Using his substantial inheritance, James became a venture capitalist at a very young age, funding the tech projects of many of his Ivy League school buddies, many of which soared to success, making James a few hundred million wealthier than his own father. He still managed venture capital investments from within the offices of Tech10. Named for his love for technology and his favorite number, Tech10 was a company he created in those early years when several of his investments ended up listing on Nasdaq—one for a few billion, to boot.
The latest cover of the Latest—
James Godfrey: Our Favorite Bad Boy, Revealed
How many women has he slept with?
Why isn’t he interested in marriage?
How he became America’s hottest playboy bachelor
And more!
Twitter:
@jamesgodfreyjunior I wish I’d never laid eyes on you! #eatshitanddie
YOU’RE FUCKING DEAD! @jamesgodfreyjunior you fucked my girlfriend you’re so fucking DEAD
Free drinks anyone? @jamesgodfreyjunior paying at Bar downtown!
F******k wall:
Hey James, remember me? I gave you my number last week. Call or message me!
James—drinks next weekend, I’m in town with the wife. (Not that I’d bring her. She has fawned over you enough.) PM me to set a place.
Looking good in the yacht pics, James. Have room for a few more? My friends and I would love to party with you again! :) XOXO
Wow. “You’re a real gem, aren’t you?” I whispered, slamming my laptop shut around midnight. I bet half the things on the internet were completely overblown and untrue, which was why, of course, I needed more reliable research—firsthand research. I grinned and checked the time, realizing it was too late to tell my mother that I’d finally got my story.
