34
A few minutes later, upon leaving Dexter Burns' office, Joyce went back
to her desk and wrote the whole story.
They had counted on her fear--and they had been right. They had told her
they would kill her if she tried to expose them again, that no matter what she
did or where she went they would have her tracked down and killed. And she
believed them. And if it had ended there, if she could have gone back to her old
life and tried to put it all behind her, she would have kept quiet. But it
hadn't ended there. She was still a slave to Trifford; he was still controlling
her and degrading her, and he would continue to do so. As long as that went on,
she had no life. She was not a person.
She didn't care any more. If she couldn't be free, let them kill her.
She would bring them down too, if she could.
She wrote the story, and she told it all. Everything that had happened
to her, and about Lisa, and about the murder of Avery and David. All of it. When
she was finished she turned the story in to Roger Miles, and went home.
As soon as she arrived the next morning, the city editor called her into
his office.
"This is an incredible story, Joyce!" Roger Miles said. His face was
puzzled, and skeptical. She wasn't surprised.
"It's true," she said flatly. "Every word."
"Joyce--" Miles scratched his head. "Look, don't take this wrong, but
you've been under a lot of strain lately, and--"
"Stop it, Roger! I'm not crazy, and I'm not making anything up. It
happened just as I wrote it."
"You have no evidence, right? No confirmation. Nothing."
"You want to see the marks on my body?"
"Oh, come on, Joyce! Look, even if I believed this--which is pretty hard
to do--I couldn't possibly print it. Not after what happened with your last
Council story. You'd be laughed out of town, and so would the paper. Hell, no
paper in the country would print this now."
"Laughed at, hell. I'd be dead. But I don't care about that! I have to
do this now. Christ, Roger, if you knew what these men are--"
"Why don't you go to the police?"
"Because they control the police, don't you understand? If I went to the
police I'd be killed anyway, and nobody would know a damn thing. This way at
least--" She broke off, because Miles was shaking his head. "Look," she said
after a moment. "Just print it as my story, just one crazy lady's wild story.
The paper doesn't have to stand behind it. Print a disclaimer, or--"
"Joyce, that's no good and you know it. Look, maybe I'll put a couple of
people on it and poke around a little--"
"No! They'll know! It'll never get out unless you run it right now!
Tomorrow!"
"No way," Miles said. "I'm sorry, Joyce."
Joyce was silent. But she had one more weapon.
"Roger," she said, after a long pause. "Roger, look at me. You've always
liked me, right?"
"You know I have. But--"
"You've always wanted to go to bed with me, haven't you?"
He stared at her a moment, then grinned sheepishly. "Well, sure. Along
with most of the other guys around here. But it's not just--"
"You can," Joyce said.
"What?"
"You can go to bed with me. You can have me. Right now, right here if
you want. Look." She stood up and started unbuttoning her blouse.
"What the hell are you doing?" Miles demanded, but he made no move to
stop her.
She took the blouse off. She wore a white brassiere. He stared at the
curves of her breasts and the tantalizing shadows of her nipples through the
cloth.
"My body is a little marked up right now," Joyce said. "But it's still
pretty nice, don't you think, Roger?"
"Joyce, look--"
Joyce took her skirt off. His eyes slid reflexively down her body, clad
only in brassiere and panties. He swallowed.
"You can have me right here on your desk, Roger," Joyce said. "Or on the
floor. Or in your chair. Any place you want. Any way you want." And she took off
the brassiere.
"Jesus!" Miles said hoarsely. "Joyce, what are you--"
"I want you to print the story, Roger. That's all you have to do."
"I can't! For god's sake, how can I--"
She took the panties off.
"Print the story," she said.
"Oh, my god," Miles said.
Joyce walked around his desk and approached his chair. She sat down on
his lap and kissed him, a very long, very thorough kiss, during which his hands
found their way to her legs and her breasts.
"Anything you want, Roger," she whispered when she drew her mouth away.
"Just print the story."
"I--I don't--I--"
She slid off his lap and sank to her knees in front of him. She pulled
down his zipper and freed his cock, which was stiff and throbbing. She bent her
head to it and touched it once with her tongue, making him gasp. She bathed it
in the warm breath from her open mouth.
"Will you do it, Roger?" she said, her lips just brushing his flesh.
"Will you print the story?"
His words were strangled. "Yes. Damn it, yes! All right! God...
Joyce..."
The words turned into moans as her mouth devoured him.
After a while he pulled her up and took her on his desk. She made it
very good for him, arching and twisting and wrapping her legs around him,
matching his rhythm with hers. She felt nothing. She wondered if she would ever
feel real sexual desire again. She doubted it.
Miles had good staying power, and he enjoyed her body for a good long
time before he finally shouted out his climax and exploded inside her. After a
few moments he rose and began pulling on the clothing he had hastily discarded.
Joyce got up too. "That was good, Roger," she said. "Now what about the
story? It has to be page one, right? Are you goingto--"
"No," Miles said.
She stared at him. "No? No what?"
"No story."
Sudden tears of rage and frustration came to her eyes. "You son of a
bitch! You promised!"
"I lied," Miles said.
