Page 7 of Doctor Daddy Dilemma
The rush of hitting one mile this morning on my normal treadmill run had my heart feeling full. I was running in the gym downstairs from the paper’s head office. There were always a few creepy guys who stared at me while I did my workout, as if a full-figured woman had no right to enter their territory and enjoy herself. I ignored them this morning, though, mostly stuck in my own head anyway.
After that interview with Dr. Hartman last Friday night, I’d been back and forth on how to respond to him and when to set up the next interview. Most of the conversation had seemed pretty professional, though his refusal to answer some of my questions wasn’t. And the way he spat out the compliment about my chest only made me question whether he was trying to prove a point, or whether he genuinely found me attractive.
A man like him—hot, wealthy, and successful—probably got any woman he wanted. I wasn’t sure why he’d even think twice about dating me, but I accepted his weirdly aggressive words as a genuine compliment. Why else would he have said it that way?
With my run almost finished, I slowed the pace from five miles per hour to three—a brisk walk—and started my cool down. I was sweating like a pig and needed a shower, but I felt good. Starting my mornings a few times a week with a run made me feel invigorated and reminded me that my body was a temple to be cherished, a habit I hoped to maintain until I was well into my late years.
My phone rang and I saw that it was Mr. James. He would see me in just a few short minutes so I ignored it. But when it rang again, I figured it was something important. I swiped right to answer and the call connected to my earbuds.
“Mr. James?”
“Where are you?” he snapped impatiently as if I were late to work or something. Some days I did go into the office early, if I was up against a deadline or if I knew I’d be taking off early. But this morning was just like any normal morning. I checked the time and saw I still had twenty minutes, with no commute given the gym was in the basement for newspaper employees only.
“I’m on a treadmill downstairs, why?” My tone was ever-pleasant as always, I reminded myself this man was my boss. I had to play nice until I had something else lined up.
“Well get up here. We have something you’ll want to see, and I want to work an angle on this exposé you’re working on.” He hung up on me and it made me frustrated.
I hated how he felt like he could boss me around even when I wasn’t on the clock. True we didn’t actually use timecards or clock-in to work; it was standard to just arrive around eight and leave around four. It led to a bit of abuse of power and authority, especially for his female employees, but there was little I could do about it.
So, I cut my workout short by five minutes, hitting the stop button on the treadmill and collecting my phone, water bottle, and sweat rag. I had a fast, five-minute shower, not my normal ten-minute soak, and left my hair unbrushed and my makeup undone as I headed up to see what all the fuss was about. My morning might not have started the way I hoped for, but I wasn’t going to let that frustrate me any further. I put a smile on my face and waltzed into his office without knocking.
“Good, sit down,” Mr. James barked, and I glanced at Amy who was sitting in one of the chairs facing his desk. As soon as I sat next to her, Mr. James turned his computer screen around so both of us could see it, and I was surprised to see an image of Dr. Hartman staring back at me.
He stood next to a red Mercedes. One hand held the passenger door open, and the other was on a redhead’s back as she climbed in. I knew exactly who it was—Jonahlie Prince, a television soap opera star who was very much married, and he was putting her in the car in what appeared to be a very unprofessional way.
“What am I looking at?” I asked, but I knew what he’d say.
“You’re looking at the story of the year. You know who that is? She’s a married woman, Charlie. This man is diddling a married woman, along with this woman…” He clicked his mouse and the picture changed. It was the same leggy blonde who strolled out of his house the night I showed up to do the interview. Helen Smith, also an actress but not as well known. I’d watched him descend his staircase while pulling on his clean shirt and my God the abs on that creature. I’d made my assumption immediately, but this only confirmed it for me.
Dr. Alexander Hartman was a player. And by all means, he had every right to do as he pleased. I was not his judge or executioner, but the tabloids sure were. It was no wonder he refused any more interviews and held the media at arm’s length. He was probably ashamed of his brazen behavior and didn’t want to keep hearing the gossip mills spit out more and more rumors about his conquests.
“Yeah so?” I said, not sure how this actually connected to me. I wasn’t writing a trashy tabloid piece, my series of articles was meant to showcase Dr. Hartman’s life as a whole. I had no intention of painting him like a playboy. There were enough bad articles like that. And that wasn’t what I wanted to be known for.
“So, you’re going to use it,” he said proudly. He sat with his shoulders squared grinning like a fool as if he’d hit the jackpot on the lottery and was gloating. “You’re going to hammer him about these incidents—all of them—and you’re going to write a really gritty little number on how this man actually functions.”
Outside of getting ratings and upping subscriptions, Mr. James had no motive to tear Dr. Hartman down. He was a piece of work, but he wasn’t the type of man to trash another man’s reputation ruthlessly, at least I didn’t think he was. If he was, I was in the wrong place for sure. But I had heard that subscriptions were down as more and more papers transitioned away from print copies to digital only. Folks could get their news from so many media sources that were free; they’d stopped tuning in to local newspapers.
This just wasn’t the way to do it. Chiseling away at a decent, respectable man’s career because he had a personal life that some people might think was risqué meant I was no better than a sleazy paparazzi trying to sneak into a country club shower room to take illicit pictures of celebrities.
“Mr. James…” I started, but Amy placed her hand on my knee and I stopped. She knew I was going to protest, and she was probably saving me. Who knew why he brought her in for this meeting, or maybe she had her own meeting but he insisted this back and forth couldn’t wait. I looked at her and huffed out a sigh, but I kept the smile on my face.
“Who’s the boss here, Martinez? Just do what you’re told. I expect some grit in this exposé.” He stared at me with a hard glare I knew I couldn’t appease.
“I’ll look into it, and I’ll ask about the woman, but I doubt he’s going to be forthcoming. He doesn’t even want to do these interviews. He prefers his privacy.” I stood and kept my bag clutched in my hands. I still needed to put myself together, but I could do that in my cubicle. This was a waste of my time.
“Good, just do it. Press him until he squirms. Maybe we should send a body cam.” He nodded his head and looked away with a thoughtful expression, and I totally ignored his last comment as I rolled my eyes at Amy and walked out.
In my cubicle, I sat down and twisted my hair up, clipping it against my head, then I pulled out my makeup compact and powdered my face. I never wore much, but I felt like what I did wear made a huge difference in my opinion. While I applied my “natural look” I thought of Dr. Hartman again and decided it was time to press him for our next interview. It would mean flying to Miami again to see him, which made butterflies flutter in my stomach, but I tried to ignore them.
I got enough information from my last visit to start the piece but not really enough to do him justice. I wanted to make him look good, not trash him the way James wanted me to. So I needed to go back.
But I also wanted to go back.
I’d left things in a very awkward state with him when I asked him the very blunt question of whether he wanted me back for another interview or for my breasts. I was shocked to silence by his response too. Now, however, I felt like that response was born of a moment of snarky flirting from a man who had no self-control when it came to women. Maybe he was okay with more interviews, but he was working some angle with the flirty compliments, even when they were a verbal assault on me too.
I finished my makeup and put it away then pulled out my cell phone and called the number that had sent me a text message. I could have just texted, but it was always faster to have a conversation over the phone, and there was no way to miscommunicate or misinterpret what was happening. Besides, for all I knew it was his secretary or receptionist who’d sent the message to begin with.
“Hartman,” he barked into the phone as he answered and my heart stopped for a second. It was his personal line? He had sent me that initial text message from his personal cell phone, not a work phone?