This drew a hearty "hear, hear" from Bob, but only a glaring snort from Murdock as Pallbrook continued.
"I'm telling you! Send her out to get an article, and she brings back enough material for a three-part series. I'll tell you what, Miss Dansin. Why don't you take the week off, and get yourself moved in? You've certainly earned it."
But that was just the beginning. Her week off gave her nothing but free time, and Darren was quick to fill it. He offered to postpone his return to New York to spend the weekend with her, and she agreed, on the condition that he check out of the hotel and stay with her. He readily accepted.
They spent the first two days finding and fixing up her new home. It was a small, furnished second-floor apartment on Oak Street, and she had fallen in love with it on sight. Bob even managed to get Friday off, and helped them search the various shops, delighting equally in each new treasure she found to make the apartment hers.
The rest of the time was Darren's alone. Each day was spent discovering some new part of the city, and each evening some new height of passion and emotion. The feeling between them grew quickly, and firmly, and it came as no surprise to either one when he postponed his return three more days. It was a special time for Melissa, and she was beginning to wish it would never end.
But, like all good things, it had to. It ended the night before her return to work when Darren had to leave.
Bob drove them to the airport, and they said their good-byes quickly, outside the terminal. They had both agreed this would be better than that self-conscious "what do I say, what do I do process" that precedes any boarding.
The ride home was quiet, with Melissa staring pensively out the window. It was Bob who finally broke the silence.
"A little."
"I think you're in love," he said, chuckling.
"Don't be silly," she said. "That just doesn't happen to me. A long time ago, my dear, I had to make a choice between love and career. I chose career."
"Don't be silly, Melissa. There's lots of women who have both. What makes you so special?"
Knowing she could trust him, Melissa confessed her unique approach to journalism to him, diagramming in bold fashion the technique that was her trademark. She also explained how any man she'd ever been with, although seeming to accept it at first, would inevitably destroy the relationship with jealousy and anger.
"Well, don't worry about it," he said. "I firmly believe that for every person, no matter what their particular preference or quirk may be, there's a counterpart in the world to exactly fit them."
"I wish that were true."
"Believe me, it is."
Something in his voice suddenly sparked her curiosity. "Have you found your counterpart?"
He stared at the road mutely for several seconds, weighing the question before answering. "I think we should discuss me some other time. Just trust me. I know what I'm talking about." With this the conversation died, leaving Melissa in a cloud of mystery.
The next week found Melissa in good spirits as she threw herself totally into her work. But as the weeks progressed, and nothing was heard from Darren, she began to sink lower, and lower. Although she never allowed her personal feelings to interfere with the firm execution of her career duties, she drew less and less satisfaction as time went on.
It was not until about a month and a half after Darren left that she finally resolved herself to the fact that she had just been a fun week, and began regaining her cheerfulness and enthusiasm. After this, the memory of Darren was soon forgotten.
It was weeks later, a rather cool day for mid-August, and Melissa was working over an article when Murdock strolled into the room, and over to her desk, plopping himself down on the corner.
"How's it going, hot-shot?" he said.
"Oh… hi, Murdock. Been out killing babies?"
"Cute, sweet-meat, real cute," he said, picking up her coffee to take a sip.
"Murdock, don't drink my coffee."
"Why not?"
"You always curdle the water," she said, smiling sarcastically.
"Look, I didn't come to banter with you. I want to know if you're up for your first really tough assignment."
"Sure!"
"Good," he said, handing her the brief. "Here's all the background. Go to it."
She quickly thumbed through the papers. It was a series of clippings, and a biography on C.J. Claybourne, a.k.a. "The Rocket Man". He was the NFL's newest hot-shot quarterback, in town for a preseason game with the Bean.
"Where do I meet him?" she asked.
"Well, you don't, that's the problem," he snickered, the inevitable gloat on his face. "He's never granted an interview in his life, and never intends to. Good luck."
As usual, he planted his bombshell, and then made his exit, allowing her to stew in private.
She was on her own with this one. Not even Bob could help her. All he knew about Claybourne was that he was always the first one on the field, and the last one off. His only suggestion was that she might be able to corner him alone after practice.
It was on this assumption that she headed out to Soldier's Field, and waited while the team filtered out. Sure enough, she spotted the lone Number Twelve heading for the dressing room, and posted herself by the door, awaiting his exit.
But too much time seemed to pass, and she became worried that he had found some alternative exit. Screwing up her courage, she decided to plunge right in, and entered the private male domain of the locker room.
Once inside, she was greeted instantly with the startling aroma of male musk and well-worn uniforms as she tip-toed down the aisle, searching the tiers of lockers for some sign of C.J. He was nowhere to be found.
"Shit. Just my luck," she cursed.
She turned and started to leave when suddenly the sound of water wound its way through the room. She crept around, peering over the shower-room wall, and glimpsed the solitary figure through the haze of steam. She had found her man.
"Well, there he is. Now, how do I get him?" Quickly an idea formed. Never being one to pass up an opportunity, she turned and availed herself of the nearest locker, stripping off her clothes.
She closed the locker quietly, tip-toed across the cold cement floor and, taking a deep breath for courage, stepped into the uncertainty of the steamy shower.
He was standing there, soaping down his powerful body, and Melissa just stood grinning down at his beautiful cock.
"Hiya, Rocket Man. How's it hanging?"
"My God!" he exclaimed, the soap squirting out of his hands in shock. "You're a…"
"Melissa Dansin from Personalities magazine. Thought I might get an interview."
"Look… you…"
"You dropped your soap," she interjected, bending over to pick it up. She reached down slowly, allowing him the full rear view of her sweet cunt, her beaver hanging like a beard below her puckering asshole.
Carefully she straightened up and turned her eyes riveting on his slowly swelling cock. It was beautiful. The whole length of it gleamed and glided wetly under the shower spray. It grew larger as the combination of her blatant stare and her tongue circling the ruby-red ring of her lips began to have its effect.
"Before we get into the interview," she said, "I thought you might like someone to wash your back."
She walked over to him, her excitement rising at her own boldness. He did not resist when she began rubbing the bar of soap, not over his back, but over his prick, paying particular attention to the tip, making the huge prong grow harder beneath her knowing hands.
His moaning increased, and his body trembled as her soapy hands probed the full length of his cock. Her lips came up, barely touching him, and she ran the hot tip of her tongue slowly over his mouth.
"What's your favorite position, stud?" she whispered.