Free With a Twist by Deirdre Martin Page B

polite to them, which impressed Natalie. Quinn’s jealousy blinded him; there was no way on earth Mason could be so awful in the office yet be so kind and caring outside of it.
    “Bonjour,” he said to Natalie as she came to take his order.
    “Bonjour,” she replied. “What can I get you this evening?”
    “Actually, I just stopped by to see you; then I have to go. I’m exhausted.”
    “Oh.” Natalie felt tingly all up and down.
    “You told me you liked museums.” Mason looked shy. “Well, there’s an exhibit opening at MoMA of up-and-coming new artists. Would you like to go with me Saturday afternoon?”
    Natalie flushed. “Yes. Very much.”
    “Terrific. Give me your number, and we’ll finalize plans.”
    Natalie wrote her number down on a page from her notepad and handed it to him. Looking confident, Mason slipped it into his back pocket.
    “ Au revoir ,” he said. “See you Saturday.”
    “Yes. I’m very much looking forward to it.”
    “Me, too.”
    She watched him depart. A date with a cultured man; this was what she’d wanted for a long while. Perhaps working at the Wild Hart was going to turn out to be a godsend in disguise.
    “What the hell is this?”
    Quinn threw the evening edition of the Sent down on Mason Clement’s desk. Following his failed conversation with Liam, he’d gone to the paper and busted his ass on a piece about yet another molesting priest. Cindy came out of the morning editorial meeting telling him it wasn’t going to be a half page long as originally thought. Instead, it was reduced to two columns. Why? To run a half-page article on Desiree Drake, the nineteen-year-old star of a show on Nickelodeon who’d crashed her Porsche into a utility pole after downing a few Valium and Vicodin cocktails.
    Clement slowly lifted his head to look at Quinn. “Calm down.”
    “Don’t tell me to calm down. You cut a major Manhattan story to make room for a piece about a talentless kid too stupid not to know not to drink and drive?”
    “People care about this kid, O’Brien, even if you don’t.”
    Quinn snatched the paper back up and, licking the thumb of his right hand, began combing the pages. “You couldn’t cut this goddamn half-page picture of the pope in his new hat?” he snapped, showing the picture to Clement. He continued flipping pages furiously. “Or how about this?” He threw the paper back down on Clement’s desk, poking a story with his finger. “ ‘Over Sixty Sex Parlor Raided in Brooklyn.’ Gimme a fuckin’ break! That could have been covered in one column, and you know it.”
    “Smut sells.”
    “Not smut about retirees,” Quinn scoffed. “I mean, c’mon. Seriously.”
    “C’mon what?” Clement looked annoyed. “I told you Hewitt was taking this paper in another direction. Did you think I was kidding?”
    “Do you not understand how important my story is?”
    “The Drake story is breaking news. We had to bump you.”
    “You didn’t freakin’ bump me, Clement—you cut me to shreds.”
    “We’ve had this conversation already, remember?” Clement gave a bored sigh. “I don’t want you to stop being Mr. Run and Gun, okay? I know it’s what you do best. But you need to get it through your thick skull that entertainment is what sells papers.”
    “Oh, that’s right, I forgot: No one bought the Sent during the last presidential election. Or in the weeks following 9/11. Thanks for reminding me.”
    “Different kettle of fish entirely,” Clement said dismissively. “Those were stories of international importance. Stories that focus solely on the city? Less important.”
    “You’re wrong.”
    “No, you’re wrong,” Clement snapped. “The numbers don’t lie.”
    “Do not edit my stories down to minor footnotes in the paper, you got that?”
    Clement laughed curtly. “Who the hell do you think you are?”
    “The best fuckin’ reporter in New York, that’s who.”
    “And I’m your boss, which means I can fire your ass so fast