Chapter Text
“Bet you can’t guess who’s coming to New York?”
Betty looked up briefly from her laptop screen, just quick enough to catch a glimpse of Veronica Lodge’s impeccable visage, with her perfect makeup and expensive suit, standing at the threshold of her office door.
Betty cast her a distracted smile before going back to writing her email. “Oh, hey, gorgeous. Did the drunk ladies behave today?”
The Drunk Ladies were the loquacious hosts of the Today Show, dubbed just so by publicists across the New York metro area because they were so often inebriated first thing in the morning. Veronica complained about them on a daily basis, mostly because they went off script. Whether it was because they were drunk or because they just didn’t give a fuck was yet to be determined, but they were, according to Veronica, a publicist’s bad dream. Not quite a nightmare, but enough to make Veronica wish their bosses didn’t always want the Drunk Ladies on their authors’ press tours.
“Bold of you to suggest that they ever would,” Veronica replied with an arch of her professionally shaped eyebrow. “But I didn’t come here to complain about them. You’re not listening. Guess who’s coming to New York.”
Betty felt that she had way too many things to do to stop and gossip. She still had a couple of hundred pages of a bestselling author’s manuscript to edit apart from the email she was writing to another author where she was telling him to extensively rewrite two chapters of his manuscript because, Betty thought, it read like he was high out of his mind. Emails like these tended to become a flood of email exchanges between her and the authors, with the latter grousing that she was wrong, and her arguing that she was right. It was going to be a long day.
She didn’t have time to play guessing games with Veronica, no matter how much she loved her favorite book publicist.
“Just tell me, V. I’m a little busy here.”
Veronica sighed, rolling her eyes. “Your favorite author, Jughead Jones!”
Betty pursed her lips. “Great. There goes the neighborhood.”
***************
Jughead Jones, New York Times bestselling author and her publishing company’s long-time Golden Goose, lived and wrote mostly out in the upstate New York country home he had, and he mostly communicated with his editor, Kevin Keller, by Skype. He prided himself for being a recluse and whenever he published a book, he limited himself to two major talk-show appearances. He would take interviews at his secluded house and he refused studio photoshoots. Vehemently.
He liked to do book tours, however, showing up for book readings and signings with unlikely enthusiasm.
He liked buying the strangest things in bulk–Tylenol packets, oddly shaped paper clips, cheap party favors, and even condoms at one time–so that he could give them to every person who asked to sign his book. He had quick-fire conversations with them so he could personalize each message:
“Dear Aliyah, Poor you. Sincerely, J. Jones,” he wrote for someone who said she lived in New Jersey.
“Dear Jeff, Get well soon. Yours, J. Jones,” he wrote on another who told him he was addicted to Jughead’s books.
To the grandmother who told him she had asked to be buried with Upon the Winding Staircase in her will, he wrote, “Dear Helen, I hope you would consider being buried with Beneath the Cobbled Stone, instead. Like honestly, you’d be better off. Truly, J. Jones.”
“He likes people who read,” Kevin had told her.
“Yeah, well,” Betty had replied. “David Berkowitz likes to read.”
“Serial Killers probably rank low on people he likes, but I’d venture to guess he may like you a little more than David Berkowitz.”
***********
Their office rolled out the red carpet whenever Jughead Jones came to town, and it wasn’t that Betty hated him. It wasn’t like that at all. If there was any hate, or dislike, harbored between them, it would be from him to her, because the day he met Betty Cooper, he had seen the first chapter of his manuscript on her desk and it looked like road kill. He had, perhaps, never seen his manuscripts bleed so much in his life.
“Well,” he had said, his acerbic smile cutting straight to the pit of her stomach. “That didn’t work out for us, did it?”
It wasn’t the kind of first meeting she liked having with authors, particularly when they were going to be published for the first time, and six years ago, she was new to the publishing company herself. Perhaps it wasn’t really fair to either of them, to meet over the carcass of what eventually became the biggest selling book of that year. She wasn’t Jughead Jones’s editor, even then, but Kevin did like giving her first chapters of the authors he handled so that she could edit it, completely unfiltered by corporate bias, personal relationships, and self-congratulatory hype.
“Keeps me honest,” is what Kevin says it does for him.
Of course, Betty didn’t explain all that to Jones. She didn’t feel she had to. There was something vaguely smug about what he had said–the way he seemed un-bothered by how she had murdered his work in cold blood. One side of his mouth was lifted the tiniest bit, and his blue eyes looked directly into her green ones. That he was tall enough that she was half a foot shorter than him meant that he had to look down at her and that a forelock of his luscious black hair flopped over the brow of one eye.
She remembered frowning petulantly at what she assumed was intellectual arrogance.
So full of himself, she remembered thinking. Nevermind that getting snapped up by one of the biggest publishing companies of the world, known for publishing brash and bold authors with creative talents that often frightened most of their peers in the industry, did tend to get into any author’s head. It was almost an imperative that authors published by Little, John & Co. had the gumption to jump off planes butt naked, screaming passages of Dostoyevsky’s Crime & Punishment on their way down.
She didn’t assume Jughead Jones was any different, and as a book editor in said publishing company, honed by the huge egos of other authors past, she had grown expert at handling guys like Jughead Jones.
Or so she thought.
She was helping out a friend, was all she had said, and it was her duty as an editor to look at an author’s work with a critical eye.
His only response had been a smirk, and biting his bottom lip, he wagged a finger at her and said, “You don’t scare me.”
That was six years ago. Since then, she’d gotten countless emails from Jughead, asking her what she thought of certain passages of the books he was writing. Of course, she at first told him that he had to direct all these questions to Kevin, his editor, but with Kevin insisting that his author considered this part of his writing process, she eventually stopped trying to punt Jughead’s emails to Kevin and just began going along with it.
She was often merciless, never holding back on what she thought were the flaws in his work. And while she always thought he was a brilliant writer, she figured that wasn’t what he was emailing her for. Enough people probably told him how great his work was. She wasn’t going to drop the ball on his expectations.
They argued a lot in their emails, but Betty found a strange sort of satisfaction from the push and pull with an intellectual equal, because even when she savagely won most of their written debates, he always came back for more.
It was true what he said. She didn’t scare him and she respected that.
************
The next time he would drop by the New York office, it would be three years later, gearing up for the publication of his second book, expected to be as wildly successful as the first. She had expected they would greet each other in the hallway like old friends.
They’d exchanged a few comments on Instagram outside of their professional relationship and he’d even, at one time, commented “Wow,” at a picture of her in a red cocktail dress.
It was hard to tell if it was a good wow or a sarcastic one, but he had Liked the photo, so she preferred to assume the former rather than the latter.
So when she saw Jughead through the glass window of her office three years ago and he walked past her door, she had smiled and waved, saying “Jughead!” like an old friend.
His response was nothing she expected. He had said, “Hey, Cooper,” before getting immediately distracted by their esteemed Publisher, Waldo Weatherbee.
That was it. That was all he thought she deserved.
And after he left Weatherbee’s office, he didn’t drop by her office to say hello or goodbye. To say that she felt a little snubbed was an understatement. She was pissed. She hadn’t spent hours arguing with him in email about his work, giving him what could be considered helpful pointers on writing his bestselling book, only to be treated like that.
She remembered Kevin telling her that afternoon that Jughead was hoping she could make it to drinks with them later, along with his then rumored girlfriend, Toni Topaz, and Betty had said, “Tell him to kiss mine, Kevin.”
She never thought that Kevin would actually tell him that, but clearly, he did, because Jughead Jones showed up unexpectedly that night at the door of her apartment, his brilliant blue eyes darker than she remembered them, and said, “I thought you’d never ask.”
Well.
She thought she’d be angry enough that she could slam the door on his face, but that dark hair over his blue eyes, the dark scarf around his neck where motorcycle goggles rested loosely upon its creases, and that black leather jacket with the gang patch, did something to her breath–because it was caught in her throat, and two seconds later, their faces were smashing together with torrid suction, and after a few seconds more, he was unceremoniously nailing her against her apartment wall.
She never thought Jughead Jones would be the standard of every sexual experience she had thereafter, but he would be.
After he made her come two times standing up, he took off all her clothes (yes, she wasn’t even completely naked), dumped her on her bed, and made her come three more times before he let himself go.
She remembered lying on her bed in disbelief, still tingling from her last orgasm, and listening to Jughead catch his breath beside her.
As they both stared up at the ceiling of her room, perhaps lost in their own post-coital thoughts, his hand kind of crept into hers, and she let him take it.
“Betty Cooper,” he had said, breathless.
When she could speak, she began to say his name back when a shrill ringing sound pierced through the room.
It wasn’t her phone, so she could only suppose it was his. He let it ring for a couple more times, waiting for what she had to say, when she said, “Aren’t you going to get that?”
Maybe that had been her mistake.
When he picked up that phone, the look on his face was one of devastation and alarm. It was Toni, and he looked like she had delivered bad news. He was still on the phone with her as he pulled on his clothes frantically, telling her to calm down, to call hs lawyer, to meet him at his hotel.
She watched him as he did all this, as everything she and he did the last hour withered to nothing, and when he ended his call and put his phone into the pocket of his jeans, he was already headed for the door. “Betty, I gotta go, I’m sorry.”
She remembered worrying for him, walking right after him swaddled in her blankets as she said, “Is everything alright? Is it something I can help you with?”
“Not really. I gotta–I’ll call you.”
She doubted it, then. Disappointed, but not surprised. “Sure. Well, let me know.”
“I will.” He had paused at the door, his gaze intense on hers, and he pulled her close, planting a firm kiss on her forehead. She remembered closing her eyes, and before she could open them again, he was gone, the slamming of her door putting the period on what could’ve been.
Not that she was heartbroken or anything. Not really. What they had had been an interlude. A brief moment of physical connection.
It had come and now it was gone.
As it turned out, what had sent him rushing out of her apartment was all over the news the next day.
Jughead Jones’s father, Forsythe Pendleton Jones II, had been arrested for drug trafficking charges the night before. As president of an upstate New York gang, the Southside Serpents, he had allegedly overseen the largest drug distribution operation upstate New York has ever seen in 20 years.
Jughead Jones’s second book skyrocketed to #1 on the NYT bestsellers list and the publishing company barely had to lift a finger. In the meantime, Jughead Jones stayed by his embattled father’s side for the next year and a half.
She had to admit–he was understandably preoccupied, so when he didn’t call, she really couldn’t bring herself to be sensitive about it.
Perhaps to keep his sanity, he never stopped writing, and once again, the emails to her resumed, so with his father’s legal troubles in the background, he finished his third book.
Betty had briefly considered telling him then that he had some nerve, but really, aside from their one-night stand being the least of his problems, that would seem disingenuous. She actually liked these email exchanges (she would never admit that to Jughead or Kevin), and if he wanted to keep it strictly professional, as in–let’s pretend that night didn’t happen–then she could do just that.
She never told Kevin or Veronica about that affair, and three years after that, while writing his fourth book, he was coming back to New York, as Veronica said, and she wondered what sort of reunion they would have now.
***************
FP Jones had recently been exonerated of all drug trafficking charges, his lawyers having successfully argued that he had been framed by a rival gang. Jughead was arguably less distracted now, and with his fourth book in full swing, his writing career was unburdened by personal matters.
She had learned that their email and online exchanges predetermined nothing about their face-to-face encounters and that uncertainty, out of everything, was what gave her a fair measure of agita.
“Try not to hurt yourself in your excitement,” Veronica told her.
Betty sighed, giving up on her work to look at her friend and address the issue. “Is there something in particular that you need from me?”
“Nothing, B. I just thought you should know. Kevin just got the news, himself, and he’s been pestering me to set up an itinerary of interviews for him. He wants Jones to use every minute he’ll be in New York for press, talking about book 3.”
Betty’s eyebrow arched in surprise. “Book 3? Not book 4?”
“I think Jones’s agent is on the cusp of making a book to TV series deal with Netflix and media noise about what’s already up would help.”
“Well, good luck getting anything on short notice.”
Veronica scoffed. “Please. I get calls about booking Jughead Jones everyday. The guy’s hot, literally and–well, literally.”
Betty had been waiting for someone to make that publishing joke for ages.
And yes, Jughead Jones was incredibly hot.
****************
It was snowing outside. Badly. And Betty trudged into work in her waterproof parka and snow boots. The guard at the reception greeted her with a knowing smirk as he shook her head.
“Don’t work too hard, Cooper.”
She said, “Look who’s talking?” She liked him, Security Guy Jeff. He remembered names and faces and it shows.
As she got to her floor, she noted the silence that seemed to settle through the hallway. She was sure most of her coworkers were working from home, what with the snow storm raging outside, but she never liked working from home. She liked the cold efficiency of an office, with no distractions and relatively good coffee.
She wasn’t alone–a few other people were there, braving the snow to impress or because they liked coming to work, like she did.
As she settled in her office, hanging up her damp coat and stepping out of her snow boots into something more office appropriate, she took in the calm and silence. Here, she could work. Here, she had purpose and she was living her dream of editing great books. Sure, sometimes acquiring books felt like battling for supremacy and grabbing land, sometimes it involved cunning and intrigue, but for the most part, when she had a manuscript on hand, she did her best and her best was rewarded.
Life, she thought, could not get better than this.
She worked all day, occasionally taking breaks to comment on inappropriate memes, but she steadily went through chapters and chapters of authors’ work.
At around one, she could see a stream of people leaving, and as the clock neared 2, the Publisher, Waldo Weatherbee, peeked into her office and said, “You should head home, Cooper. This storm isn’t slowing down anytime soon.”
She cast him a grateful smile. “I’ll be leaving soon, I promise.”
Weatherbee nodded and tapped the frame of her door. “Okay. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
He left and she was relieved that she didn’t have to keep explaining herself. She worked on, reveling in the silence.
It was around 3:30 that she heard the soft ding from the elevator lobby. It had grown so quiet that the sound filtered down the hallway and caught her attention.
She figured it may be the cleaning crew and she began to put away some of the detritus that had gathered on her desk, sweeping them into her trash can.
As she straightened her papers and set aside some wayward pens, Jughead Jones appeared in her line of vision, and as he looked around the empty office, she realized she was holding her breath.
The man looked good. Really good.
He was wearing a parka. Any reasonable man would in this weather, and it was the expensive kind, too, so it fit him nicely, but peeking from that practical piece of outerwear was that hint of black and grey plaid–that look of his that the publishing world knew so well. She couldn’t imagine that he would have his gang jacket on, not in this weather, but what wasn’t covered by the parka showed that he hadn’t changed much since she last saw him in person.
She could see the dark tangle of leather bracelets around his wrists, for one, and while she remembered him having tattoos on his body, she quickly spied an unfamiliar one on the underside of his wrist. His dark jeans and black motorcycle boots assured that he was still every bit the motorcycle riding Southside Serpent he was known for, and when he tore off his beanie, his glorious black hair sprung up like freaking magic.
God, I hate myself.
Betty’s self loathing was, even to her, almost perfunctory. Did she really hate having this crush on him? Or was it just a mental defense mechanism? She liked to think that she was a modern enough woman who could have sexual relationships that didn’t devolve into awkward encounters. She’d had other lovers in the past and she never had a problem filing them away in her mental cabinet of Good or Bad experiences.
Then again, those other lovers were never constants in her Inbox, engaging her in incredibly stimulating discussions about character development, off-page backgrounds, and dark human motivations.
When Jughead turned and saw her, she may have imagined the changing expression on his face, how his look of neutral inquiry suddenly became purposeful determination, his piercing blue eyes seeming to darken as he approached. By the time he got to the office door, leaning against the frame, and saying, “Betty Cooper. I was hoping you’d be here.” She knew it was over.
tbc