CHAPTER 2 DELILAH #2
“Woah,” Gianna says, stumbling to a stop halfway across the lobby, backing up with a mug of coffee in each hand.
I know they’re both for her. When she’s in research mode, she’s powered by caffeine and those little packages of fruit snacks from Costco.
The only time she leaves her desk is when she runs out.
I must have caught her during a refresh cycle.
She tilts her head and squints at me, the pencil shoved through the middle of her enormous bun wobbling. Glossy auburn hair, gemstone eyes. Even going on what I’m sure is day three of not showering, she’s a stunner.
“Delilah?” she calls.
“Yeah, it’s me.”
She blinks furiously. “I thought I was hallucinating,” she mutters. “Why are you dressed like a turtle?”
“Not a hallucination.” Just a Keith-induced waking nightmare. “Please tell me you have something in the break room for me to change into.”
“Uh.” She glances down at her legs, then at mine. Where Gianna is petite and waiflike, I have a size fourteen set of hips and curvy legs. She drags her eyes back to mine with a wince. “I think I have an extra shirt in there. From the station-sponsored marathon a couple years ago?”
“Did you run that marathon?”
“No, but I like free T-shirts.” She brings one of the mugs to her mouth and takes a loud slurp. “What’s going on? You weren’t dressed like that when I saw you this morning.”
“You didn’t see me this morning.”
Her forehead scrunches. “Yes, I did? We talked about the new happy hour spot you want to try. The one with the Tater Tots?”
“That was yesterday.”
Gianna blinks, surprised. “Really?”
I lean closer and sniff at her hair. She smells like the very bottom of a coffeepot. “When was the last time you showered?”
“Um . . .” She pauses, mentally calculating.
“And that answers my question.” I sigh. “Gianna, you need to take care of yourself.”
She lifts her shoulders and her two mugs with the same weak shrug. “I’m in the middle of this embezzlement thing and I want to get further along before I take a break.”
As the primary researcher for the news department, Gianna is usually in the middle of something. Last year when there was a mayoral scandal, she didn’t leave her cubicle for six straight days. I had to practically force-feed her chicken noodle soup and wrestle her into a change of clothes.
Working with Gianna is what I imagine having a toddler is like. A toddler with a caffeine addiction and an absolutely foul mouth.
“All right.” I study her critically. “But consume something other than coffee. I have those—”
“Protein bars in the bottom drawer of your desk. I know.” Her hands occupied, she affectionately butts her forehead against my shoulder. “Thanks for making sure I eat.”
Behind us, someone clears their throat. I turn halfway to find Mark staring at me expectantly, both of his dark eyebrows furrowed in a heavy line. He holds out his wrist and taps the face of his watch.
Gianna snorts. “Why is camera boy acting like your keeper?”
I sigh. “I have a meeting with Keith.”
Gianna’s attention snaps away from Mark and her face darkens. “Fuck that guy.”
“Gi—”
“No, seriously. Fuck that guy. Is he why you’re wearing the turtle suit? Do I need to key his car again?”
I wave my hands wildly and shush her. Thankfully, Mark has moved his intimidation routine to the other side of the lobby, standing and waiting by the door that leads to the back of the studio. I duck my head closer to Gianna. “Again?” I whisper.
An absolutely devious look twists her delicate features. “Yes,” she whispers back, her mouth hidden behind the rim of her mug. “Again.”
“Gianna.”
“I’ll tell you all the gory details as soon as this embezzlement case is done. I also shit in his—”
I clap my hand over her mouth. “We cannot discuss this in the lobby of our office, Gianna.”
She nods solemnly. “I’ll send you a memo.”
“Please don’t send me a memo. Go back to your desk. I’m going to pretend this conversation never happened.”
She starts to meander in the general direction of the door where Mark is stationed before turning around and creeping right back. “You need to talk to HR,” she says quietly, her eyes serious this time.
“I did, remember?”
It got me exactly nowhere. I worked up my courage to file a formal report only to be told by the head of HR that Keith’s behavior was typical newsroom bluster, whatever the hell that means.
I was told, more or less, to suck it up or find another job.
That there was a long line of excited candidates behind me if I wanted to find a station that might be a better fit.
I suppose that’s the worst of it. I don’t want another station.
I want this one. Working here has always been my dream.
Ever since I was a little girl, watching my grandpa watch the local news every day at 7 a.m. and 4 p.m. I wanted to be the one the world woke up to.
The one kids saw when they got home from school.
I have always wanted to be the meteorologist for YBAL, Baltimore’s News Station. My grandpa’s favorite news program.
So I’ve sucked it up. And I’ve made the best of it. But I’m starting to crumble beneath the pressure of Keith’s malicious attention.
Maybe I should start looking for another job.
I squeeze her arm. “We’ll talk later. Go back to embezzlement.”
“What about Ava Monroe?”
“What about her?”
“Have you thought about approaching her with what’s going on?”
I snort. “I’m not going to approach the president of Emory Communications, Gianna.”
“Why not?”
“Because she has bigger things to deal with than newsroom squabbling. I don’t need to tattle.
I’m fine.” I refuse to go over Keith’s head with this.
What would I even say? That he’s being mean to me?
No. The potential blowback far outweighs the possible improvement.
I don’t need things with Keith getting worse.
“Okay, but we’re coming back to this. I’m not going to forget,” she warns.
“I know you won’t.” Her mind is like a neatly organized file cabinet, armed with explosives.
She gives me one last heavy look before she wanders back across the lobby.
Mark’s attention sticks to her like glue, his hand moving to prop the door open above her head.
She slides past him, tipping her face up toward his.
For a second it almost looks like she’s going to smile, but then she bares all her teeth, hissing a loud sound from between them.
Mark jumps, flinching back into the doorframe as she glides past with a cackle.
I snort as I follow, rushing to make it through the door.
“How can one so small be so terrifying?” he asks, his eyes distant, color high on his cheeks.
“We may never know.” I pat his shoulder. “Listen, you don’t have to march me to Keith’s office. I can manage my way there just fine.”
He arches an eyebrow. “I don’t like being on babysitting duty, you know. This isn’t fun for me either.”
“I get it,” I agree. “We both have better things to do with our time.”
“Yeah. We do.” He watches me, considering. I’m so close I can taste it. “You’ll go to his office? Straight there? I don’t want to hear about it later.”
“Did he threaten your favorite camera or something?” I make a tiny cross over my heart. “I’ll go straight there.”
“Good. I’ll see you later, then.”
“See you—”
He’s already gone, buried in the labyrinth of the newsroom. I watch his dark hair disappear behind the sports desk.
“Later,” I finish with a sigh.
I bite my bottom lip and eyeball the distance between Keith’s office and the supply closet.
There are some extra fundraiser T-shirts in there.
I’d much rather be in one of those than in a poorly ventilated costume.
I make it two steps in that direction before a hand stacked with shiny gold rings loops around my elbow.
“Delilah.” Simone Leeds, one of the anchors, gives me a tight smile. Shiny hair with a shiny personality to match, Simone always looks like she stepped off the runway and landed in the newsroom. She flicks her hair over her shoulder. “Keith is looking for you.”
God, this man. Has he told everyone in the newsroom that I need to report to his office like some wayward school student?
I glare at the closed door of his office. “On a scale from one to ten—”
“What’s his level of obnoxious today?” Simone smirks. “A solid eight.” Her eyes flick down my body, then back up. “This is a new look for you.”
“Yeah, no kidding.” Standing next to tall, pretty Simone, I feel even more like an idiot.
“It’s not a bad look,” she rushes to add.
I tip my head back and groan at the ceiling.
“It’s just an interesting one.” She drags me forward, closer to Keith’s door. “C’mon. You know if you keep him waiting, it’ll only be worse for you.”
That’s the thing, though. It’s only ever worse for me. It seems like Keith hoards all his animosity and personality issues for me specifically. I’m the one paying the price, and I don’t even know the crime I committed.
“You know we’re all rooting for you,” Simone whispers. “Don’t let him push you around.”
Yes, well, it would be nice if everyone rooted for me a little more publicly. I usually have to bear my humiliations alone. Everyone is too scared of Keith—or maybe too scared of becoming the new punching bag—to say anything.
Simone squeezes my shoulder and leaves me in front of Keith’s door. I stare at the shiny wood, wishing the floor would swallow me whole. Keith is the only one in the entire office granted the privilege of a door. I raise my hand to knock, wincing at the sleeve of my turtle suit.
“Enter,” a voice calls from inside.
I crack open the door and poke my head in. “You wanted to see me?”
Keith frowns at me from behind his desk, his face pinched. He always manages to look like he has a lemon stuck in his mouth, his ruddy cheeks sucked slightly in, his bottom lip pouted slightly out.
“We have a meeting,” he says. “And you’re late.”
“I didn’t see anything on my calendar,” I offer. “Mark let me know about it after our shoot.”
His bushy eyebrows are two angry caterpillars on his forehead. “Oh? Do I need to put things on your calendar now? Run it by your secretary?” He snorts. “You’ve wasted enough of our time. Let’s get started.”
“Maybe an introduction first,” suggests another voice. A woman with sleek dark hair stands gracefully from the meeting table in the middle of Keith’s office. She offers me a kind, if not slightly strained, smile.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Delilah. My name is Maggie Lin. I oversee the radio station across the street.”
If Keith looks like the remnants of a science experiment gone wrong, this woman looks like one gone right. Everything about her screams: put together.
She extends her hand.
I stare at it, my fin-less fingers gripping the edge of the door. I think I’m starting to get hives from the turtle suit.
“Um,” I say. “Hi.”
She slowly lowers her hand, her smile faltering.
“Delilah,” Keith bites out.
“Sorry, I just—” I hike my thumb over my shoulder, laughing nervously. “I was hoping to stop by the break room before we get started. I think I have an extra change of clothes in my locker.”
“We don’t have time for another one of your catastrophes, Delilah. Get in here.”
My cheeks burn hot. I try to find the backbone Gianna is always encouraging me to have, but it’s hard when my past mistakes are continuously trotted out like a prized show pony.
I’m more than a little accident-prone. I’m clumsy on my best day.
My grandpa liked to joke when I was growing up that I must have angered a particularly vengeful spirit.
My luck is atrocious. Whatever is worse than atrocious.
Maybe I stepped on every crack in the sidewalk as a child.
Or walked under a thousand ladders. Because if something can go wrong, it’s almost a guarantee it will.
The turtle suit. The mud pit at the Preakness. During a potluck last year, I made chocolate pudding for one of the crime desk guys only to slip in the parking lot and dump half of it on myself.
So, no. I don’t want to step into this room with this perfect woman and my impertinent boss for a meeting I’m not prepared for while I’m dressed in a turtle suit. I don’t. There’s only so much humiliation a person can withstand, and I’d like to be taken seriously. For once.
I take a bracing breath. “I’m going to go to the break room,” I say, slowly and clearly. “I’ll be back in just a few minutes and we can get started.”
I turn quickly, hoping to make my escape before Keith can launch any more cutting remarks my way, hell-bent on standing my ground. But I don’t account for the person quickly rushing toward me in the opposite direction, equally determined to get to wherever they’re going.
It happens in slow motion. I get a glimpse of a blue checkered shirt and try to jerk left, but he does too.
Our bodies slam together and we tip sideways, my hip slamming into a meticulously polished case of awards.
Keith’s second-place television station softball tournament trophy wedges itself against my rib cage and I squeak, reaching for something to steady myself.
Except the only thing I have to steady myself with is a surprisingly strong, blue-check-clad arm.
Coffee spills, something snaps, and then I’m on my back against cold linoleum, gasping for breath, pinned to the floor.
A low groan rumbles against my neck and a puff of warm air brushes over my throat. The man currently plastered to my front bites out a low sigh that sounds suspiciously like my name.
Coffee spreads around us in a slow bleed. It seeps through my suit and warms my skin. I try to breathe around the hot, pricking sensation.
The man above me pushes up on his elbows.
He looks different without his glasses, but I’d recognize that stubborn set of his jaw anywhere.
Jackson Clark. The tight-ass from the radio station across the street.
He’s flattened me bodily to the floor outside Keith’s office.
The same guy who has been leaving me weird notes on the window of my car for almost two years has decided to resort to violence.
Recognition makes his blue eyes flash darker.
“Of course,” he says, his mouth in a flat line and his hand tangled in my hair. “It’s you.”