2. Jules
CHAPTER 2
Jules
“Juliana Spenser?” the woman calls out.
The lobby is packed with thirty or so wannabe writers. Some clutching sleek MacBooks and attachés, others more classically grungy with spiral notebooks and a faraway look like they’re conjuring their bestselling novel while they wait.
I hop to my feet, the electricity of wanting this job so badly I can taste it springing me to action. “Jules,” I say, flashing a smile.
She returns a kind smile and leads me down the hall to a cramped office at the end. “Jules Spenser,” she announces, handing my résumé to a man halfway through a sandwich.
Honestly, I’m hungry enough to ask if he’s going to finish that.
The interviewer adjusts his thick glasses and straightens his slightly askew bow tie, scrutinizing my application with the intensity of a detective piecing together a crime scene.
Casually, he motions for me to have a seat. I do.
A nameplate on his desk reads Mr. Winston “Wyld” Richards, but it’s the blown-up photo of him at a wax museum with quote-unquote “ Prince” that catches my eye. Mostly because right behind them is Marilyn Monroe and a yeti.
My nerves turn me into a babbling mess. “I’ve been crafting community stories and local news content for years. Mostly from behind the scenes”—by choice—“and my best work is with heartwarming pieces.”
“Like the piece about the town’s infamous squirrel whisperer?” he asks, flipping the page.
“Exactly.”
“Riveting.” His voice is flat, disinterested, but the slight raise of his brow tells me he’s intrigued. My phone buzzes in my pocket, but I don’t dare look away from his intense gaze. “What else?”
This is my moment. Time to claim a sliver of the credit I’ve been silently earning. “I, um, also ghostwrite.”
That catches his attention. He leans in, his eyes narrowing as they study me with renewed interest. “The author behind the author, huh?” A smirk plays on his lips as he rubs his chin, clearly amused. “And, let me guess, you can’t tell me who for.”
I shrug, feeling the overbearing weight of the contract I’ve signed. “I’m bound by a nondisclosure agreement,” I admit, hating how those words sound.
It’s not about the fame, but damn, just once, I’d love to see my name on something that’s actually mine.
He exhales sharply, as if making a decision. “What’s your handle?”
I blink. “Huh?”
“Instagram. What’s your handle? ”
My answer comes out quieter than I intend. “I don’t have one.”
“Facebook? TikTok? Anything?”
“I don’t do social media.”
His eyes narrow as he studies me, a bead of sweat trickling down the back of my neck under his scrutiny. “An aspiring journalist who doesn’t do social media and trapped herself into an iron-clad contract,” he muses, clearly baffled. “Why am I not surprised?”
The opportunity is slipping through my fingers like the last rays of a California sunset. I can’t let it disappear. Not like this. “Please, just one chance. That’s all I’m asking.”
He leans back in his chair, hands steepled, fingers tapping together with the precision of someone already dissecting my every word. “Who’s been the biggest influence in your life and why?”
Heat rushes up my neck like an out-of-control wildfire, scorching everything in its path. I should have an answer, someone inspiring, someone who makes sense. But I don’t. Because the only name that blazes through my mind is the one I keep buried deep in the closet of shame.
My mind teeters on a tightrope, balancing between landing my dream job and tumbling into the abyss of soul-crushing, minimum-wage gigs that threaten to snuff out every last spark of creativity.
I glance around his office, a chaotic mix of relics and memories. A battered copy of Treasure Island sprawls across his desk, its pages dog-eared and falling apart, a sight that tugs at something deep inside me. On the wall hangs a signed guitar, probably from someone famous, though the signature is a scrawl I can’t quite place.
It’s obvious that canned answers won’t get me anywhere with this guy. Wyld is after something raw, something real. He’s searching for the fire that sets someone apart from the sea of faceless, would-be journalists.
He needs to see that spark, the drive that fuels me, not the quiet girl who prefers Saturday nights curled up on the sofa with fuzzy socks and a shifter romance.
I take a deep breath, ready to blurt out someone impactful and timeless like Oprah or Christiane Amanpour. But then, the truth cuts through like a streaker, leaving me stammering as a Greek god with a dimpled smirk and glacier-melting eyes hijacks my thoughts.
Out of nowhere, he points at me, almost accusingly. “You’re thinking of them now, aren’t you?”
“I am not thinking of him,” I lie, feeling flames burn my cheeks.
“Aha! It’s a him!” he exclaims, snapping his fingers like he’s cracked the code. Oh, this guy is good. His unkempt brows do a little dance, waggling like crazy caterpillars “So, who is he?”
God, do not do this to me. He’s the last person I want to talk about. “Nobody.”
Unblinking, he stares, as if he’s perfectly content to wait me out.
“Just a—” I choke down the knot in my throat, “high school crush.” And the bane of my existence.
“Well, Mr. Nobody makes your cheeks rosy, your eyes bright, and your pulse practically leap out of your neck.” He clasps his hands on the desk. “Does the high school got a name?”
“Nope.”
“Nameless?”
“Yup.”
It’s not as if he’s the right answer for this Spanish Inquisition of an interview. Or anything else, for that matter. No way am I landing this job by crediting who I am to my mortal enemy.
Do people even have mortal enemies?
Dismayed, I shake my head. Apparently so.
“Look, kid. I’ve got dozens of candidates banging down my door for this job—people with more degrees, more experience, and social media followings that could fill a stadium. But”—he exhales sharply, eyes locking on to mine—“you’re interesting.”
“I am?”
He shrugs, a half smirk tugging at his lips. “In a weird, train-wreck sort of way. A writer with no social media—seriously, that’s almost unheard of. Especially for a looker like you.”
I sit up straighter, trying to decipher the mix of words he just threw at me. I’m pretty sure there was a compliment buried in there somewhere.
“And anyone who cranks out work as fast as you do without ever using your real name”—he points a finger at me, eyes narrowing with a mix of curiosity and suspicion—“there’s got to be a story there. I can smell it.”
“There’s no story,” I reply, keeping my voice steady, even as my pulse quickens. “I just prefer my privacy.”
He tilts his head, eyes sharpening with interest. “No worries, kid. I can definitely work with someone who shies away from the limelight. And everyone knows the juiciest stories are dug up out of the shadows.” He leans back, considering. “But you’ll need a pen name.”
A swarm of butterflies kicks up in my gut. This is it—the first time I’ll be putting myself out there, even if it’s under a an alias. “How about Sydney?”
“It’s a guy’s name.”
“It’s unisex, like Jordan or Taylor.” And, for the record, it was the name of my teddy bear, circa years three through six. “Let’s be real, women don’t get half the respect men do in this industry.”
He lets out a dry chuckle. “Untrue. I pay all my writers equally—the same shitty rates across the board. And what about a last name?”
I keep my tone casual, but inside, I’m buzzing so hard, the name comes out before I can stop it. “How about Bryan, with a Y?”
He holds his hands to his temples, as if conjuring knowledge from the other side. “And let me guess, Mr. Nobody’s first name is B-r-y-a-n.”
“His name is not B-r-y-a-n,” I say, spelling it out as well. I don’t bother telling him that my nemesis’s name is Brian with an I .
“Let me guess. Brian with an I not a Y? ”
“What are you? A mind-reader?”
“No,” he says with a cocky grin. “I’m the owner of a newspaper with a Pulitzer in investigative journalism and a knack for reading people. Ms. Spenser—or should I say Mrs. Brian... what , I wonder?” His smirk sharpens, eyes gleaming with challenge as he dares me to fill in the blank.
I tense, the words digging up memories I’d rather forget. As a kid, I must have written it a hundred times— Mrs. Brian Bishop —scribbling it mindlessly until one day, my prince charming morphed into a dark, evil knight, shattering my fairytale into pieces.
Ugh, all those wasted adolescent hours I spent obsessively scrawling Mrs. Brian Bishop when I should’ve been daydreaming about being Mrs. Henry Cavill or Mrs. Insert-Your-Favorite Hemsworth. Hours I’ll never get back, and for what? A childhood crush that turned into a nightmare.
“Brian what?”
Geez, Mr. Richards is a dog with a bone. When I hesitate, he leans in, eyes narrowing. “Spill, and you’re in. Or clam up and holler ‘next’ on your way out.”
My options are slim, and while lying seems like the easy way out, it’s also the dumbest. True, I’m a writer and someone who often spins the world not as it is, but as it could be.
But lying to a news bloodhound? The man has the power to end my career with a single viral post—one scathing TikTok rant, and I’m done.
Meanwhile, my phone won’t stop buzzing in my pocket. Taylor’s relentless messages are pinging me like a toddler on a sugar high. It’s driving me nuts, grating on my nerves until I can practically feel the hives creeping up my skin.
“You look a little green, kid. Purge,” he says. “Unburdening the spirit always feels better.”
Really? I exhale sharply, bracing myself for what’s coming. The name that’s been buried for a decade claws its way to the surface. “Fine. It’s Bishop. ”
His eyebrows shoot up. “He’s a bishop? Like a man of the cloth?”
“No!” I snap, frustration bleeding into my voice. “His name. It’s Bishop.” I pause, the weight of it pressing down on me as I force out the words. “Brian Bishop.” His name escapes my lips like a secret I’ve held onto for far too long, barely more than a whisper.
You know how they say that if you speak the name of the devil, he appears? I nearly brace. After a decade and hundreds of miles I’m still trying to untangle myself from the mess he twisted my life into.
“Brian...Bishop?” he asks, and I can’t be certain, but he sounds thoroughly underwhelmed.
I’m not sure what he was expecting, but I feel the need to brush it off. “He’s nobody,” I say, almost apologizing for how painfully ordinary my life is—even my nemesis is nothing to write home about.
He watches me for a long moment, his gaze too sharp for comfort. “When’s the last time you stalked this Brian with an I ?” He stretches out the name, milking every bit of smug satisfaction.
“Never.” The word slips out, thick with disbelief and a touch of horror at the very idea.
“Never, huh?” Mr. Richards raises an eyebrow, then abruptly stands, snagging his coat from the back of his chair with a decisive movement and grabbing his cup of coffee. “Well, I’ve got an interview with the mayor uptown.” He’s already halfway to the door when he adds, “You start in three weeks.”
“Three weeks?” The words come out sharper than I intend. “ I was really hoping for a job now.” And, let’s be honest, a paycheck.
He pauses at the doorway, flashing me a cheeky grin. “And I was really hoping to be sandwiched between Sofia Vergara and Margot Robbie.”
“But you said I was interesting .”
“Not that interesting,” he says with a shrug. “The person you’re replacing still owes me a headliner, and it’s a doozy. A big Manhattan company is playing shuffleboard with its execs. And you know how these things go—first story wins. Besides, this gives you time to set up your accounts.”
“My what?”
“Your social media accounts.” He holds up two fingers. “You won’t cut it as a reporter unless you get in the game. Two accounts, two weeks. Tag yourself in. Oh, and it’ll give you time to get your homework done.”
“Homework?” Just the sound of that makes me nervous.
“First, Sydney is fine. Bryan is out. Figure out the name you want, and make it count. Something that when you see it in print, you’ll hold your head high.”
Okay. Sure, as homework goes, that doesn’t sound so bad.
“Then, attach that name to two social media accounts and start your first investigative task.”
Why does this feel like the Wizard telling Dorothy to fetch the broomstick of the Wicked Witch of the East?
He shakes the coffee cup in his hand, eyes glinting with something between amusement and a dare. “Tell me how Mr. High School likes his coffee.”
“What?” My voice pitches higher. Oh, my God. He wants me to go full creeper mode, following around some guy I haven’t seen in ten years, while wearing a trench coat and dark, oversized Jackie-O glasses, and sniffing after him to see if the sweetener in the trash is real sugar or some artificial sweetener.
Because the universe would be doing me a solid if he was balding sugar-addict with a beer belly and rotting teeth.
But Lady Luck has the nasty habit of bitch slapping me whenever it comes to the oldest Bishop brother, and sadly, I can totally see the former gym jock going full tilt on the sugar-free lifestyle just to keep those abs chiseled.
Knowing him, those biceps are probably as ripped as ever and just as overinflated as his colossal ego.
Before I can object, or even come up with a decent excuse, my phone buzzes again—Taylor, no doubt.
I fumble to find the right words. “But how?—”
“A reporter is nothing if not resourceful.”
I barely have time to protest because Mr. Richards is already halfway out the door. He glances back, all business. “Take it or leave it, kid.”
I swallow hard, my heart racing. “I’ll take it.”
Then, he’s gone, leaving me with my unsettling tasks and my phone buzzing like a vibrator.
TayTay
9-1-1 already.
I swear.
This.
Is.
An.
Emergency.
Shit.