I Saw You First

Chapter 1

ONE

ABBEY

Everything’s always working out for me.

That’s what I tell myself, anyway, in every situation, including now.

I push open the front door to the TC Weekly office and find Punk-Rock Darci at the reception desk, Darci who’s always up for a live show in the deepest, grungiest corners of the Twin Cities and who won’t rat me out for being six minutes late and not using the employee entrance.

Today, I really need things to work out, and so far, between waking up late, hitting traffic on 394, and a weird rattle coming from the dash of my Pontiac Sunbird, it’s not looking good.

“Kim just called to ask if I’d seen you.” Darci tucks a maroon curl behind her ear, which must have at least a dozen piercings, all silver and black hoops and studs. “I told her that you got stuck talking to Petra from advertising.”

“Thanks for covering for me,” I say. “We’ve got that meeting with Ryan in a few minutes.”

“Good luck!” She snaps her gum. The switchboard buzzes. “TC Weekly. How may I direct your call?”

I take the long way to my cubicle to circumvent Kim’s office.

When I was first hired, TC Weekly was headquartered in a cool renovated warehouse in downtown Minneapolis with an open newsroom.

Two years ago, for some reason, the owner, Richard “Slick Dick” Bradford, moved us to a nondescript brick building in a sea of nondescript brick buildings in a nondescript suburb, which both added twenty minutes to my commute and lowered the coolness factor.

But it’s TC Weekly, the trendiest newspaper in the Twin Cities, and I landed this job right out of college, so that makes up for it.

And after today, I’ll be one step closer to my dream job, writing for Rolling Stone or SPIN.

I’ve worked my way up from intern to administrative assistant to lifestyles assistant, and now there’s a good chance I’ll be promoted to associate music and entertainment writer.

It’s the reason I applied at TC Weekly in the first place—to someday write for entertainment.

When the position became available, I jumped on it.

“I’d never hold you back, Abbey,” Kim said after she reviewed my application materials. She stubbed out her cigarette—smoked down to the filter—in an ashtray next to her mouse pad. “What is it you’re always saying? Everything’s always working out for you? There’s no way you won’t get this.”

“You think?” As much as I love working with the lifestyles team, my boss has always known that entertainment is my dream.

“Lifestyles’ loss is Ryan’s gain,” she muttered.

Around the same time as the move to the suburbs, the previous entertainment editor left for a magazine job in Chicago.

Now the department’s headed up by Slick Dick’s smarmy nephew, Ryan, who drives a smarmy forest-green Jaguar.

He’s got a sharp eye, I’ll give him that, and he knows every promoter and venue owner, but rumor has it—and there are plenty of rumors—that he can get a little handsy.

Whenever I’m around him, which I try to avoid, a pit opens in my stomach like the sandy chasm on Tatooine in Return of the Jedi, a snarling, drooling, many-tentacled, spiky-toothed beast.

If I were to make a list of the pros and cons of taking this promotion, Ryan Bradford would be the only con. In all caps. Bold. And today, I won’t be able to avoid him.

Tamsa, the classifieds assistant and my Best Friend at Work, sits cross-legged at her desk in the cubicle we share, marking up a document with a red pen. Her computer’s already on.

“Hey.” I set my purse on the desk. “How was your date last night?”

“Godawful,” she says. “He only talked about sports except for when he expounded on his extensive knowledge of craft beer.” She rolls her eyes, a deep, warm brown accented by perfect cat-eye eyeliner and gold glitter eyeshadow that pops against her brown skin.

“Well,” I say, “going to Williams Pub might have been your first clue, with, like, fifty beers on tap.”

“I think it’s more like seventy? And he’s an expert on every single one.” Tamsa yawns. “He’s also a self-proclaimed expert in bedroom arts, if you get my drift, but I only give him a B-minus, and that’s being generous. Grading on the curve, if you will.”

I snort. “There’s a curve? Are you going to see him again?”

Tamsa laughs. “Hell no. B-minus! I’d probably have to suffer through another boring lesson in India Pale Ale, which, by the way, he was quick to point out played an important role in my people’s history.”

“He did not!”

“He did, and then shrugged when I told him my ‘people’ are from Bangladesh, not India, and said, ‘What’s the difference?’”

“What an asshole! It’s 1996! Why are people still like this?”

“Sadly, I’m used to it. You’ve got that meeting with Kim and Ryan this morning, right?”

I cringe. “Yeah, in two minutes.” I grab a file folder with my resume and portfolio.

“I can’t believe you’re leaving me for entertainment,” Tam says. “What will I do without you?”

“It’s not like I’m quitting. Wish me luck!” I blow her a kiss and speed-walk to the opposite side of the building.

Ryan’s door is open, but I knock anyway.

“Abbey! Abbey Rhodes, what a name.” Ryan chuckles. Glad he finds himself so amusing. “Right on time. Close the door and have a seat.” He gestures toward one of the leather armchairs facing his desk.

I close the door—although Kim isn’t here yet—and sit. I tug my skirt closer to my knees, and when I glance up, I see Ryan’s eyes follow the motion. I clear my throat, and his eyes flick to my face.

“How’s your day?” he asks. He smiles with blinding, artificially white, perfectly straight teeth.

Ryan’s a tall, lean white guy with neat, wheat-blond hair that he keeps trimmed close and I suspect might be dyed. The color variations are too uniform. Intentional. He’s tan—most likely the result of a tanning bed—and while his pale hazel eyes are striking, they’re also… insincere.

I don’t trust this dude—for a lot of reasons, beginning with the nepotism. He has a finance degree, not journalism, from a place called Hammond University that no one’s heard of. I swear the diploma that hangs behind his desk is as fake as his tan and his teeth.

Then there are the rumors, of course. For example: Someone heard from someone else that Ryan ran into Carina, last summer’s entertainment intern, at a club downtown, backed her into a corner, and threatened her job if she didn’t blow him right there.

Carina came into work one morning, packed up her things, and walked out without a word.

Gen from accounting reported him to HR for grabbing her ass in the break room.

He denied it, HR denied it, and now Gen eats lunch at her desk every day.

“Abbey?” Ryan says now. “I asked how your day’s going.”

“Fine.” I frown. “Where’s Kim?”

He swishes a hand in a dismissive gesture and leans forward, elbows on his desk, and steeples his fingers. “I think it’s best if the two of us meet one on one, if you get my meaning.” His voice is a low purr, and my stomach twists.

There’s a lump in my throat the size of Pluto—the planet, not the cartoon dog. “I—I feel like Kim should be here,” I manage.

“That’s not necessary.” He smiles again, and one of my grandmother’s favorite phrases pops into my head: He looks like the cat that ate the canary.

I’m fairly certain I’m the canary in this situation.

“If I should decide to offer you the position,” he continues, “Kim has already expressed her willingness to allow the move.”

I’m sorry, if? There’s no one else to offer it to. Kim told me that none of the external candidates met Ryan’s high expectations, and everyone knows the only other internal candidate, the associate sportswriter, is on a performance improvement plan.

I studied journalism with a women’s studies minor and a focus on feminist works.

I subscribe to Ms. Magazine. Gloria Steinem is my sun.

The bumper sticker on my Sunbird reads, “Women make great leaders. You’re following one.

” I wrote my senior capstone project on the Hollywood casting couch.

My point is that I’m not going to let Ryan Bradford intimidate me, even if the beast in the pit of my stomach has other ideas and is currently spewing shards of broken glass.

This position is mine. I earned it.

I swallow the planet-sized lump in my throat and straighten my spine. “Ryan, I’d prefer if Kim joined us for this meeting.”

“Aw, that’s cute,” he says. “You’d prefer.”

I’ve got to stand my ground. But I can’t look at those teeth, that smile. I grip the file folder in my hand more tightly. “If Kim can’t make the meeting, let’s reschedule.” My voice shakes.

“There’s no need to reschedule. If you’d like to discuss the position, I have time now. If not, I’ll let HR know that you’re no longer interested.”

I clench my jaw as a wave of bile surges into my throat.

“Kim tells me that writing for music and entertainment would be a dream come true for you.” His words drip with condescension. “Tell me why you think you deserve this job.”

I still can’t bring myself to look at him, so instead, I focus on the fake diploma over his shoulder. There must be a black market for this kind of thing. It’s probably as easy to get a counterfeit college diploma as it is a fake ID. I wonder if Slick Dick is in on it.

Ryan leans back in his fancy leather office chair and spreads his legs in that annoying guy way. “Go on,” he says. “I’m waiting.”

“I—I believe that I’m a perfect fit for this role.” I take a deep breath and hold out the folder. “Details about my qualifications and experience can be found in my application materials, which I’m happy to discuss.”

He ignores the folder. “I don’t want to hear about your boring degree or the drivel you’ve been writing. As I said, I want you to tell me why you think you deserve this position.”

He thinks my work is drivel. I bristle. “I—I’m not sure what you m-mean.” I stumble over my words, and that makes me angry—at myself and at him for making me feel this way. “I-I’ve worked hard for this newspaper, and—”