Chapter 9
My lungs burn as I speed-walk to the office. I really need to start using the gym in my building. I’ve stopped promising myself that I’ll go; it halves the shame, but not the guilt, although running myself in circles to meet Monica’s demands should really count as cardio.
By the time I finally arrive, I’m sweating. The back of my neck, between my thighs, under my breasts.
Any calm I once had lies shredded at my feet, ripped apart by the angry badger of panic I fought the whole way here.
Monica is in her office, her razor-sharp brow lowered in disappointment when she spots me through the glass. Her lips are set in a tight, thin line, and I can imagine the sound she’s making.
Everyone else is busy at work, and I pick up speed as I cross the floor, almost barreling into Sterling on the way.
“Careful,” he says, his voice rough and low. It reminds me of morning sex.
Power radiates off Sterling. Black hair, black suits, strong jaw. A gaze that could pierce through steel. He looks at me as if he already knows what I’m thinking but he’s going to make me say it anyway and I’ll enjoy every second of it.
Sure, he’s packed with enough muscle to put you anywhere he wants you, but something tells me he’d rather use his words.
As always, I smile and say, “Good morning,” in hopes that today will be the day he says something, anything, back.
A muscle in his jaw twitches, but he only nods, his close-set eyes shifting between blue and green with the ease of water before he walks away.
I should stop trying. He’s never said it back. In fact, since I started here, we’ve swapped maybe a handful of words. I’m confident he hates me. Sterling seems to hate everyone.
Slipping my bag under my desk, I wince at the time. No wonder Monica is pissed.
Nearby, Tim barks at IT over the phone. They’re going to hate coming up here if he’s locked out of his computer again.
His desk is in danger of collapsing under the weight of every note he’s ever written in thirty-odd years of journalism.
That is, if he still has a desk under all that mess. It’s difficult to tell.
The Observer is loud and brash and waits for no one.
If you work here, you chose to get thrown into the fire with no protection.
Those who can’t keep up weed themselves out.
It’s cruel and stressful, and sometimes, at night, when silence descends and it’s only Sterling and me left under the unforgiving fluorescents, I plot how I’ll turn it around someday.
Return The Observer to the beacon of excellence that led me here.
Despite the dozen desks separating us across the bullpen, I have a clear view of Sterling. It’s impossible not to take advantage of that, watching as he works, head down in a shroud of concentration, his sleek black suit as imposing as the man wearing it.
Sterling Ross. Tall, dark-haired, and dangerous—at least to my self-control.
I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve willed myself to walk over and ask what he’s working on. Hoping he’ll want my insight or that there’s a lead I can chase for him.
Anything to get my foot in the door.
I’ve never wanted to work in Lifestyle, unless it was to investigate shady practices of skin care companies who promised fountain-of-youth-level rejuvenation while rebranding harsh chemicals as “newfound minerals” your body was deficient in.
Meanwhile, the only consistent thing people are deficient in is the money these unscrupulous organizations will lie to take from you.
Two years on, and I’m not sure I’ve achieved anything.
It would be easy to let it stop me, but I refuse to back down. There are too many tales of corruption, too much greed smothering the world in shades of gray. I won’t stop until I’ve restored color.
“Mia!” Monica’s voice stills the entire floor. My heart jumps into my throat. “My office—now.”
Monica doesn’t do courtesy or hand-holding. She expects you to know what she wants, when she wants it, which means I need to have my butt in that chair ASAP.
It makes her a great editor, but a brutal boss.
Andy smirks from his desk in the corner as I cross the floor to her office, smiling with the glint of a man who is seconds away from offering unsolicited advice. God, he loves it when he’s not the one in the firing line.
I make a point of staring him down as I close the glass door behind me. He looks away first.
It’s the little things really.
Monica taps her foot, and I turn around.
“Sit.”
I do.
“How are you?”
I freeze. Monica never asks how anyone is. Monica doesn’t care about our personal lives.
Anxiety eats away at my empty stomach, pinching the nerves behind my eyes. I’m going to get a stress headache—I’m sure of it.
Why did I have to stop for coffee? If it hadn’t been for Lucky and his damn smile, I would have been here, and Monica wouldn’t be asking me how I am.
I don’t bother with excuses. She never has any time for them.
“I can’t apologize enough for being late today. There’s no excuse; it was unprofessional, and I’ll do better.”
Her blonde hair is gelled back in a tight bun. My head throbs with sympathy pains while she pins me with her small, cold eyes. “How would you say you’re performing here?”
I straighten and tuck my feet further under my chair, out of her view.
“Well?” Shit, that shouldn’t be a question.
“I’ve always submitted work thoroughly proofed and on time, and I’ve never turned down any assignment you gave me.
” Including many I wish I had. “I’ve also never taken leave or asked to be reimbursed over the limit of what I’m allowed to spend, even if an article required it. ”
Monica’s lips purse. That doesn’t have to be a bad sign. It’s no secret she isn’t my biggest fan; she’s always the first to remind me of how young and inexperienced I am.
It’s a wonder she hired me, to be honest.
I start to squirm under her assessing gaze. If she ever needed a career change, she could take up interrogation. Those icy-blue eyes could pry war crimes out of a dictator.
Clearing my throat, I add, “I also had a suggestion. Um, I thought now would be a good time to promote local charities, and I could even speak with the new mayor to get an endorsement.”
“No.” The word falls between us like a gavel.
“It doesn’t need to run this week. I know it’s short notice to fit it into the schedule, but if I—”
“You’re not going to write it at all. You write a Lifestyle column, Mia. It’s not your job to cover the election, and even if anyone could be convinced to care about charity now that the holidays are over, we aren’t in the business of goodwill.”
We should be.
I’m left staring at her desk, the floor, the view. Something worse is coming—I can feel it.
It’s quiet beyond her office. The glass behind me does nothing to buffer sound, in or out, so that’ll make for a fun walk back to my desk. Despite the way it started, it’s another day in the office. I’ll walk out of here with a warning, but nothing else will change.
“Okay.” This isn’t the first debate we’ve had over my work. I’m not giving up. I simply need to try again another day.
She hums, sour-faced. It pairs nicely with her navy blouse. “You were an hour late this morning,” she says. “I might have made an exception if you’d given me notice or provided an explanation.”
“I really am sorry. It won’t happen again.”
“You’re right; it won’t.”
Worry creeps in at the edges of my hope, easily stomping over the fragile ground.
“It won’t happen because you’re fired.”
Time stops.
No, no, no, no. Anything but this.
Months of promises, overtime, and working through period pain, the flu, stress headaches, or three hours of sleep. After all of that … she’s firing me?
Monica smiles.
* * *
Make Your Choice:
give Monica a piece of your mind (go to 12)
hold your tongue (go to 15)
go back (go to 7)