Saving Emma

by Banks, R. R.

  “No, not really,” I mutter. “I screwed up. Again.”

  “You know Helen,” he says quietly. “She’ll burn hot for a couple of days, and then cool down and use her head. Just give it some time and give her a call. I'm sure she'll realize she screwed up by letting you go. You're the best junior writer we have. Helen knows that.”

  “Apparently, that wasn't enough to save my ass this time,” I say, dropping my picture frames into the box.

  “Just give her a few days,” Tom says. “Don't give up hope just yet, kid.”

  Easy to say. As far as I'm concerned, all hope is lost. My dream of being a journalist – of one day working for a prestigious paper like the New York Times – is dead. The fact that I couldn't make it through one piddly internship is not going to look good on a resume. Not good at all.

  I know Tom is trying his best to help me feel better, but it only makes it worse. Not that he knows that. I sniff loudly and wipe at my eyes again, doing my best to regain my composure – at least, until I'm out of the office.

  “Yeah, maybe you're right, Tom,” I say. “You're probably right.”

  “Of course, I am,” he says gently, a kind smile on his face.

  I finish packing up my things – not that I have much to begin with – and pick up the box. I give Tom a small smile I hope looks encouraging.

  “I'll give her a call in a few days and see if we can get this all sorted out,” I say.

  “That's the spirit,” he replies.

  Nobody else will meet my eyes as I walk out of the office – as if termination is suddenly a contagious disease or something. My nausea and disbelief rising with every step, I walk out of the building and to my car.

  After putting my box in the back seat, I climb behind the wheel. And that's when the real meltdown starts as I sob and shake, twin fires of sadness and panic flowing through me.

  What in the hell am I going to do?

  * * *

  “I brought some supplies with me!” an unnaturally chipper voice rings out.

  I look up from where I'm slumped over on the couch as Marina bursts through the doorway, waving a box of wine around in front of her. Despite how low I'm feeling, I can't help but smile. She’s always been able to pull me out of the dumps.

  “That's an awfully big box of wine,” I say.

  “I figure for tonight, the focus should be on quantity over quality,” she explains.

  My chuckle is humorless. “Yeah, probably.”

  I close my laptop, get up, and walk into the kitchen. I fish a couple of plastic wine glasses I'd picked up at a yard sale a while back out of the cupboard and bring them back into the other room. Marina's already sitting at the table and has the box of wine ready to go.

  “Oh, we're drinking out of the fancy glasses tonight.”

  “Nothing but the best for you, baby,” I reply dryly.

  “You know just what I like,” Marina says and laughs.

  Marina pours us a couple of glasses of the wine, and we carry them over to the couch, taking a seat on the dumpy old thing. I take a drink and sigh as I look around my shitty studio apartment. And for the first time, I notice the dull, faded paint and the thin spiderwebbing of cracks in the ceiling. The floor is covered with cheap carpeting that's almost threadbare in some spots, and the “tile” in the kitchen is beginning to peel in the corners.

  The pictures and pieces of swap meet art suddenly look horribly cheap. They look like a person's desperate attempt to look classy – an attempt that has gone horribly wrong. I may as well have a Velvet Elvis, or Dogs Playing Poker up on my walls.

  My couch is a thrift store find – well, most of the furniture is. Since moving here, I've picked up an assortment of mismatched, but functional furniture – whatever I could afford at the time. I wish I'd had more money to spend on my bed though. That's one luxury I wish I could afford. Mine is a crappy, tiny futon with a cheap, thin mattress that's hard and lumpy as hell. I can't remember the last time I woke up feeling refreshed instead of sore.

  “You know, I was going to move out of this place,” I say, grimacing at the self-pity in my voice. “As soon as I finished that internship and started collecting a real paycheck, I was going to move someplace nicer.”

  “You still can, Em,” Marina says. “Screw those people. They're going to regret letting you leave. You'll land on your feet. I know it.”

  Easy for her to say. She's settled comfortably into her career as a kindergarten teacher. She doesn't have to worry about having to hustle to find another job after being fired. Not that I don't appreciate the sentiment or the attempt to boost my spirits and my confidence. I know how ungrateful my thoughts are, I’m just in a dark place right now.

  She lets me whine and sob my heart out over countless glasses of the cheap, sugary wine. Through it all, she listens patiently and offers succinct words of comfort when needed.

  Marina is great like that. She always has been. I met her back in high school, and we've been best friends ever since. We're inseparable. The Two Musketeers. She's my rock, the shoulder I cry on, and the first person I turn to when I need advice – advice she's always gracious enough to give.

  I love and appreciate this woman so much that it’s painful to imagine life without her.

  “So, what's your next step then?” she asks, once I whine myself out.

  Marina may be kind and thoughtful, but she’s also no-nonsense and focused on the task at hand. I knew she wouldn’t let me wallow for very long.

  I shake my head. “I really don't know.”

  She takes a sip of her wine and gives me a look – one I know all too well. Marina has an idea floating in her head. And she must think it is off the charts fantastic. She looks ready to burst.

  “What is it?” I ask, giving her a small grin.

  “I just had the most fabulous idea.”

  “I can tell,” I say with a small laugh. “What is it?”

  “Well, you have to know the world is changing, right?”

  “Of course.”

  “People are self-publishing books, podcasts are being monetized,” she says. “Even people on YouTube can make serious money now. Did you know a few have become millionaires by letting other people watch them play video games all day?”

  I laugh. “Yeah, it seems kind of ridiculous.”

  “It really is,” she laughed. “But, why can't you cash in on that?”

  I cock my head and take a sip of wine. Damn, it is sweet. I predict a hangover in my future.

  “What do you mean?”

  She drains the last of her own glass and refills it. “Well, why don’t you start your own online – newspaper of sorts. A blog, or whatever they call it? I mean, you know people are obsessed with that true crime stuff you love so much. Why don't you start publishing your own work, and keep the profits for yourself? You could totally make a living doing that, Emma. I really think you could.”

  I sit back on the couch and stare off into space, letting my mind wander freely. I get what she's saying. She's right. It feels like people can't get enough of true crime stories lately. People love a good mystery. They eat that shit up. I guess what my friend is proposing could work. At least, in theory.

  “Wasn't there some big case you were working on?” Marina asks. “Like, some serial killer story or something.”

  I nod absently, my mind still spinning with the possibilities. “Yeah, but I haven't touched the story in about a year or so,” I say. “The trail went cold.”

  I honestly don't know if the case went cold or not. When I brought my research to Helen and told her I wanted to chase the story, she shot me down. She said the Times Daily wasn't some crappy, sensationalistic tabloid that publishes half-baked theories. Helen told me to spike the story because she didn't see the value in it, and that killed the fire that was burning in my belly about it.

  I've always been a true crime nerd. I remember when I was younger, I could never get enough of it. I read, and now listen to podcasts, about cases from year
s ago, as well as more recent ones. My fascination with solving and reporting true crime is endless. It's one of the reasons I wanted to be an investigative journalist to begin with.

  I know it may seem like a silly childish dream, but a small part of me always dreamed of becoming a big name in the field. I used to dream of cracking big cases and catching criminals with my stellar investigative skills.

  I think I'm pretty good at it, personally. The program I graduated from up at Morro Bay State had a few of the more respected names in crime journalism as faculty members. I learned from some of the best.

  “What was the case again?” Marina asks. “You mentioned it but never really went into much detail. I just remember that for a while, you were really excited about it.”

  I drain the last of the wine in my glass and Marina immediately takes it from me and refills it. The one good thing about cheap wine – not that I can afford to really drink anything but – is that there's plenty of it.

  “I was actually researching a different piece and ran across some unsolved murders,” I say. “I don't know what it was, but they caught my attention. I dug a little deeper and found what I thought was a connection between all of it.”

  “Why did Helen kill your story?”

  “Because I didn't have any proof,” I say. “I had a couple of suspects – real strong possibilities, actually – but nothing directly connecting them to the murders. The problem is that the one suspect I was leaning toward is a pillar of the community. A very well-respected figure in the city. Which makes the whole case problematic. Helen said she wasn't going to expose the paper to a potential libel suit if we went with the story. She told me to drop it.”

  “I can't believe you dropped it, Em. That's so unlike you,” she says. “You're usually so stubborn when you really get into something.”

  I shrug. “I didn't have much choice. I was more worried about making a good impression, so I did whatever she told me to. Helen was my editor. My boss.”

  “Well, she's not your boss anymore,” Marina says.

  “That is very true,” I say and take a long swallow of wine.

  Marina and I talk long into the night about the potential opportunity. As the wine flows, and maybe not so surprisingly, the more plausible – and exciting – it all starts to sound.

  Chapter Three

  Brice

  “I'm going to be honest with you,” I say. “With two years left on your current contract, renegotiating is going to be a tough sell to the team.”

  “I deserve to get paid, man,” he replies.

  “I hear you, Jared,” I say. “I really do.”

  Yeah, I hear you, and I think you're full of crap. I'm sitting at my desk, doing my best to be patient with one of my most difficult, high-maintenance clients, Jared West, on speakerphone. Ordinarily, it's a conversation I'd rather have face to face, but he called me out of the blue and dropped this steaming pile of crap on me.

  It wouldn't be so bad if he had the skill and talent to justify the attitude and petulant demands, but he's only a second-tier wide receiver. At best.

  Jared benefited from a string of injuries at his position and an uncharacteristically solid year from his quarterback a few seasons ago. We seized on the opportunity and managed to parlay that one-year performance – an outlier in his career, really – into a five-year deal worth more than forty million dollars.

  Honestly, while the team’s management was distracted by his overwhelming performance, we robbed them blind. Jared hasn't even come close to putting up the same numbers in the three years since signing the deal.

  And yet, here he is, bitching and whining about being underpaid again, looking to renegotiate his deal and make more money.

  On the one hand, I want to hang up on Jared for being such an entitled punk. He signed a deal – a deal that far exceeds his actual worth – and he needs to honor it. He needs to suck it up, play out his contract, and let the chips fall where they may.

  On the other hand, having been a player myself, I get it. You only have so many years in this game before your time is up, and you need to maximize earnings while you can. Players deserve to get paid, no question about it. I'm sure if I was still playing, this is a conversation I'd be having with my agent too.

  Contract values and team revenues continue to rise, and even marginal players are getting huge paydays. We signed Jared to a big-time deal, and it's a contract that's been exceeded by a lot of guys since then. Which is exactly why he's on the phone throwing a fit.

  It's my job to advocate for my clients and make sure they're getting fair compensation. Unfortunately for Jared, he's already being paid more than he's worth. I know it. The whole damn team knows it. The only person who doesn't know it, is Jared. There's no way in hell they're going to pay him more money to be as mediocre as he has been the last two seasons. In fact, he's lucky I negotiated a deal with a sizable chunk of guaranteed money on the back end, so they can’t cut him from the team without a significant financial penalty.

  Hell, given how little he's produced since signing the deal, they might cut him anyway, and just eat what's left of the contract. Not that I can blame them, really.

  “I'm telling you that I don't know if the team will be willing to rip up the last two years of your deal and renegotiate a new one,” I say.

  “You're my agent,” he sneers. “This is your job, right? To get me a new deal? This is what I pay you for, ain't it?”

  “It's my job to get you a deal, Jared,” I say evenly. “And we got you a very fair deal –”

  “Fair deal? Did you see what Watkins just signed for?” he snaps. “He hasn't done nothin' worth that kind of money. He hasn't put up the kinda numbers I have.”

  Actually, he has. Trey Watkins has been one of the most electric receivers in the league for the last three years. Over the last three seasons, he's put up more than three hundred catches, nearly four thousand receiving yards, and twenty-nine touchdowns. He's made the Pro Bowl twice, and has been All-Pro three years running.

  He's put up numbers Jared will never touch, and I have no idea how he thinks he's a better all-around player than Trey Watkins. All I do know is that I want to end this call. Jared isn't going to get another dime out of the team, and he’s an idiot if he thinks he can pressure them into it.

  “Listen, I'll tell you what,” I say. “I'll talk to the team. Feel them out and see if they're receptive to the idea.”

  “Make it happen, man,” he says. “I need to get paid.”

  I roll my eyes. “Yeah, I'll touch base with you soon.”

  I disconnect the call and tip back in my seat, letting out what feels like the longest, loudest sigh in history. Guys like Jared really test my patience and make me question why I went into this business in the first place.

  “Day's going well, I see.”

  I look up to see Pete Paulson, my second-in-command here, casually leaning against the doorway, a cup of coffee in hand. Pete's a good guy and my most trusted employee here at CEM. Smarter than hell, tough as nails in negotiations, and loyal to a fault. If only I had a hundred guys like him on payroll.

  I sigh. “Yeah, that was Jared.”

  “Let me guess – he saw the deal Watkins just signed and suddenly thinks he's underpaid.”

  “It's like you're a psychic or something.”

  “I have my moments,” he replies. “I remember when guys like him were scratching and clawing to hang onto roster spots – and were grateful for deals that paid above league minimum.”

  “Yeah, but then all the teams started overpaying for fringe guys.”

  “And that opened the floodgates,” he says. “Now, everybody who can run a 4.4 thinks they need to be getting max deals – whether they can actually catch the ball or not.”

  “Exactly,” I say and shake my head. “Damn, I sound like a bitter old guy like you. What's next, me telling the kids to get off my lawn or starting conversations with, 'back in my day?'”

  “You're just about there as it i
s,” he chuckles. “You gonna call the team?”

  “Do I look like an idiot?”

  “Not as much of an idiot as you would be if you actually called them.”

  “Exactly why I'll keep kicking the can down the road as far as I can,” I say.

  “Smart man.”

  “That's why they pay me the big bucks.”

  Pete laughs and shakes his head. He knows what it's like to have to babysit clients who think they deserve more than they're getting. He's been in the game long enough to have seen everything. At least twice. Given that he has a lot more experience than me, I tend to lean on him for knowledge and skill. His advice and guidance have been invaluable to me – especially in CEM's early days. I think it's fair to say that without Pete Paulson, CEM never would have gotten off the ground, let alone rise to the level we're currently at.

  He's also my Narcotics Anonymous sponsor. It's where we met. Originally, I started going to NA because I was under court order after another DUI. It was the lowest point of my life. But, I met Pete and he helped me get back on the straight and narrow. He never gave up on me and pushed me to become a better man than I ever thought possible.

  Not only would CEM not be anywhere without him, I know that as a person, I wouldn't be either.

  “Come in,” I say. “Shut the door, I want to talk to you about something.”

  Pete's brow furrows, but he closes the door behind him and drops into the chair across the desk from me. He takes a sip of his coffee, his eyes never leaving mine as he waits for me to tell him what's on my mind. There's no reason to beat around the bush with Pete, so I don't.

  “So listen,” I say. “I'm thinking about pulling the plug and leaving the game.”

  “You're kidding me,” he says, his eyebrows arched in surprise. “You're not the retiring type, Brice. You won't know what to do with yourself.”

  I chuckle. “I'm sure I can figure something out.”

  “So, no plan?” he asks. “No outline for the next chapter of your life?”

  “Just kind of winging it right now.”