by Banks, R. R.
I open my mouth to argue but then close it again without saying anything. I mean, what can I say? She's right. At least, if you look at it from that perspective, I guess she's right. I was on the defensive from the moment I saw him though – and with good reason. I've spent a lot of years angry at him, thinking the worst of him. It's not like I can just turn that off at the drop of a hat.
It was an emotional day and night. After my father, and everything that happened with Mark, I needed that human connection. I needed to feel something positive. I needed something that made me feel good. Brice just happened to be there – and now he's not.
“None of this matters, you know,” I say. “It's not like I'm ever going to see him again.”
“How do you know that?”
“He wanted to explore things between us, I said no, end of story,” I reply. “I'm sure he'll move on to his next conquest and forget all about me. Again. He's good at that.”
“You realize that's the root of all this, don't you?” she asks. “That you feel abandoned?”
“Damn right I do. Because I was.”
“Honey, you were a child. You were what, ten?”
“Maybe eleven,” I say defensively, as if that somehow makes the case for me.
She laughs softly. “Fine. You were ten or eleven,” she says. “Maybe Brice was a grown ass man by then. What, twenty-one or twenty-two or so? He was a hot shit college quarterback and a soon to be NFL star. Do you really think hanging out with a little girl with a child’s crush was a priority?”
I know I have no way to rebut the argument, so I fall silent, and take a long swallow from my bottle instead. As simple as that explanation is, and as much sense as it makes, it's something that never occurred to me before. Not in those terms. I've been so caught up in my own feelings, in my own anger, that I never broke it down like that for myself.
It's such a simple explanation that I'm embarrassed and ashamed I never thought of it myself.
“I don't mean to hurt you, Em,” she says. “I just –”
I shake my head and cut her off. “No, you're right,” I reply. “I just – I never thought of it like that before. I got caught up in my own head and...”
I let my voice trail off. There's really no reason to continue with that train of thought. I mean, it's over. Brice and I had our thing, but I'm not going to see him again, so it doesn't even bear thinking about anymore.
My cell phone rings, so I grab it from the table, and look at the caller ID. I look at Marina as confusion sweeps over me.
“It's the Times Daily,” I say.
“Maybe they're calling to beg you to come back.”
I snort. “Yeah, I doubt that.”
“Well, put it on speaker,” Marina says. “I want to hear.”
I laugh, but answer the call and put it on speaker, so she can listen in.
“This is Emma Simmonds,” I say.
“Ms. Simmons, my name is Ava Drake,” she says, her tone clipped, with a hint of a British accent. “I'm the new editor-in-chief of the Times Daily.”
“Oh,” I say, exchanging a look with Marina, who just shrugs. “What happened to Helen?”
“Ms. Simmonds, I would like it very much if you came in tomorrow morning,” she says. “I'd like to have a conversation.”
A rush of adrenaline floods my body as I rack my brain, trying to figure out how I could possibly be in trouble after being fired. Assuming I did something wrong is my default setting, and automatically trying to figure out what I did is almost a reflex at this point.
I can't think of anything I've done wrong though. I mean, it's not like I work for the paper anymore. But, her clipped, proper tone, has me worried. Did they find some horrible mistake I made in a past article? Are they going to accuse me of plagiarism or something?
“Can you tell me what this is about, Ms. Drake?”
“I'd rather have the conversation with you in person, if that’s acceptable to you,” she says. “Does nine o’clock tomorrow morning work for you?”
“Uhh – yeah, sure,” I say. “I can be there.”
“Excellent. I'll see you then.”
The call disconnects, and I'm left sitting there, staring at my phone. I share a look with Marina, who gives me a shaky smile.
“See? She's going to beg for you to come back,” she says with a nervous chuckle.
“Yeah,” I say. “I'm sure that's it.”
“What else could it be?”
I shrug. “I don't know, but I don't have a great feeling about this.”
* * *
Later that night, I'm alone in my place, feeling slightly buzzed. Marina and I went through a whole six-pack of ciders and most of a bottle of wine. I'm not thinking super clearly, but I'm feeling pretty damn good, so I just roll with it.
I look at the whiteboard hanging on my wall and all the pictures and notes I've taped up. It resembles a giant puzzle, with all the pieces spread out, just waiting for me to snap them into place to form a cohesive picture.
At the center of the puzzle, at least in my mind, is Carlyle Hawkins.
No matter what I do, or how many different avenues of research I venture, I come back to him. Always. I'm almost certain he's the guy. I just need to find a way to prove it. And that is going to be difficult.
I know I can't go around flinging unfounded allegations out there. I can't name him as a serial killer without proof – not unless I want to destroy my reputation and open myself up to a massive libel lawsuit.
Like that old saying goes, if you're going to take a shot at the king, you better not miss. Or something like that.
I stifle a yawn and look at the clock. It's closing in on midnight, and I'm exhausted. If I'm going to be fresh and on my toes for Ms. Ava Drake in the morning, I should probably get some sleep. But first, a shower. Now that we’re in October, the days are starting to cool down, but they're still warm enough that by the end of the day, I feel sticky and grimy.
Shutting everything down in the living room and making sure the doors are locked, I head into the bathroom, turn the shower on, and strip down. I adjust the water so that it's mostly cool, and step into the tub. I pull the shower curtain but leave just a little gap so I can see out. Call me paranoid, but ever since seeing Psycho when I was a kid, I've hated showers with curtains instead of glass doors. They creep me out.
I turn my face up into the spray and let the water rain down over me. The cool water washing over my body feels amazing and starts to clear some of the fog in my head. It's slightly chilly, but it's invigorating.
I stand beneath the fall of water – if there's one good thing about my shitty apartment, it's the excellent water pressure – and enjoy feeling my skin cool down. I close my eyes and let the water soothe me, as it washes away the cares of the day.
I'm feeling more relaxed than I have in days and am just about to turn the water off when images of Brice unexpectedly fill my mind. When I see his face and remember how he bent me over the island counter in the kitchen, my body suddenly fills with endorphins, and a warmth spreads through me.
I bite my bottom lip and slide my hand down my breasts, and slip it between my thighs. In my head, I'm imagining standing in a shower with Brice – not this crappy, cramped one, but a nice shower that has plenty of room for two people. I watch the way the water falls all over his sculpted pecs and abs.
I picture myself running my hands up and down his muscular torso. I feel Brice lean forward and kiss me, pushing his tongue past my lips and into my mouth. I shudder as I feel his hands slide down my back, and cup my ass, squeezing it hard before pulling me to him.
In my fantasy, our kissing grows hotter. More intense. His beard is scratchy against my face, but pleasantly so. I plunge two fingers past the velvety folds of my lips into the warm, wet center of me. I move them in and out, slowly at first, but then settle into a steady rhythm. Bursts of pleasure flare up within me, pulling a soft groan from my lips.
I rub my clit with my thumb as I pump my fi
ngers in and out of my aching pussy, moaning with pleasure as I imagine Brice on his knees before me. He's pushed me up against the wall of the shower. He puts my leg up over his shoulder, and as the water rains down over us, he buries his face between my thighs.
A shudder ripples through my body as I remember how his tongue felt on my clit. How it felt inside of me. I moan his name low as I reminisce how amazing it felt to feel him fuck with me his tongue.
My fantasy shifts and Brice is standing behind me. He's forced me to bend over, bracing myself against the shower wall with my hands. He's pounding his cock into me without mercy. I'm working my fingers with the same, steady rhythm, biting my bottom lip to keep from crying out too loudly. I can't help the moans that escape me, though, and they echo around my tiny bathroom.
My fantasy is fueled by the memory of the things we did together. As I finger myself, I recall how his long, thick cock felt deep inside of me. My body tingles and my cheeks flush as I picture him fucking me, the water from the shower raining over our slick bodies.
I picture Brice picking me up and holding me against the wall. I wrap my legs around his waist, locking my hands behind his neck. My body is crushed beneath his, and I'm pinned against the cool tile as he drives his cock into me again, filling me completely.
The moan that erupts from my throat echoes loudly around the bathroom, and at that moment, I don't really care. I picture Brice's cock impaling me over and over again as I pleasure myself.
I softly call out his name as the tingling inside of me grows, and the pressure builds to a crescendo. In my fantasy, I kiss Brice passionately, as a powerful orgasm shatters me. I throw my head back and cry out as my body spasms, and a wave of pleasure crashes down over me.
Gradually, my breathing returns to normal, and my heart begins to slow from its torrid pace. I feel a smile tugging at the corners of my mouth, and my body buzzes with pleasure.
Although not nearly as good as the real thing, my desire is sated for the moment. My lust has been quenched – for now. I turn off the shower and take a quick peek through the gap in the shower curtain. Finding myself alone – as usual – I climb out and towel myself off.
With my body dry, I slip into a camisole and a pair of boy shorts, and crawl into bed. With the fan in the window going, the night air is surprisingly cool as I slip beneath my blankets.
Even though I’m exhausted, unwanted thoughts about Brice, as well as the meeting with Ms. Ava Drake in the morning, float through my head. I'm half-afraid they will keep me up all night, but after a few minutes, I drift off into a peaceful, dreamless sleep.
Chapter Thirteen
Emma
As I walk through the newsroom, I feel all eyes on me again – the same as the day I was fired. I can hear a muted buzz of whispers coming from the cubicle farm and am pretty sure at least two-thirds of the employees are talking about me. Hopefully, I'm just being paranoid.
I pass Tom's cubicle and see that he's standing in the doorway, leaning against the frame, cup of coffee in hand and a wide smile on his face. He gives me a casual wave as I pass, and I give him a smile in return.
“Welcome home,” he says.
I give him a rueful laugh. “I'm not really home,” I say. “I'm probably about to get reamed for – well – something.”
“Think positive, Emma,” he says.
As I make the walk through the newsroom to Helen's – or, rather, Ava Drake's – office, it's then I start noticing the small, subtle changes around the place. They're small – the configuration of the cubicles, newer looking computers, things are cleaned up, and less dull and dingy looking. I see a couple of workmen fixing some things up, and some of the walls look like they've had fresh coats of paint put on them.
The whole place has a sleeker, more modern feel to it. Which is crazy – I haven't been gone all that long. What, a few weeks? And yet, it looks like a whole new place. Most of the faces are the same – although, I see a few new ones scattered about.
The entire newsroom is buzzing with a new, almost manic energy. It's like the place has been infused with life. While I worked here, the Times Daily was limping along, dragging its carcass toward the inevitable end. I'd hoped to gain enough experience so that when it did go the way of the Brontosaurus, I'd be able to land on my feet elsewhere.
Now though – now, everything is different. There's an energy and a life in the place that simply didn’t exist before. It looks like the publisher – the owner of the paper – suddenly woke up and decided to pour some resources into the place and get us back on the right path to relevancy again.
Frankly, it's pretty amazing to see – not that I even know what I'm doing here yet.
I knock on the door to Helen's – damn it – Ava’s office. I can see her through the glass. She's on the phone, and when I knock, she glances at her watch and waves me in. I open the door and step inside, quietly closing it behind me as she says her goodbyes and hangs up the phone.
“Miss Simmonds, you’re right on time,” she says,
“I usually am.”
She smiles at me and gestures to one of the seats before her desk. “Please, have a seat,” she says. “Very good of you to join me this morning. Thank you.”
“I have to say, I was more than a little intrigued after your call.”
“Quite,” she says. “Coffee?”
Ava moves over to a newly installed counter on the side of the office, set between two towering bookcases that are stuffed with books, picture frames, and other assorted trinkets.
“Yes, please,” I say. “That would be great.”
“Cream and sugar?”
“Yes, please.”
I look around the office as she prepares the coffee, and like the rest of the newsroom, what used to be Helen's office has had a bit of a makeover. It's cleaner and far less cluttered than it was when Helen was in charge. Back then, there were books, files, and stacks of paper on nearly every conceivable surface. Now though, everything is neat and tidy – something I can appreciate.
The office is as well put together as the woman – which tells me that she's likely responsible for the more modern and efficient feel to the office. She's tall, nearly six-feet without heels. Her blonde hair is pulled back into a ponytail that falls to the middle of her back, and her blue eyes are sharp and vivid behind her black framed glasses. She's wearing a smart, but stylish black pantsuit with a cream-colored blouse. Everything about the woman radiates professionalism and a no-nonsense attitude.
And I can't help wondering – again – what I'm doing here.
She hands me the mug of coffee, then walks around the desk, and sits down in her chair with her own mug in hand. She takes a sip of it, watching me from over the rim of the mug. Feeling slightly uncomfortable beneath her scrutiny, I look down into the strong liquid and take a sip.
I don't know why, but all the confidence I walked in here with, seems to have fled beneath her eyes. There's something about Ava Drake – maybe, it's that direct, unflinching stare – that unsettles me a bit. It's like she can see right through me and can draw out all my darkest secrets.
“So, as you can see, some things have changed since you were last here,” Ava says.
“I can see that,” I say. “To be honest, I'm pretty shocked, since I haven't been gone that long.”
“No, things have been moving very quickly here.”
“Apparently.”
I sip my coffee and force myself to meet her gaze even though my confidence is waning. The last thing I want to do is appear weak. If I have to defend myself against something – not that I can think of anything I'd need to actually defend myself against – I need to come out strong and swinging.
As I sit there, the silence stretching awkwardly between us, I can't help but feel like a kid sitting in the principal's office, waiting to hear how disappointed they are in me, and assign me detention. And all the while, Ava sits there calmly, sipping her coffee, taking my measure as she looks me up and down.
I
sit up a little straighter and clear my throat. “With all due respect, Ms. Drake,” I ask. “What am I doing here?”
A faint smile touches her lips as she sets her coffee mug down on her desk. “Well, you may not know this, but we have a new publisher,” she says. “The old one – Mr. Deavers, I believe his name was – sold the paper.”
I nod. “It's probably for the best,” I say. “if I'm being honest, Mr. Deavers didn't seem all that interested in putting out a good paper.”
She shrugs. “I didn't know him, so I can't say one way or the other,” she replies, that British accent coloring her words. “It appears though, that you have a big fan in our newest publisher.”
“Oh?” I ask, honestly surprised.
“It would appear so,” she says. “Since, I've been directed to bring you back on board.”
“Directed to bring me back?”
She nods. “Ordinarily, that's not how I work,” she says. “I do not like being told who I can and can't have on staff. As the editor-in-chief, I believe I should be the one to make those calls. I have to be able to trust my staff and have full confidence in them.”
“I don't disagree,” I say.
“And I'm going to be honest, I do have full discretion with the staff here. I can keep anybody I want and send anybody else packing. Our publisher has told me that in regard to the staff, I have carte blanche,” she says, eyeing me evenly. “Except for when it comes to you. It was made very clear to me that there's no negotiation to be had. I am required to hire you back. Period.”
I sit back in the seat, stunned. My mind is spinning a thousand miles a minute, as I try to sort through this all and figure it out. Why in the hell would a publisher require me to be on staff? It's not like any of my pieces ever became national news or anything.
Mostly, Helen kept me limited to local news. Just boring police blotter stuff. I spent a lot of time at the courthouse, watching the most basic, mundane cases play out – and then had to try to write compelling copy from that. But seriously, how exciting can you make a basic DUI story?