by Raye Larson
The receptionist, a pretty blond with small hoop earrings, tapped something into her computer. She smiled up at her. “Mr. Blake’s office is on the second floor. His personal assistant, Kiera, will be meet you and take you to him.”
“Thank you.”
Here was an introduction to the exciting world of investigative journalism: stories often began with a bunch of pleasant small talk. This in turn led to more talking. Talking, talking, talking.
Then, a bit more talking.
Thankfully, Charlotte was quite skilled at talking.
Charlotte headed for the elevators. The security guard watched her, the plant remained impartial, and the man Charlotte had walked into the building with stood in an elevator, holding the door open.
“So we meet again,” the man said.
Charlotte smiled. “So we do. I’m Charlotte Stevens.”
“Theo Reaves.”
“I take it you work for Blake?”
“Considering how far Blake tech goes, I think we all work for him a little.”
“Then I’ll have to have words with him about my current pay scale.”
“Let me know how that works out.”
Charlotte felt pretty confident thinking that it likely wouldn’t go well. And unlike Derek, Blake probably wouldn’t be that moved if Charlotte undid a couple buttons.
Not that that always worked. Charlotte might look at Derek but Derek was way more professional than her.
He was breathing, though, and spending most of his life in one office or another meant that when Derek saw a hint of skin, he briefly lost his train of thought.
And then blushed.
And then apologized.
And then signed off on whatever Charlotte or Faith wanted.
Being somewhat professional, Charlotte and Faith only saved that tactic for special occasions.
Charlotte said they were semi-professional. She never said they were nice.
She wondered how Faith was.
“How long have you worked with Blake?” Charlotte asked. They were in an elevator, she was a reporter, and Theo was a captive audience. Charlotte might be worried about Faith but she knew Faith would want her to focus on the story. If she couldn’t figure out Blake’s secrets, then Charlotte had to.
“A year and a half,” Theo said.
“How does this place compare to other places you’ve been?”
“It has better coffee. Blake’s also into teambuilding events. You should see the place after a product release.”
“Oh?”
“Two words: Nerf warfare.”
Charlotte smiled. She envied them their energy. After production nights, Charlotte’s favorite team building event was sleeping.
The elevator stopped at the second floor.
“Would you mind if I called you sometime and asked you a few more questions about your time here?” Charlotte asked.
“Sure.” Theo fished a card out of an inner coat pocket and offered it to Charlotte. “While we’re at it; if things don’t work out with all of your secret seeking, drop me a line. I’m in marketing and we could always use some more alliterative action.”
“Thanks. I’m married to my job but I’m really flattered.”
“When’s your anniversary?”
“March. Next year will be our tenth anniversary.”
“I offer both my congratulations and not too serious hope for a divorce.”
Charlotte snorted. If she ever thought things weren’t working out with the Spectator, she’d up his therapy. Hell, she’d invite Derek along. Couple’s counseling, the office edition.
“Honestly, you’re better off,” Charlotte said. “If I get too much coffee, I occasionally break into song.”
Theo stepped out of the elevator. “Can you sing?”
“No.”
“You’d get along fine with everyone else.”
Charlotte slipped the card into a front pocket of her satchel and stepped out of the elevator. Theo’s offer was flattering. Depending on how the interview went, Theo might hope Charlotte forgot they ever met.
The hall outside the elevator opened into a large waiting room. A few feet away was a large dark wood desk. A young blond woman in a dark pantsuit looked up from a computer and smiled.
“Ms. Stevens?” she asked.
Charlotte approached her. “Charlotte, please.”
The blond rose. “Charlotte. I’m Kiera. Welcome to Blake Tech. Mr. Blake hasn’t arrived yet but he should be here in a few minutes. May I offer you some coffee?”
Ah, the way to her heart.
“Thank you,” Charlotte said. “I’d love some.”
Kiera led him past the desk to a couple long black leather couches. “Please have a seat. I’ll have your coffee out in a moment.”
“Thank you.” Charlotte sat in the corner of the closest coach and set her satchel beside her. Time for some pre-interview setup.
She withdrew her iPad and opened the case. Her writing app of choice was Pages, a neat bit of software that allowed her to e-mail files to herself. It also underlined every misspelled word she gave it in the hopes of making her learn how to spell but it didn’t show a side screen showing all of her files. Notepad had nearly driven her insane with that, and she was the one who slept with a bear. She and sanity were at best close acquaintances.
Footfalls approached.
“I forgot to ask,” Kiera said. “Do you take sugar or cream?”
“Both. Three and a half sugars, lots of cream.”
Kiera smiled. “Bit of a sweet tooth. Me too.”
Charlotte closed her iPad. “I went through an existential period in college. I wore all black, dyed my hair, and wrote heaps of poetry about how scary talking to people was. I couldn’t stomach drinking coffee black, though. It really curtailed my brooding artist look.”
“Was the poetry any good?”
“No.” It got her laid, though.
Charlotte watched Kiera return to her desk. Ironically, the poetry-inspired sex kicked her out of her existential period. She realized then that if she was afraid of opening herself to others and getting hurt, other people might be terrified of that as well. Most people likely wanted to talk to her or others. Not everyone wanted to hurt them.
Some did.
And whenever Charlotte found someone like that, she wanted to study them. Observe them, get to know them, find out what made them human and what didn’t, and then write about them. Show the world who and what they were. Warn others. Save the world.
Get sued once. Have her arm broken twice. Receive the aforementioned stitches.
Also be responsible for a handful of arrests. Thank you cards from people who thought no one cared. A stuffed bear from a family that lost a child but gained a thirty-year-old reporter at their Thanksgiving table. The world could be scary but it could also be a great place. That was worth more than a hundred awful poems.
Especially since, even with her insane charm-people-close-and-then-keep-them-at-a-distance habits, some people slipped through. She had Derek. Faith. Lord Bear…
Faith.
Charlotte fished her cell out of her satchel and hit Faith's number.
The timing was bad. She would be in an interview soon but–
“Hello?” Faith asked.
Relief, warm-edged and sweet, flooded Charlotte. Faith sounded tired and sleepy, but okay. Not in pain.
“Hey,” Charlotte said. “I’m sorry, did I wake you?”
“No. Just feeling blah. Are you there? At the interview?”
“Yeah.”
“You shouldn’t be calling me," Faith said. "I’m… a thing. That thing. A distraction.”
She was also very dear to her.
“I just wanted to make sure you were okay,” Charlotte said. “I’m really sorry you couldn’t be here.”
“I’ll be okay. Just… drugged. Drugs are my friends. You too. You and morphine. My best friends.”
Charlotte was glad one of them could be with her right now. �
�I’ll call you later today. I’ll even let you go over my notes.”
“Whoa. Am I dreaming this?”
Charlotte smiled. “No.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
“Okay.”
Click.
“Faith?”
Silence.
Charlotte turned her phone off. Not a usual Faith goodbye but, all things considered, not terrible. Charlotte would see her later. Judging by how she sounded, really later.
Footfalls approached.
Charlotte looked up.
“Here you go,” Kiera said, holding out a tall back mug as she moved toward her.
Charlotte rose and stepped toward her. “Thank you. I really appreciate–”
Kiera stumbled.
Charlotte hurried forward, catching her arm.
And watched the black cup slip out of her hand.
The coffee splashed out, splattering the end of Charlotte's wool coat and the soft gray carpet.
“Shit,” Kiera said.
Charlotte agreed; the coffee smelled wonderful. The cup looked pretty cool too.
As did Keira’s black leather boots, one of which was raised to keep her weight off the foot.
“Are you okay?” she asked, releasing her.
“Yeah. I just stumbled.” Kiera shifted her ankle a bit and then set her foot down. “I’m sorry about your coffee. And your coat.”
“It’s okay. One of them is dry cleanable.”
Kiera returned to her desk and began searching through a drawer. “If you send me the bill–”
“It’s fine. I needed to send it in anyway.”
Kiera closed the drawer and headed back to Charlotte, holding a handful of paper towels. She knelt and dabbed at the coffee. "If you give me a moment, I'll take care of this and–"
“It's okay,” Charlotte said, kneeling beside her. She took one of the towels and pressed it against the stain on the carpet. "We both love coffee and my super awesome coat but we can enjoy both of them later."
Kiera laughed. "Okay. I admit. I do love your coat. And I love coffee."
"I understand," Charlotte said. "I love them too."
"If you don't mind me asking, are you single? I want to introduce you to my brother. Or my cousin, if you prefer women. Or buy you coffee, if you're not into either."
Charlotte smiled. That was sweet. Also terrifying–there were a couple of people at the Spectator who were hell bent on trying to introduce her to someone, she didn't want anyone else to join them–but she knew that Kiera meant it well.
"I'll take you up on coffee sometime," she said.
"Cool beans."
"Hopefully tasty beans."
Kiera's smile grew. "If you ever change your mind about my brother' he's the cute blond security guard downstairs. His name's Chaucer."
A shadow spilled over them.
Charlotte looked up.
The figure before her was tall. He was also in the path of a window, and the sunlight bled around him, obscuring his features. He was a human shadow, dressed in darkness, with obsidian shoes. A few feet away, another human shadow stood, so still Charlotte would’ve thought it was a statue if she hadn’t already seen that there were no statues in the hallway.
“Is there a problem, Kiera?” the man asked, his cool voice softened by an English accent.
“No, sir.” Kiera rose.
Sir.
It was Blake.
Charlotte rose. She hoped her coat wasn’t badly stained. And that she didn’t smell like spilled coffee. And that her socks weren’t peeking out from beneath his jeans.
They weren’t. Thank God. One crisis at a time.
The shadow-Blake stepped toward Charlotte, taking on human shape.
Even in the light, Blake looked like he took a piece of the shadows with him. He was in his early forties and dressed in a black suit. His black hair was short and had a hint of silver at the temples. His dark gray eyes were thoughtful, his smile distant, his features sharp. He was handsome, in a villain next door kind of way.
Behind Blake, the not-statue moved forward, gradually revealing a brown-haired man in a dark gray suit.
“I presume you’re my nine-thirty appointment?” Blake asked.
“In the coffee-scented flesh.” Charlotte offered her non-coffee scented hand. “Charlotte Stevens.”
Blake took her hand. “Spencer Blake. The man hopefully not glowering at you behind me is Mr. Weatherby, my private security.”
“Hello, Mr. Weatherby,” Charlotte said.
Silence.
The man was neither the first bodyguard Charlotte had ever met nor the most frown-y. Charlotte just hoped the he wouldn’t want to frisk her.
Not without buying her dinner first, anyway.
“Thank you for meeting me,” Charlotte said.
“It’s my pleasure. I thought I was going to be meeting a Faith something, though.”
“Faith Irvine. I’m afraid she’s undisposed today.”
“That’s a pity.”
Yes.
Blake motioned down the hall. “Shall we?”
“Please.”
Blake glanced behind Charlotte. “Kiera, coffee? In cups, perhaps.”
“Yes, sir.”
Blake’s tone was light; Kiera’s sheepish. Charlotte regretted being the cause of her embarrassment.
“I’ve spilled a cup or two in my time,” Charlotte said.
“I suspect we all have,” Blake said. “I myself did it right after I got my first job after college.”
“How’d that go?”
“I was looking for a new job by the end of the day.”
Charlotte winced. “Ouch. I’m sorry.”
“All for the best, really. It gave me the desperate edge to think about starting my own company.”
The Spectator began the same way. No coffee accident, but a laid off fueled panic that led to the decision to create something that hopefully wouldn’t be taken away.
Blake led Charlotte down the hall. Weatherby slipped past them to the last door and unlocked it.
“Thank you for your patience this morning,” Blake said, “There was some dreadful traffic coming off the 101 ramp and it doubled my commute time. If you’re taking the highway after you leave here, I suggest finding a different route.”
“I appreciate the warning, thank you.” Charlotte could take surface streets to the Spectator office but, knowing San Jose’s eldritch nature, one never knew when a specific street would be overcome with people avoiding other venues. Being aware of how the automotive pulse was flowing that day always helped.
Weatherby opened the door as Blake and Charlotte approached.
“Thank you, Mr. Weatherby,” Blake said, motioning for Charlotte to head in first.
Charlotte tipped her head in thanks and went in.
The office was large, with the windows along one wall overlooking a nice sized terrace, a large desk set between two windows, and a black leather couch in one corner. There was another door to the left of the coach and, a few feet later, a large abstract painting.
In college, Charlotte had spent a year as the entertainment editor. She’d looked at a lot of abstract art and rather liked it. One could look at a piece for hours and see nothing, and then one day suddenly get it. It was like life that way.
At first glance, the piece before her was simple: there were six rows of blocks. With the exception of the first and last pieces, the blocks were black and gray. The two remaining pieces were a deep crimson.
“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” Blake said.
“Yes. Things begin and end in blood.”
Silence.
Fuck. Charlotte had said that aloud.
That, sadly, was her challenge with art–and, she suspected, life. What she saw said more about her than the piece itself, and what she saw wasn’t always pleasant. Pleasant or not, she would share. People just weren’t always happy to hear it.
“Most people think children’s blocks,�
� Blake said.
His tone was thoughtful, and a glance back revealed him studying Charlotte.
“I think they wouldn’t be such dark colors if they were,” Charlotte said.
“True.”
A quiet click whispered behind her. Charlotte glanced back and found Weatherby by the door, looking blankly ahead. Charlotte wondered if the guy was imagining where he’d dispose of Charlotte’s body if Charlotte proved problematic or what route to take home that night, in case traffic got bad again.
“Did you see what caused the accident?” Charlotte asked, looking back at Blake.
“No.” Blake turned and approached the dark wood desk. “And I had plenty of time sitting in my car, staring at the chaos, to wonder about it.”
“How bad was it?”
“Fairly. The police couldn’t keep the people involved still. I think they wanted to get away from their cars in case they blew. I suspect a lot of films have made people think their cars are more explosive than they really are.”
“It could’ve been shock.”
“Possibly. There was a lot of blood.” Blake motioned towards a chair set on the other side of his desk. “Are you squeamish?”
“No.” Charlotte approached the chair.
“I saw exposed bone,” Blake said. “Torn muscles. Limbs barely still connected to the body. All that, and the people were still moving. Intellectually, I know the human body can take a lot of damage and keep going but...” Blake frowned. “Seeing it is something else.”
Charlotte drew the chair out and sat. She could imagine. She didn’t want to but she did.
Blake settled into his seat. “I imagine you didn’t come down here to hear me be morbid. How can I help you?”
Intro to journalism 1.5: the interview. More talking, followed by careful listening.
"Well," Charlotte said, "if you're open to helping me, I'd love to take a peek at your plans and–"
Blake laughed.
It was a pleasant, if edged, sound. He was amused and... surprised? Yes. Surprised. He looked and sounded like he hadn't laughed in a while.
"Damn," Charlotte said when Blake's laughter faded. "I guess that was just politeness."
"Yes, though I appreciate the attempt. You are a reporter. You can't help but want things.”
“I imagine we both want things from one another.”
Blake smiled. It was a cool, distant thing.