by C. C. Ekeke
With his long arms, DeDamien grabbed Hugo’s shirt collar and dragged him back. Cody charged in first with a knee to Hugo’s chest. The wind knocked out of him, Hugo would’ve crumpled if DeDamien and TJ weren’t holding him. The boulder-like Korean drove a meaty right hook into his chest. Hugo’s torso screamed with pain, making his eyes water. He couldn’t draw in breath.
“How’s my street cred now?” DeDamien jeered, slapping the back of Hugo’s head. “How’s it now, bitch?”
Baz swaggered forward, grabbing Hugo's chin. “This is a warning, you greasy-haired shitsack,” he stated, no longer smiling. Even in the dark, no empathy lived in his cruel eyes. “Mess with my crew and you get—ARRRHH.” Baz doubled over, after Hugo soccer punted him in the crotch.
Before Baz’s boys could react, the Samoan teen stomped on DeDamien’s foot. The towering basketballer howled and let go. Hugo ran for it. And he was free, racing toward a well-lit section of the park.
…until Cody sailed in from behind, hitting him with a stiff clothesline. Hugo struck the grass face first, dazed. By the time he rolled on his back, TJ and a limping DeDamien were on him.
The trio stomped the exposed parts of Hugo’s body, a torrent of hurt and filthy curses. No part of his anatomy was off-limits. Hugo could only ball up and pray for an ending.
To his dismay, they were just starting. Cody and TJ yanked him upright as Baz came roaring forward. He tackled Hugo full force, burying a shoulder into his sore torso to lift him off the ground. Baz then slammed him down.
His three buddies cheered like he’d scored a touchdown.
Hugo groaned, his ribs on fire. Something definitely cracked. I’m so fucked.
Growling like an animal, Baz rained down savage rights and lefts, rocking Hugo’s face side to side, each strike a detonation of pain. Never had he seen Baz so unhinged, eyes wild with hate, spittle flying and slicked hair askew. Hugo tried covering his face. Baz yanked his arms away and kept pummeling. One punch cracked Hugo so hard he saw stars. The next loosened a tooth. He’s gonna kill me.
After two straight jabs undoubtedly broke his nose, Hugo saw red. Then black…
Chapter 5
“Okay,” Helena Madden gushed. “I’m watching again.”
Quinn stopped laughing after the third replay. This was the editor-in-chief’s sixth viewing for one of the clips Quinn had shot for her article on Titan and Lady Liberty vs. Killawatt and Armordillo. But she wasn’t about to question the viewing preferences of SLO Coast Daily’s Editor-in-Chief.
The clip filled Helena’s computer's screen. Killawatt, crackling with electricity and ill intent, leered down at a fallen Lady Liberty. The supervillain mouthed something, a glowing hand raised to finish her off.
At the last second, Lady Liberty popped up to one knee and slammed both hands together. The shockwave rattled the whole block, knocking Killawatt several feet away. Him flailing about still cracked Quinn up, even after several views.
Helena clapped eagerly. “OOOH.” She spun in her seat to face Quinn on the desk’s other side. She dressed effortlessly cool; faded jeans and untucked white blouse under a green sports coat. Afternoon sun spilled through the window on Helena’s shaggy pixie-cut blonde hair. “That’s what I call a clapback!”
“One of my favorite parts,” Quinn replied with a nod.
“Your article’s getting ass-tons of traffic on the website and the SLOCO Daily app!” Helena always got animated discussing analytics. “It stays on tomorrow’s Top Ten.”
“YES!” Quinn exclaimed. Getting an article on SLOCO Daily’s Superhero section was good enough. Placement in Top Ten Features, the site’s highest viewed and most profitable section behind the Homepage and Superheroes for two days in a row? That was an honor. “Thank you!”
Helena brushed off the adulation. “This was some fine reporting, Quinn. Dramatic and present.” She leaned in, studying the article onscreen. “Eyewitness accounts were copious and precise, like I taught you.”
“Thanks,” Quinn said, blushing. SLOCO Daily’s Editor-in-Chief taking time from her crazy schedule to congratulate her meant a lot. Since becoming a journalist, Quinn had desired a prolific career like Helena’s, which included stints as one of Washington Post’s embedded reporters for the 2000 presidential campaign, a Middle East war correspondent for The Guardian and a Senior Editor for The Daily Beast.
And under Helena’s seven-year stewardship, SLOCO Daily had grown from some minor news and opinion website covering San Luis Obispo County into a must-read politics and pop culture source reaching millions of global readers each month.
Presently, Quinn saw a window for her own advancement. “There’s something I wanted to discuss.” She adjusted her horned-rim glasses, then her black short-sleeved blouse and skinny white tie. Here we go… “I’ve learned so much in Lifestyle & Culture, which I can translate into another section.”
Helena glanced down and sighed, clearly expecting this. “You’ve improved so much so fast. And just scratched the surface of your talent.”
Quinn furrowed her brow, sensing a “But” coming.
“You’re covering Lifestyle & Culture events around San Miguel and SLO County,” Helena said with business-like cadence. “Got your ‘Sidewalk Confessionals’ vlog, guest posted in other editorial sections. But for now, let’s stay in Lifestyle & Culture.”
Quinn struggled to keep a neutral façade and pressed her case. “And I enjoy aspects of Lifestyle & Culture. But I don’t see any growth reviewing restaurants and wineries.”
“I get it, QB,” Helena said, gesturing with her hands to explain a point. “But I’m trying to set you up for success. You started eighteen months ago, leaped from Social Media Specialist to staff writer in under a year.” She leaned back, pushing up her tinted glasses. “I don’t want your rise to be seen as unearned.”
The remark was a slap across the face. While Quinn’s co-workers respected her, favoritism rumors had plagued her quick ascent. “I earned all my opportunities,” she replied heatedly.
“Yes,” Helena agreed, raising a hand to calm her. “But name a writer who lunches with me weekly?”
Quinn didn’t have to think hard. “Jono McGowan.”
Helena gaped for a moment, then laughed. Few reporters could’ve gotten away with that unscathed. “Low blow! And Jono heads two editorial sections. Name another non-senior writer besides yourself.”
Quinn’s quiver was empty. “Point taken.” Helena was correct about the optics of another promotion so soon. Quinn had met the Editor-in-Chief through an LA-based Brown University alum. After bonding during their informational interview, Helena got Quinn an entry-level job in Digital Marketing. From then on, she’d taken Quinn under her wing, providing opportunities to hone her journalist skills. Eight months later, Quinn officially joined SLOCO Daily’s Editorial staff. Throughout that time, their mentor-protégé rapport had become a genuine friendship.
“We’ll revisit this in a few months, okay?” Helena stated gently.
Quinn nodded and smiled. Not the answer she’d wanted, even with Helena looking out for her.
The door behind Quinn opened without a knock. She turned to see a man peek in, his short hair a mess of disheveled spikes. Quinn fought the tartness bleeding into her features. Jono McGowan, U.S. News and Top Ten editor. He resembled Colin Farrell’s less handsome, less fit brother.
Helena normally despised interruptions during her one-on-ones. Yet the Editor-in-Chief brightened like a love-struck teenager. “Hello, Jono!”
Jono gave her that smarmy smirk which charmed someone somewhere. “Ad Sales meeting in five,” he said in his thick Irish brogue. “Packer’s in a mood.”
“Ugh.” Helena rolled her eyes. That was her usual response to Dave Packer, mercurial VP of SLOCO Daily Ad Sales. “Don’t forget the snacks.”
Jono recoiled. “Isn’t that his Ad Sales harem’s job?”
Helena waved off the grievance. “Not if we want better sponsorship for our projects. He always i
nhales whatever his Ad Managers bring.”
Jono finally noticed Quinn. “Black Irish!”
Quinn politely fake-smiled. “Hi, Jono.” She didn't know which ranked worse. Them flirting or Jono's nickname for her. Quinn being black with an Irish last name amused him endlessly. Nevertheless, Helena making eyes with Jono meant the meeting was over. “Thanks for your time.” Quinn stood.
“Hang on, QB.” Helena raised a finger to stay her exit. “Still need a Superheroes floater, Jono?”
Quinn stared. “Doesn't Michael run Superheroes?”
“Now he’s heading US News,” Helena corrected. As she and Jono watched expectantly, Quinn’s stomach clenched. Yesterday, she’d be doing cartwheels of joy. But not with Jono heading Superheroes.
Still, Quinn couldn’t refuse after pleading for new opportunities. “I'm in,” she spoke brightly.
Her faux enthusiasm vanished minutes later when outside, rounding the block with Creed Samuels. “I’m a floater for Superheroes, now managed by your buddy Jono.”
Creed turned his head in surprise, long dreadlocks whipping about. “What about Michael Hale?”
“Heading US News,” Quinn noted. “I didn’t ask for details.”
“Huh.” The Senior Writer took another drag of his cigarette, visibly irked. “At least your lunch wasn’t spent listening to Jono brag about Helena’s ‘oral’ skills!”
“Oh God!” Quinn cringed from head to toe. “Really?”
Creed rolled his eyes. “Today, he's all ‘I think she’s in loov.’” His Jono impersonation always cracked Quinn up. “'Really in loov. I know you hate dating, but what do I do?’ Then Jono did his stupid hyena laugh.
“I nod and smile until he changed subjects.” Creed tossed his cigarette in a nearby trashcan. Already an old soul, he hunched like a geriatric whenever discussing Jono. Before Quinn knew it, they’d reached a subway stop. “Off to an advanced screening of The Girl Who Broke the Wheel.”
Quinn eyed Creed in disbelief. “Jeez and Russ! A fourth Unbreakable Girl movie? On purpose??”
Creed smirked. “Escape your millennial cave, QB. Big world out there. The third film made over a billion dollars. A sequel was inevitable.”
Having to watch another Unbreakable Girl movie was one reason Quinn didn’t envy Creed’s job. She'd enjoyed the first movie, The Girl with No Name. The sequel, The Girl Who Fought Back, lost her by focusing on its cringeworthy love triangle.
“Alright,” Quinn hugged Creed. “Can’t wait for the snarky review.”
He smiled and scurried into the subway entrance. “Count on it!”
The rest of the day passed quickly. As Quinn was finishing for the evening, her friend Jensen Clarke from Digital Marketing came by. “What’s tonight’s plan?”
“Pre-game at SLO Brew’s, then music at Luna Red,” Quinn recapped. They were meeting other co-workers to celebrate a Lifestyle & Culture writer’s new home purchase.
Jensen beamed. “Can’t wait!” Jensen was walking sunshine, tall and willowy with sandy-brown hair and a button nose. Quinn had befriended the graphic designer during her Social Media tenure.
The two gabbed excitedly, weaving through islands of empty glass cubicles. Then from across the workspace, Quinn spotted two silhouettes entangled and kissing inside a conference room. Her eyes bulged in recognition. She quickened her pace, guiding Jensen along.
But her friend caught a glimpse and stopped. “Holy crap! Is that—?”
“Yes. UGH,” Quinn groaned, shoving Jensen forward. “Keep moving.”
Once in the elevators, Jensen whirled on her with wide eyes. “OH. MY. GOD,” she whisper-yelled. “How long have you known?”
“Before I started here,” Quinn sighed. “My informational interview lunch was with Helena and Jono. Once I got hired, Helena asked me to keep it private.”
Jensen stared off into space. “That explains Jono’s ego trip.”
“Oh, he’s got Helena dickmatized,” Quinn remarked, earning explosive laughs out of Jensen. Panic rippled through the reporter. She pointed at her friend. “Tell no one!”
Jensen quickly sobered, hands raised in capitulation. “I’m a lockbox.”
In Quinn’s opinion, Jono was a talented writer and genuinely nice sometimes. That didn’t negate him frequently screwing other writers out of high-profile projects under the guise of friendship. And Helena would constantly protect that conniving snake, who had the editor-in-chief wrapped around his finger.
The elevator opened, and Quinn marched into SLOCO Daily’s ultra-chic lobby. She passed awards and other iconic souvenirs from the site's first decade, having seen them countless times. Quinn couldn’t wait to cause some chaos in downtown San Miguel. When nearing the parking elevators, she noticed Jensen had stopped to watch the lobby TVs. “Jen! Move!” Quinn ordered playfully. “Drinks await!”
Jensen didn’t budge. “Quinn. The news…” she murmured, her face bone-white.
Quinn frowned and backpedaled to the five massive monitors in SLOCO Daily’s lobby. Usually, four TVs played a different news network; entertainment, politics, world news or finance. One only played SLOCO Daily’s YouTube channel. At 9:19 pm, every network onscreen aired the same breaking news.
“NO!” Quinn clapped a hand over her mouth. Nausea pooled in her stomach. “Is…this confirmed?”
Jensen nodded, looking as disturbed as Quinn felt. “Yea…”
Quinn sank to her knees. This couldn’t be real. Yet each shell-shocked news anchor onscreen reported to have absolute confirmation.
“How?” Jensen asked in anguished tones.
Before Quinn could reply, her buzzing cell startled her upright. An Editorial group text from Helena.
Helena Madden: 911!! BACK TO HQ!
Quinn swallowed a sob. “Guess we’ll find out.”
“Likewise,” Jensen confirmed, after her cell buzzed.
Both women sprinted back to SLOCO Daily’s elevators for what would be a long night.
Chapter 6
Tonight, happiness threatened to overwhelm him. And that happiness had nothing to do with himself. Save how lucky he felt.
He sat in a massive glitzy ballroom at the Marriott St. Louis Grand, dressed in a charcoal grey suit and white button-down with the collar undone. Around him were hundreds of the world’s brightest scientific minds. But under warm ballroom lights, Greyson was just another face in the crowd as the next speaker took the stage. For the 4th Annual BioMed Conference, top bioengineers and research investors from across the globe converged on St. Louis to showcase the latest projects and innovations. And at tonight’s closing gala, Lauren Gerard from Genex Laboratories was the keynote speaker.
“I’m with her,” Greyson murmured proudly to the couple beside him, pointing at his biomedical engineer girlfriend onstage. She strode to the podium, a sashay in her hips. Greyson could feel an aura of confidence ooze from her walk. Glancing around the crowd, he knew others felt it too. Lauren’s ivory strapless sported a plunging black neckline, perfectly complementing her suntanned complexion and eye-popping figure. A slit ran down both upper thighs of her dress, showing off heartbreakingly long legs that went on and on. Her ash blonde hair, teased up and combed back, fell in sleek curtains down her toned shoulders. And that face was so lovely, especially when smiling. Lauren was a vision.
Her gaze found Greyson. He’d heard two earlier drafts of this speech, each rock-solid. Greyson mouthed, You got this, babe.
Lauren winked back before her gaze swept across the audience with that perfect smile. “Hey, folks,” she greeted. “Who’s ready to discuss medical applications of white matter?” Her audience responded with polite applause. She started off somewhat stiff and visibly nervous. Within a few minutes, Lauren grew more comfortable discussing her project and its benefits, adding science jokes that went right over Greyson’s head but killed it with this crowd. By the time she finished her thirty-five-minute speech, Lauren got a lengthy standing ovation. She thanked the audience, blushing and humbled.
During the reception, Greyson hung back and watched countless scientists approach Lauren to gush over her presentation. He wasn’t surprised. Lauren’s employer Genex Labs, a subsidiary of biotech and pharmaceutical giant Paxton-Brandt Industries, always made an impact at the BioMed Conference. Lauren fascinated her gaggle of new admirers, answering questions about her genetics work to anyone genuinely curious. Lauren also sassed the pigheaded know-it-alls trying to mansplain what she’d just presented. Greyson’s heart swelled watching her work the room. At one point, their eyes locked. Lauren’s smile stretched ear to ear before she returned focus to her fans. After how much she’d supported him with his issues, Greyson took immense pleasure in watching her shine.
Once he got her alone, Greyson slipped an arm around her waist from behind. “Do you have any idea what I wanted to do to you all night?” he murmured in Lauren’s ear.
Greyson saw gooseflesh prickle her forearms, enjoying his enduring effect on her. “No idea,” she purred over her shoulder, arching an eyebrow. “Care to elaborate?”
Greyson smiled and pressed closer, his loins stirring. “Tear that dress off with my teeth and…” He detailed his plans for her body, whispering so only she could hear. Lauren went rigid in his grasp and whirled about to face him. “Why haven’t we left yet?”
The couple celebrated properly after reaching their Creve Coeur condo. She attacked him with eager kisses, undoing his shirt in nimble-fingered gusto. Greyson, aroused by her appetite, peeled Lauren out of that dress like a banana and gathered her up in his arms. When they eventually reached their bedroom, the couple’s usual rhythm got supercharged by Lauren’s successful night. Roaming hands and hungry mouths travelling over bare flesh, bodies entangled and in sync. Greyson lost count of how many times Lauren arched her back with moans of wordless pleasure.
They lay cuddled and sweaty after finishing. Greyson grazed his fingers along Lauren’s spine as she dozed with her head nuzzled on his stomach. When sleep finally pulled him under, Greyson felt happy beyond words. The mirth was short-lived.