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“No shit. Is everything okay? You don’t seem your usual sharp-as-a-tack self today. Want to talk about it?”
“Hmmm...? Oh, there’s nothing, really. I didn’t sleep well last night, and I guess it’s taking me a bit of time to get the synapses firing this morning as a result. Plus I’m still getting back into things after the summer. It feels like forever since I’ve done any of this shit.” It was a pretty feeble excuse, but it was the first thing that sprang to mind, so I rolled with it.
Cally narrowed her eyes again. She was one of the sharpest people I knew, and I wasn’t sure if my pathetic theatrics had been enough to convince her. I smiled sheepishly, and shrugged, but the action seemed to do the trick. She flashed me an understanding smile.
“Tell me about it. I can barely string a sentence together right now, let alone form a reasoned argument. The struggle is real.”
I doubted it very much, but I loved that she was kind enough to throw me a lifeline, and I grabbed it with both hands. “I know, right? Roll on Christmas already.”
“Hey, so what’s this last piece on the work list? It just says, ‘Heathcote fluff’.” She tapped at the item in question on the loose agenda I’d drawn up a few days earlier.
“Ugh. Don’t remind me. You know how it is—once in a while the Dean hits me up to do a thinly veiled Heathcote PR blast, generally focusing on an area where they are trying to court a big-money Daddy Warbucks donor, or something for which they have received negative PR. I hate doing them with the passion of a thousand fiery suns.”
“Hmmm... I can see why. It’s not exactly journalism, is it? No hard news there.”
I nodded and grimaced, fighting the urge to share the real very hard news I was sitting on. It was so tempting to let something slip, but, especially given the discovery of that photo, I couldn’t afford for anyone—apart from my stalker, of course—to find out about the exposé I was working on.
“Do you want me to do it? It kind of seems beneath someone of your journalistic talent.”
“Ha! Thank you so much for the compliment. You know flattery will get you everywhere, right? It’s just a shame that Dean Rogers doesn’t share your high opinion of my skillset. I’ve tried passing it on in the past—before you joined the team, obviously—and let’s just say he lost his shit.”
“Oh really?”
“Yeah. It wasn’t pretty. He’s old, and buys into that whole hierarchy crap. Unfortunately, he has me by the pubes—if we want to continue to receive funding, and keep this little ship afloat, then we rely on his ‘generosity’ in continuing to throw us a bone. Piss him off, and we’re toast.”
“Ugh, that’s such fucking bullshit. Whatever happened to freedom of the press and artistic expression, and all that First Amendment stuff?”
“Yeah, I’m pretty sure that went the way of dinosaurs and VHS video machines. Extinct as fuck.”
“True that. If it wasn’t for professional research purposes, I’d barely even bother with the press at all, these days. Most of the shit that’s out there is no less a work of fiction than the average comic strip, and let’s face it, even some comics are more on the money than the shit that passes for news.”
“I couldn’t agree more, but unlike most of the rich kids here, I can’t solve my problems by getting Daddy to buy a wing of something, or whatever. I have to toe the party line.”
“Tell me about it.” She rolled her eyes ceiling-ward. “Remind me again why I’m willingly signing myself up for a lifetime of debt, the rewards of which may never actually outweigh the costs.”
“Why, so that you may be the most highly educated person in the unemployment line, of course. We all know that most of the time a college degree isn’t worth the paper it’s written on these days.”
“Never a truer word was said in jest. Depressing as a motherfucker, yet no less true because of it.”
“Amen to that.”
Chapter 3
Bear
“Nope.” I toweled at my still-wet hair—that shit was like a sponge—as I looked at Coach as though he’d lost his living mind. He returned the incredulity with a look that could singe the Devil.
“What do you mean ‘nope’?”
“I mean exactly what it sounds like. All due respect, Coach, but I’m not being followed around by some busybody, for however long.” I jutted my chin at the busybody in question. “No offense.”
She shrugged, looking at me as though there was no way in hell I was important enough to warrant her offense. It was somewhere between boredom and contempt. Whatever.
Coach threw his head back and laughed so hard, so loud, and so unexpectedly, that it had both me and the newspaper chick jumping in our skins. Me slightly, her a lot.
As Coach had his eyes closed—and even if they were open, they were pointing toward the ceiling—the two of us had no choice but to wait it out. There were awkward silences, then there was standing wordlessly with a stranger whose company I’d just impolitely declined, while we both tried to work out what the fuck was going on.
Coach clutched at his chest and righted his head to its normal position, seemingly in no hurry to fill us in. As he brought is gaze back to meet mine, he swiped at the tears of laughter forming in the corners of his eyes, then rubbed his hands together.
