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I click the app button again. “Please locate website information for the North Carolina Iris Festival.”
After writing down the phone number for the festival coordinator’s office, I close out the app, a second, softer voice echoing in my head.
“You can’t reign as Teen Miss Iris Festival without some serious trash-talking skills. That title alone will get your ass kicked in various social circles.”
Dialing the number, a bead of sweat rolls down my temple. Energy vibrates within me as a pleasant Southern accent answers the line.
I take the plunge and never look back.
“Yes, ma’am, do you have a listing of past festival queens on hand?”
Seven
Phoebe
“He called me a talentless cunt. I thanked him for the compliment. Being called a cunt defines a true feminist.”
Sitting in my cubical, I read the quote out loud again, laughing just as loudly as I did the first ten times.
Kooky musicians don’t faze Vinyl readers, but hearing myself say the words uber-feminist rocker, Vaggie Prime, had deadpanned to me in the interview almost does me in. It’ll be the perfect opening line to the bastard article management is forcing me to write.
Sitting back in my chair, I entertain thoughts of emailing the rough draft to my boss. Images of Castellano’s chubby round head dripping in beads of sweat has me laughing all over again.
My attitude sucks.
I have no business working in this industry. Any of the other four trade magazines Ralston Media produces would be a better fit for me. All I want is for an agent to look at my manuscript and take me seriously.
Is that too much to ask?
Apparently so, according to the bra-burning gospel of Vaggie Prime.
The demands of a hectic morning and lingering dreams of a relentless sex god pound my head into oblivion. Nothing has gotten rid of the salacious thoughts—in fact, they’ve made the ache exponentially worse.
Fumbling in my purse, I snatch two ibuprofen from their container. As I attempt to replace the childproof cap, a shadow casts over the front of my desk, and a thick New York accent barks over my shoulder.
The surprise sends a jolt through my hands and the entire bottle of pills into the air.
“Miss Ryan, are you unclear on the definition of a deadline?”
I want nothing more than to crawl under my desk until he walks away, but James Castellano, the managing editor of Vinyl, isn’t the type of man to be ignored.
I rake as many of the spilled pills into my lap as I can and replaced the cap. “No, sir. I’m aware my article is due today.”
Castellano’s dyed black hair and thick goatee give him an eternal pissed off look. He doesn’t attempt to hide his distaste for inter-office friendships.
Or friendship in general.
Or human contact of any kind.
He likes things professional, orderly, and clinical.
And he hates me.
Ignoring the pharmaceutical apocalypse, he glances at the unfinished article shining on my computer screen. “We go to press today, Miss Ryan.” He pins me with an accusing stare. “Should I expect another missed deadline?”
My heart slams against my chest. I hate my job, but I also like to eat. “No, sir. I’ll have the article to you today.”
“Very well.” He turns on his Salvatore Ferragamos, and I let out a relieved breath. Stopping abruptly, he narrows his eyes and rubs his forefinger across his chin. “Miss Ryan, are you familiar with Lords of Lyre?”
