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Chapter Thirty-Five
Peyton
I sat at my desk with my fingers hovering over the keyboard, knowing I was on the verge of losing my job.
If it bleeds, it sells.
Words to live by in the world of journalism.
Children being saved from a burning building were never as popular as a mass shooting. A front page color photo of a sunset would sit stagnant, while a front page color photo of a grotesquely graphic car wreck would sell out.
I needed something graphic, something gut-wrenching, something memorable.
But, I refused to use Nick or his club as a vehicle to sell newspapers. There were many stories to tell, but none that I was willing to divulge. Camden Rollins III would probably fire me when it was all over, but I could not pen a vicious story about Nick and the FFMC.
At least not something worth reading.
I decided, above all, I needed to write a story that made a difference. Something that was gut-wrenching, but not too gory. A heartfelt, but tear-jerking story that stuck with the reader long after they were done reading it. Something that made them say, what the fuck was that about?
Something they may even read again. After they thought about it.
I relaxed in my chair, stared at my monitor, and sighed. After a long period of silence, it came to me.
My fingers no longer hovered over the keyboard. They tapped at record pace. In a few hours, I had the story.
I read it, re-read it, and printed a copy.
Proudly, I walked into Mr. Rollins’ office, tossed it on his desk, and grinned. “Sorry I’m a few months late.”
His eyes met mine. After a short glare, he picked it up. A few seconds later, he looked up, but his eyes fell right back down to the page.
When he finished, he dropped it onto his desk.
“This? This is why I let you do what you want, when you want.”
I grinned. “Like it?”
He shook his head. “Love it.”
“Thank you,” I said.
“I’m rolling with this on Sunday. What’ll the headline say, Peyton?”
I shrugged. “Call it what it is.”
He widened his eyes.
“Hard,” I said. “Call it hard.”
Because it was.
