Page 14 of The Beast’s Captive Bride (Obsessed #10)

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“Please, sir.” I hate myself for the slight note of begging I hear in my voice, but damn it, I'm tired of writing stupid, fluffy shit about whether it's a faux pax for your fingernail polish to not match your toe polish.

I want to write something important. I want to write about things that are going to change the world.

I'm a damn good writer. I know I am. But my boss just won't give me a chance.

He steeples his skinny fingers in front of his weasel-looking face. His face is long and thin, and his nose is narrow with a bulbous tip. I hate that I have to beg this man for anything.

He focuses his beady little rat eyes on me. “We've been over this, Jessa,” he tells me in his nasal voice. It grates on my nerves like fingernails on a chalkboard.

“You're our fashion columnist. You're good at what you do. I don't know why you can't be happy with that. Your column is one of our most popular ones every week. Fifty percent of our readership is female now just because of you.”

“I know but?—"

He cuts me off with, “The answer is still no, my dear.”

I balk at the endearment and literally have to bite my tongue to keep from snapping at him that I'm not his anything.

Instead, I finally insist as politely as I can from behind clenched teeth, “How am I ever going to prove to you that I can do something else if you never give me the chance?”

He narrows his already too-small eyes at me and cocks his head to the side as he considers me. He’s looking at me like I’m a bug under a microscope, but I keep my shoulders squared and meet his gaze.

My heart thumps in my chest because this is the farthest I've ever gotten with him. He looks like he might actually be considering giving me a chance.

Oh please, oh please, oh please , I silently pray, though I'm not entirely sure who or what I'm praying to—just that I'm desperate for the chance to finally prove myself.

I graduated top of my class in journalism and communications, and I know I can nail this if he'll just let me.

He glances down at a paper on his desk before his lips curve into his sickening rendition of a smile. He finally looks back up at me, his eyes glinting mischievously as he says, “Okay, I'll give you one chance.”

My heart damn near stops beating with the excitement that overloads my system.

“You nail this, and I'll send more,” he makes air quotes with his fingers, “serious work your way.”

I'm already nodding in agreement. “Yes, whatever you need, Mr. Adams. You can count on me. I'll do it.”

His mouth stretches into a wide grin. “Good. I'm glad to hear it. I'll expect this breaking story on my desk in two weeks.”

Excitement bubbles up within me. He said “breaking story,” so maybe it's something that's a big deal.

I'm already itching to hit the field and get started.

I smile back at him. “So, what’s the story, sir?”

“Riker Morin.” Mr. Adams sits back in his seat with a self-satisfied smirk on his face like the name should mean something to me.

It doesn’t.

My smile falters as I look at him in confusion. “The name doesn't ring a bell?” I say it more as a question than a statement because maybe it should with the smug way Mr. Adams is looking at me like he’s given me the assignment of the year.

“Oh, it likely won't for you,” he tells me, “because he was a bit before your time, I believe. You were probably still in middle school back when he was given his badges for his services in the war.”

Okay, so he's a veteran. I'm wondering what's so special about him when Mr. Adams answers my unspoken question.

“I want you to get an interview with him. If you can get an interview with this veteran, then the job is yours.”

My eyebrows shoot up. “Really? All I have to do is get an interview with this guy, and you'll give me the political column?”

Mr. Adams nods in assent. “Exactly.”

I practically giggle with glee. Okay, this sounds way too good to be true. All I have to do is get an interview with an old war vet, and I'll get the job of my dreams. This is going to be a piece of cake.

I should have known that Mr. Adams had more up his sleeve, though, because he wags a finger at me and adds the final caveat, “There is one thing, though. During the interview, you’ll have to get him to tell you what really happened that day.”

I blink. “What day?”

Mr. Adams smirks at me before he lets out a series of admonishing tsks. “You want to be a serious reporter, Ms. Jeffrey. You’ll have to do your own homework.”

I nod, properly chagrined. “Of course.” No problem. I can find out on my own. I'm no expert at veterans or wars, but I know that a lot of them don't like to talk about what went down when they were overseas.

Still, Mr. Adams said this guy's a hero, so he should be willing to give me a few details about his heroic efforts.

I smile in relief. This is going to be easy peasy. “Thank you for this opportunity, sir. I won’t let you down.”

Mr. Adams dismisses me, and I eagerly hit the door, ready to get started.

“Two weeks, Jeffrey,” he calls after me as I leave his office.

I smirk to myself. I won't need two weeks. I'll get this assignment done in less than one.

How hard can it be to interview one veteran?