Page 12

12

DRAMA LLAMA

Emma

I stand behind August. He sits in front of an oversized monitor hanging on every word throughout my exchange with Brett last night.

It’s the evening news. Prime time for breaking stories—late enough that people are getting off work and early enough that the story has time to fester and gain momentum for the rest of the night.

In addition to my start with Jack, the day has been a whirlwind.

When I sat down with August this morning and explained the interview I carried out on my own, he looked at me like I was an alien who just told him the world was flat. I’m not sure he believed me.

Until he saw it.

He watched the interview three times before he finally moved into action.

The District is a busy place.

Politics.

Finance.

Crime.

Scandals.

There’s always a breaking story.

It’s not lost on me that the big wigs at my network always have a laundry list of choices to lead the evening news.

And tonight, that story is mine.

Mine!

They’ve teased it all day. Expectations are high. Not only is D.C. watching, so is the world.

I prerecorded a bit with the main anchors about my interview. I’m not on live, but I am watching myself on the monitors in the control room with my producer.

I try not to act nervous and tense as it comes to an end as Brett Sullivan makes his last dramatic statement about who he is.

And, more importantly, who he is not.

The feed switches back live to the anchor who promises that WDCN is committed to be the go-to network for breaking news on the Brett Sullivan story.

Then they break to the next political scandal playing out on Capitol Hill.

Those are a dime a dozen, so I turn to August who leans back in his chair, drags a hand down his lined face, and looks up at me. “This is like old-school shit. It’s not every day we can break a story that you know without a doubt no one else has information on. Nice work, Emma.”

My cell is buzzing my ass in my back pocket, but I ignore it. “Thanks. I was at the right place at the right time. I’m lucky he trusted me enough to do the interview.”

August stands and moves out of the control room to let the staff do their thing for the rest of the show. I shut the door behind us and follow him to his office as he talks. “We’re going to continue running bits on it through prime-time programming and rerun the interview on the late-night news. You’ve been here all day. Go home. You need to be ready for tomorrow.”

I take a seat across from his desk in anticipation. “Tomorrow?”

He reclines in his office chair and levels his gaze on me. “The parade. We had a meeting this afternoon and decided you’re officially the face of the Founders championship era. We need to run with it. You’ll be there all day tomorrow. But you’re not going to be in the temporary booth at the end of the parade route. You’re still too new, and we need to play on your fresh energy. We’re putting you back on the sidelines, but of the parade this time. You’ll have press access to move through the route and do what you do best—improvise in a live situation. Ross will be with you again.”

I can’t keep the enormous smile from my face. “Thank you. I’ll do my best to deliver quality content. You won’t regret choosing me. I promise.”

He lifts his chin. “Haven’t regretted it so far. Be back here first thing in the morning for the production meeting. And whatever you do, keep in contact with Sullivan. He’s the biggest story right now, second only to the Founders winning the big game for the first time in decades. The parade will be off the charts chaotic. And the real chaos won’t be at the end route where the anchors sit. It’ll be on the streets. I want every moment captured.”

“I won’t let you down, August. I promise.” I stand, not sure if I should shake his hand or give myself a high five.

Jack Hale might be the secret tucked into my back pocket who helped set up the private interview, but everything else I did in Vegas was all me.

And tomorrow it’ll be back to me.

I can’t wait.

I forgo a handshake and high five when August turns back to the TV mounted on his wall to watch the rest of the news. “Tomorrow is going to be a long one—get some dinner and a good night’s sleep. You’re going to need it.”

“Thanks again,” I call as I make my way out of his office down the hall to my cubicle to get my things. I need to go home and figure out what to wear.

I pull my cell from my pocket. The notifications are adding up by the moment. The family text thread has exploded. I have two missed calls from my mom in California, and it seems viral news makes old friends come out of the woodwork. But then again, I’ve had this number since middle school.

I open the family text thread, because I can’t not answer my family.

Keelie – I’ll never get used to seeing you on the news. You’re a badass and beautiful. A beautiful badass. I’m so proud!

Saylor – OMG! Brett is hot!

Knox – I made my entire robotics team stop our meeting to watch your interview. I might be the most popular guy at school thanks to you.

Levi – Only you would find your niche as a sports reporter through drama. You’ve also officially brought the Hollingsworth privacy era to an end, but you did it with a bang. You’re killing it.

Carissa – I’ll shout it from the rooftops of the Boyette mansion—that quarterback is into you! I beg you, tell me it’s true!

Saylor – I’m Team Carissa. This would be the best meet-cute and happily ever after in history. Is it true?

Levi – Also, your ability to bullshit the world into thinking you know anything about football is fascinating to the point it makes me question everything you do and say. I’m equally impressed and suspicious of who you’ve become.

Dad – My smart, articulate, beautiful girl. Love you, Em. I’m a proud dad right now.

Saylor - I DEMAND FOR THIS LOVE STORY TO BE TRUE!

Levi – Tell me it’s not true.

Carissa – Ignore your brother.

I need to put an end to this so I can get out of here and move onto the text thread I really want to read.

Me – Thanks, everyone. I’ve been assigned to the parade tomorrow!

I stuff my laptop in my backpack and grab my coat hanging on the back of my chair. I turn to leave but am stopped in my tracks.

Mean Molly Minders.

She’s wearing a form fitting matching set in navy tweed boucle. The jacket barely hits her at the waist, and the skirt definitely doesn’t hit her knees. Her heels boost her so high, she looks more like a super model rather than a weekend news anchor.

This woman has really mastered the art of sex-kitten news lady. Her blond hair sits in the perfect shape of a helmet and hardly moves when she shakes her head at me.

Molly has a way of demanding attention when she walks into a room. I doubt she relied on an epic influenza outbreak to make it to where she is today. All she needs to do to look the part is a case of hairspray, a bucket of foundation, and form fitting clothes.

And her fake boobs.

“Hey, Molly. I saw your story on the traffic light glitch that caused gridlock in the Maryland suburbs. Fascinating.”

Her green eyes narrow. Between that and her thin, sharp nose, my mind goes to the wicked witch of the west from my favorite childhood movie.

In boucle, sans the broom.

She doesn’t acknowledge my compliment on her traffic reporting. “I was bumped from the parade.”

Oh shit.

“Oh, no,” I feign disappointment. “I’m sorry.”

She doesn’t feign anything. She’s shockingly transparent despite her many layers of foundation and concealer. “No, you’re not.”

She’s right.

I’m not. Not one bit.

I decide to tell the truth. “I don’t know what to say.”

Her tone dips low enough for only me to hear. “That’s interesting, because it seems like you always know what to say and where to be.”

I take a step back to put some space between us and try to make light of my recent success. “I think getting somewhere fast has more to do with it. I didn’t know I was a runner. I guess all those power walks through the mall really paid off. And comfortable shoes. I’m not as agile as you. I could never work in heels. You make it look so easy.”

“Shut up,” she snips, not in the mood to talk shoes and lowers her voice to a hiss. “I’m sick of you getting my assignments.”

I hitch my backpack up my shoulder and straighten my spine. “It’s not like I gave you the flu.”

She shakes her head and cocks her hip … the universal bitch stance. I brace. “Who knows what you did to get Sullivan to do that interview. Where was it anyway? His house? Maybe his bedroom?”

If she only knew whose house it was and whose bed I slept in after the interview, it was absolutely not the drama llama quarterback. “I’ve never had to resort to that. Is that how you landed your traffic-jam story today?”

“Damn you,” she seethes. “You haven’t even done your time. You can’t waltz into a major market like this and expect to get all the good assignments right away. You’ve been here for two whole minutes. I’ve been here for four years.”

Instead of fuming back at her in rage, I smile. “Two words, Molly—flu shot. I wish I could stay and chat, but not all of us can wear cute shoes to work. I’m going to be on my feet all day tomorrow and from the weather segment, it’s going to be a cold one. I need to dig my shoes out from my time in South Dakota, where I reported on traffic jams, just like you. Though, they were caused by wild buffalo, not an entire grid going out.”

I sidestep her, and she tries to stop me, but Ross comes around the corner just in time.

His gaze shifts between Molly and me before narrowing his eyes. “Everything okay?”

I smile. “Yep. Just chatting about football.”

Ross crosses his arms. “I bet you are.”

Molly mutters as she turns on her pricey heels. “Football, my ass.”

Her cubicle is in the next row over, so it’s not hard to hear her pissed-off exhale when she sits.

I bite my lip.

Ross chuckles and moves on. “I hear we’re teamed up again.”

“Just like old times,” I say. “Like, a couple days ago.”

“Can’t wait to see who we chase after tomorrow. I’ll be sure to carb up for the marathon.”

I smile. Ross not only rescues me with informative football facts, but also from Mean Molly. “I can’t wait.”

“Do you know if Sullivan will be there?”

I shrug. “I’m not sure. I haven’t spoken to him since the interview.”

“For the sake of ratings, we can only hope. I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Have a good evening,” I call after him and pull out my cell to read the text I haven’t had a chance to open yet.

Jack – It’s official. I’m in your debt for life. Tell me what you want. A shopping spree with my personal stylist, dinner at my place, or an endless string of orgasms? Personally, I’m a fan of the last one, and even though I cook, I’m not in the mood, so I’ll order in. I will personally create the orgasms—homemade and to your liking. I was going to say pick your poison, but I just decided you’re getting all three and more.

Me – Hey! I’ve never had a stylist, so I don’t know what I’m missing out on. And as much as I like food and orgasms, I need to go home. I was assigned the parade tomorrow and have to be back early in the morning.

Jack – No, don’t go home. We’ll hit Tyson’s, order dinner, and then get to the good stuff.

Me – Jack, you cannot buy me clothes every day just to keep me in the city.

Jack – Fine. You can go home tomorrow to pack a bag. But tonight, I get to feed you and spin magic in your loins.

Me – My loins? I can’t believe you just said that. That’s just … no. Please, don’t say that again.

Jack – More begging. I like it.

I make my way to the front door when Sadie calls out from where she’s sitting at the front desk. “Emma! I’ve been looking for you. You have a call.”

I frown because in the few weeks I’ve been here, I have never gotten a call on the main business line. Everyone I know has my cell. “Who is it?”

She shakes her head. “He wouldn’t say, and the caller ID is blocked. But he’s insistent. He won’t talk to anyone but you.”

“I’ll take it in the conference room, is that okay?”

“Sure. I’ll give you a minute and transfer it.”

I move to the conference room and shut the door behind me. The phone rings twice before I have a chance to pick it up. “Emma Hollingsworth.”

The caller says nothing, but I can hear a rustling on the other end of the line.

“Hello? Is anyone there?” I ask.

“Yeah.” It’s a man, and his tone is low. I also hear wind in the background. “Is this the chick who interviewed the quarterback?”

I look around the empty room as if someone’s watching me. Like someone will jump out of the walls and yell you’ve been punked .

“Yes. I interviewed Brett Sullivan. How can I help you?”

“Shit,” he says. Somehow, I know it’s not directed at me. It’s a muttered frustration. “I knew this was going to go bad. I just knew it.”

I look down at the bare conference room table and trace the vein of the wood with the tip of my finger. “What did you know?”

“I knew this was going to blow up in my face.”

I freeze before asking, “What’s your name?”

“No fucking way. I’m not telling you who I am.”

“Then why did you call?” I press.

His exhale sounds almost violent. “Dammit. Look, I can only do so much. Who knew I’d have a fucking conscience?”

My insides tighten with anticipation.

Conscience.

“If you need to tell me something, I’ll listen. We can meet if you’d like?—”

“No,” he interrupts. “You can’t see me in person.”

It’s my turn to exhale, but mine is nothing but relieved. There’s no way I’d meet with anyone by myself. “If you have something to tell me, you can do it now.”

“He didn’t do it. He didn’t fucking do it. He’s telling the truth. He was drugged.”

I pause before demanding, “And how do you know this? Can you prove it?”

“No, I can’t fucking prove it. Even if I wanted to, I don’t have a death wish. If anyone finds out I made this call, I’ll have the biggest fucking target on my back. It’s your job to prove he didn’t do it. You can do that, right?”

Whoever this man is, he’s anxious and in a rush. I need to get all the info out of him that I can while I have him on the phone. “I’ll try. I want to do everything I can. But right now, it’s just his word versus photographic evidence. That’s hard to disprove without more information … or someone else to prove it’s untrue.”

He says nothing, but I can hear his breathing pick up like he’s walking or moving in a light jog.

“Did I lose you?” I ask.

“Dammit,” he seethes. “I don’t know what to do.”

“Look, if you give me your name or your number, I can get in touch with you. We can work together.”

“No fucking way. You’ll call the cops.”

“No. I promise I won’t.”

“Right. I have a shitload of promises that were ripped out from under me. I don’t trust anyone.”

“Okay. I get that. Let me earn your trust. I’ll give you my number. My personal cell. You called the main line to the station. If you call here too often, people will notice. But you can call me. Or text, whatever you’re comfortable with. But I always have my cell. Please help me. Tell me what you know so I can expose the truth. I can tell you want to.”

More walking.

More breathing.

More thinking.

Finally, he gives in. “Fuck. Give me your number but do it fast. I need to get off this call.”

I rattle off my number. Then I do it again just to make sure he gets it right.

“I feel bad not addressing you by name. Can you give me anything?”

He huffs one, single laugh. It’s the farthest thing from humorous. “There’s no fucking way I’m giving you any more. Just answer your fucking phone. I’ll be in contact.”

With that, the line goes dead.

I place the receiver in the cradle in the middle of the conference table. What the hell was that?

I pick up my cell that’s been going crazy with notifications.

Jack – Are you really giving me the silent treatment?

Jack – Fine. It’s my turn to beg, dammit. Please, Emma. Bump uglies with me again.

Jack – Wow. You don’t seem like the silent-treatment type of woman, but here we are. Fine, I won’t refer to sex with you as bumping uglies.

Jack – Emma, you are the most beautiful woman in the world who knocked me on my ass when you walked back into my life. Please forgive me for throwing frogs at you when we were little. Even though it was fucking fun, if I could go back to my childhood and not be an asshole to you when it came to amphibians, I would do it in a heartbeat.

Jack – There’s nothing more I want to do than take you shopping, feed you, and make sweet love to you until you pass out so I can stare at you like the freak I’m turning into.

Jack – Holy shit, you’re really trying to be a badass here, aren’t you? Fine … again. I’m sorry for all the ways I might’ve been an asshole, not just when it came to amphibians. Don’t make me scream at you through text by using all caps. I will if I have to.

Jack – Emerson Hollingsworth, TALK TO ME!

Holy shit is right. Does anyone ever make this man wait two seconds to answer a text?

Me – Change of plans, drama queen. I’ll take you up on food and maybe other extracurricular activities. Definitely shopping. But something big happened. We need to talk.

Jack – What the fuck, Em? That was the most painful four minutes of my life.

Me – I had to take a call. I do accept your apology for the frogs. Don’t ever do it again.

Jack – Fucking fabulous. Come to my place and we’ll go from there. I’ll be waiting out front for you.

I can’t wait.

I grab my things, hurry out of the conference room, and through the front door. I don’t want to talk about this over the phone.

What I do know is nothing like this has ever happened to me before.

And because of that, I’m slightly—or more accurately, immensely—freaked out. I scan the parking lot as I hurry to my car. Whoever called me, knows I’m at work. The sooner I can get out of here the better.

I can’t help the excitement simmering within me. I’m a genuine reporter. I know this about myself.

Even so, I’m chasing star quarterbacks on a football field, conducting secret interviews, and now have my very own Deep Throat, even though his tone isn’t that deep. He’s more of a middle C.

The stakes are high.

This is exciting.

But since I was raised by Asa Hollingsworth, I’m no idiot…

It might be exhilarating, but it’s equally scary.