Dirty Headlines(13)
“Listen, son…”
He crossed his legs, and I did my best not to laugh. Really? Son? That was rich.
“Your work here is appreciated, but it’s time to play nice with new advertisers and harvest fresh revenues.”
“You mean now it’s time to let parties’ propaganda and every dick with an alcohol bottle or cigarette brand sell have air time?” I sat back and laced my fingers together. “Because we already have commercials coming out of our asses. We just don’t run the spots that bring in the big bucks, because people tend to lose their trust in a news channel who tells them they should buy a pack of condoms and lubricants to go with their booze.”
He rolled his eyes like a teenager. “Il n’est pire sourd que celui qui ne veut pas entendre!” No one is as deaf as the one who refuses to listen. “Perhaps a few simple endorsements on air will do. I’m meeting you halfway here, Célian.”
“I’d rather meet you in court when I sue your ass for shitting over my soon-to-be network.” I stopped him mid-speech. “This news channel will report the news. Nothing more. Nothing less. It is the sales department’s job to find lucrative deals.”
“Précisément. They simply can’t. You’ve made this network the goodie two-shoes of TV. We’re never biased, never wrong, and never profitable. And that’s an issue.”
“Don’t give me the profitable bullshit. I watch the numbers closely. I’m about to inherit this place.” We were making clean profits, just not major revenues like we could if we sold our soul to the devil. I preferred my soul intact. It was bad enough I didn’t have a heart.
“Continue this line of behavior, and you will inherit nothing.” My father reddened, his face swollen with blood and anger.
I smiled impatiently. “It’s not up to you, and you know it. My mother gave you the keys to this ride, and you shall return them when you’re no longer fit for the job. The difference between us is that I am a newsman, and you are a lucky bastard.”
“Watch your tone with me.” He punched his thigh, his face so red it was starting to look purple.
I knew I should back down before he suffered another heart attack. I hated my father with a fiery passion, but I didn’t want his death on my conscience. I knotted my fingers together, leaning forward and meeting his gaze. Nature must’ve known what I’d found out when I wasn’t even ten—we weren’t going to be close. I’m certain that’s why I looked so much like my mother. Light eyes, dark hair. Only things I’d inherited from Mathias were his height and ability to make people want to commit murder.
“I pride myself in bringing to the table impartial, factual, bulletproof information. In having a proven track record of clean kills every night. What our viewers do with this information is up to them. You will not inject any pro-Republican, pro-Democrat, or pro-bullshit propaganda into my news show. You will not air ads for casinos, alcohol, or condoms. You will not ruin this business for me.”
“We need to stay profitable, Célian.” My father adjusted his silky red tie. “And when it comes to thinking for yourself, at least have the decency to sound a little less adamant. Your track record hasn’t exactly proven that you do as you preach.”
I knew exactly what he was referring to, and I wanted to staple his face to my goddamn door for the hypocrisy. He’d dug the hole I was sitting in with his own dick, and now he was shoveling mud to bury me inside of it.
“If you don’t want me to touch your show, I will have to cut back on your staff. I will make the necessary arrangements to let go of the interns and stand-by reporters.”
Fucker. But it beat drowning in ads for casinos and experimental drugs.
“You do what you have to do,” I hissed. “Any more words of wisdom from a man who doesn’t know where our studio actually is?”
“We should rid ourselves of James Townley if he makes any further salary demands.” My father flattened his hand over my desk.
For a reason beyond my grasp, my father fucking hated our anchor of the last thirty-five years. James Townley had come to this station when he was twenty-four years old, and over the years, he’d miraculously received everything he’d ever asked for—including, but not limited to, setting up his son, Phoenix, with a job here. Said son stirred up so much trouble on this floor, my father’d had to strategically remove him to the other side of the world. He was now on the Syrian-Israeli border, reporting on all things Middle East. It was my educated assumption that ISIS would sponsor the next pride parade in Damascus before trying to kidnap Phoenix Townley. Yet James was still pissy about Mathias putting his son’s life in danger.
Townley was a lovable prick, and he was well-spoken, well-respected, and well-received. He also looked like Harrison Ford’s fake-tanned, bleach-haired twin brother, which didn’t exactly hurt our ratings. If he and my father could’ve killed each other without legal consequences, I’d have two less headaches to worry about.
“Are you done?” I sat back and rolled a pen between my fingers. I was going to have a double-serving of this nonsense in about two hours when I met James and his agent for lunch.
“Almost. I added a little something special to your team I believe you’re going to appreciate.” My father raised his hand to the glass wall, and my eyes followed the direction to the fishbowl newsroom.