You're to Blame(17)

So much for flying under the radar.

“I know I’m late. Everything’s just been really hectic, sir,” I explain, standing to face his open door. He holds up his hand and pulls his cell phone from his pocket, bringing it to his ear, dismissing me and my excuses.

“Well shit,” I whisper, falling back into my chair.

Quinn, Mr. Johnson’s secretary, waltzes by my desk.

“Everything okay, sweetie?” She skids on her heels, stopping in front of me.

“I’m a complete disappointment. I swear, I can’t do anything right these days.” I slam the drawer on my desk and slump into the chair. My hands run through my greasy, unwashed hair. On top of everything else, I didn’t get to shower, which is the one thing that makes me feel human, even after a night of drinking.

“You have a lot going on, Charlotte. We all understand.” Her hand rests gently on my shoulder, and I find comfort in her motherly personality. She treats everyone as if they’re family. Mr. Johnson doesn’t appreciate her tender manner most days, but even he warms up under her watch.

“If I’m going to succeed in this career, I need to thrive under stress, not let it consume me.” The piles of papers on my desk cause a slight skip in my heartbeat.

“One day you’ll be an amazing journalist, and do you want to know why?” Quinn smiles. “Because you have heart. Maybe too big of a heart, but that’s where the stories are. They’re hidden. Beneath all the materialistic, shiny crap sits the truth, and you know how to dig to get it. Keep your chin up. He’s a softy, deep down in his black heart.” She nods towards Mr. Johnson’s office and laughs.

I offer something short of a smile. Quinn takes it for what it is, disappearing into the break room to pour the fourth cup of coffee for our boss.

The first half of my morning is sucked away with returning phone calls, emails, and random Monday morning office necessities. In my experience, if this doesn’t get done, then the rest of the week is complete chaos, much like my desk.

At the Greystone Gazette, our paper is released bi-weekly to ensure our stories are fresh and exciting. We have guest reporters. Athletes. Famous alumni. What never fails is our readers willingness to pick up our paper as they walk through campus. We do our best to keep an edge to our story choices.

Being a journalist has always been my dream. When I was a young girl, I’d lay on my stomach with my pad of paper and write my own ramblings while my mother enjoyed the latest news. My curiosity got the best of me, and after a million questions, I came to a conclusion. I’d grow up to be a journalist. I never wanted to write about frivolous things, but wanted to be in the trenches, digging up stories readers would devour.

I came to the university and immediately sought out Mr. Johnson who took me under his wing and made sure I was signed up for all the right classes. Before he became a college professor, and then the supervisor of our campus newspaper, he was a war journalist. To say he’s seen things is an understatement. He can be a jackass, but he’s a jackass who can teach me the ins and outs of the field.

“Charlotte!” Mr. Johnson’s sharp tone causes my spine to tighten.

I twirl in my chair and lock eyes with my boss. “Yes?”

“Can you come in here for a minute?” He shuffles back into his office. His desk looks much like mine, with scattered papers and no real sense of organization. I sit in one of the two chairs in front. Several minutes pass, and I pick at my cuticles and wait until he’s done typing out a lengthy e-mail.

“Mr. Johnson,” I whisper to remind him I’m still in the office.

His head springs up, surprise flashing across his face. “Sorry, Charlotte.” He shakes his head, flustered with whatever he’s working on. “You know the owner of Murphy’s?”

“Personally, no, but...” I shift to the edge of the chair.

“We’re showcasing him in the second installment of next month’s paper,” Mr. Johnson cuts me off. “Well, him and another alumnus. Both business owners. Both cut throat. I think it’ll be interesting to get a take on how they got where they are now.”

“And you want me to go with Josh when he interviews them?” My breath hitches as I survey him, curious as to what his angle is. Will this be my chance to prove myself? I hope so. I could use good news.

“Actually, I’m thinking you would do better with this interview. Give you some practice.” Mr. Johnson hands me a rough draft of questions. “Feel free to make the interviews your own. You’re ready, Charlotte. I’ve read some of the sample articles you’ve left on my desk. They’re good.”

“Wow!” My grin is so big my cheeks hurt. “I won’t disappoint you.” I stand to leave but turn back before stepping out of the room. “Who’s the other alumnus? You said there were two.”

“Oh, sorry.” Mr. Johnson glances up from the pile of papers on his desk. “It’s Ari St. James.”

“St. James, as in the car dealer?” My fingers tingle I’m so thrilled with the chance he’s giving me. Ari St. James has a quite the reputation in our town. He dominates the market and has made a name for himself. He doesn’t do many public interviews. The chance to pick his brain is a big deal.

“That’s the one. You should be able to spin an interesting piece off him.” He smiles and dismisses me.