You're to Blame(18)

I rush to my desk, eager to start. Even with all the distractions, Mr. Johnson is willing to give me my first chance. There’s the soft spot Quinn always talks about, and his heart couldn’t have warmed at a better time. This is what I’m in desperate need of. Work is always a good distraction.

“You okay, Charlotte?” Quinn asks, balancing two cups of coffee. She sets one down in front of me, and I take a sip. My taste buds do a happy dance. This is what my morning has been missing.

“Yeah, actually.” I glance up at her, and she winks at me. “You already know, don’t you? About him allowing me to interview?”

“Well, I sure as shit wasn’t going to spoil this moment for you.” She rubs my shoulder. “You deserve it, sweetheart.”

“Thank you.”

Quinn leaves me to it and I scan the paper.

Across the room, Josh huffs. Our senior reporter for the newspaper is a real know it all. Every time he assigns me something, he steps in to show me how I’m doing it wrong, and then takes over before I even leave my desk. Let’s be real, the guy’s an asshole. Part of me wants to ignore his disdain, but the temptation to rub it in his face is strong. I catch his attention, waving the questions in the air. Take that, asshole. I’ve earned this chance and your shitty glare isn’t going to make me feel bad. There’s a deep-rooted sense of satisfaction in a win like this.

My morning flies by as I narrow down Mr. Johnson’s original list. Brainstorming and research help me come up with several new ones of my own. A loud growl rumbles in my stomach, and I’m surprised to see it’s lunch time. I toss my purse strap over my shoulder and snatch the questions, shoving them into my bag.

“Quinn, tell Mr. Johnson if he needs me to call my cell. I have to run out for a bit,” I yell to her on my way out the door.

*****

With the exception of a motorcycle tucked under the large tree, Murphy’s parking lot is empty. This isn’t entirely unusual for a Monday afternoon. They don’t open until one most days. I push open the old door, surprised no one stops me when I walk through.

The bar itself is empty. I’m startled by a loud clatter of metal on concrete, almost like someone dropped a hundred knives. Curses are thrown around with ease, and I giggle from the person’s colorful choice of words.

“Hello?” I yell over the noise.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake. I’ll be right out.” The voice comes from the direction of the swinging door, so I follow the sound until I come face to face with a man. A cigarette hangs from the side of his mouth. He’s god-awful tall with long, blond hair, pulled back into a pristine bun. I touch my mess of hair on top of my head. Is it sad I’m jealous of this man’s hair? This is officially an all-time low.

“I said I’d be right out, doll face.” He crushes the cherry end and flicks the butt into the garbage can in the corner. “What can’t wait a few seconds?”

“I’m Charlotte.” I reach out, offering my hand.

His brown eyes scan my body, staying put on my chest. I fidget under his scrutiny. The space grows smaller and smaller as he paces towards me. He shakes my hand and leans his hip against the metal table in the middle of the room.

“I’m Derks, and no offense, but why are you in my bar, Charlotte?” He glances at the clock on the wall above my head. “We aren’t open yet.”

“I’m from the Greystone Gazette. I’m here to talk to you about your interview.” Oh gosh, maybe he’s changed his mind.

“Oh, right. I expected you to show up sooner or later.” He sidesteps to the industrial shelves lining the walls, kicking a box to the side. “Do you want to do this now?”

The cramped storage room isn’t exactly ideal for me, but it’s his environment, so this could work in my favor. He’ll be comfortable. Comfort is key when interviewing someone. People tend to hold back when they feel uneasy.

“This is fine. You can finish what I interrupted while we talk.” I will take what I can get if it means pulling off the perfect interview. I sit down on a stool, open my notebook, and grab my micro recorder, pressing the ON button. “Do you mind if I tape this?”

“If it makes your job easier, why the fuck not?” The top half of his body disappears between boxes. His elbow hits one, and rolls of paper towels scatter across the floor.

“Let’s start out by talking about your experience at Greystone University.”

“Oh honey, you can do better than that,” Derks says.

He’s right, I can do better. So much for my plan to ease into this interview. The way Derks presents himself tells me he can take anything I send his way.

“Okay, fair enough.” I laugh at his teasing. “Can you explain your arrest in 2005?”

Derks’ head bangs on the metal shelf, and he shoots to his feet. His smile widens with surprise and a hint of pride. “You’ve done your research.”

“I’m a reporter.” Damn right, I’ve done my research. One thing I’ve learned is never show up to a gun fight with a knife. Always come fully equipped to knock someone off their feet.

“For a college newspaper.” He folds his arms over his chest and raises a brow, challenging me and my prowess as a journalist.

One thing no one will test me on is my ability to dig out a story. I’m not the kind of girl to back down, at least when it comes to being a reporter. If I could only bring this tough ass, no-holds-barred attitude into the rest of my world.