Say the Word(5)

From sex tips to fashion, from the trashiest celebrity gossip to the latest and greatest diets and workout regimens… we specialized in it all. Complete with pictures of emaciated models in skimpy lingerie, of course.

If you’d asked me five years ago where I’d be working, Luster wouldn’t have been in my top five. Hell, it wouldn’t have made the top hundred. Most likely, it would have ranked right above “garbage collector” and just below “competitive hot-dog eating champion” on my long list of dream professions.

Fresh out of college, I’d had big-city dreams – aspirations of working at The New York Times or The Washington Post, rubbing elbows with the best journalists in the nation. Reporting on issues that mattered, like politics, religion, warfare, and finance. Heck, even covering the sports circuit would’ve been an all right gig. Instead, the economy went to shit and I was thrust into a rapidly shrinking workforce with few opportunities and even fewer job openings.

So now, here at Luster – which happened to be the only place I could land something even remotely related to my degree in journalism that also included a decent salary and health benefits – I write about really, truly, deeply important issues. You know, topics like “How to Zumba Your Way to a Better Butt!” and “The Orgasm-Guaranteed Sex Positions You MUST Try Tonight!”

Changing the world, one bimbo at a time. Go me.

But today was the day all that was going to change. I’d slaved over this pitch for weeks, doing research on my own time after work and compiling enough facts to make for a compelling piece in any publication – Luster included. If I could just peak Jeanine’s interest, I was sure she’d let me use it as the topic of my monthly column or, at the very least, as a small feature story.

“Stop worrying,” Fae scolded, thumping me lightly on the head with a stack of glossy proofs for an upcoming edition. “I’ll fix your hair and even let you practice your pitch on me, because I am a wonderful friend. And hey, if you buy me a caramel macchiato from the good coffee cart – the one in the lobby with the cute barista, not the one in the tenth floor break room – I might even lend you my concealer to get rid of those under-eye circles.”

“Done,” I immediately agreed, spinning around on my wheelie chair so she had access to my hair. “Do your worst.”

Fifteen minutes later, I was striding down the hallway – when you’re wearing Christian Louboutin heels, you can’t really do anything but stride – toward Jeanine’s office. My long honey blonde locks were swept up into a graceful bun I’d never be able to replicate, my tired eyes had disappeared with a wave of Fae’s magical Sephora wand, and I was feeling confident after running through my proposal one last time.

I knocked lightly on Jeanine’s opaque glass door and popped my head through the entryway. Jeanine was on the phone, arguing with someone about what sounded like a graphics issue, but she gestured for me to come in and take a seat in the chair across from her desk. Her British accent did nothing to detract from the harsh words she spoke, or her scornful tone.

“Anton, I told you last week, the photo borders have to be teal, not turquoise. Honestly, after seventeen years in this business, you should be able to discern basic bloody colors. Or has all that time you spend staring at that computer of yours caused permanent damage to your brain?” Jeanine’s lips curled into a condescending smirk. “You know, my five-year-old niece has a Crayola set – perhaps I can arrange for her to give you lessons.”

I’m calm. I’m collected. I’m prepared. Just because she’s an epic bitch to everyone else on the planet doesn’t mean she’ll shoot down my proposal.

Call me Cleopatra: The Queen of Denial.

I sat and tried not to fidget for the next five minutes as Jeanine tore poor Anton a new one. Smoothing my hands over my skirt too many times to count, I ironed out invisible wrinkles so I didn’t have to meet her icy stare head-on. When she finally disconnected her call, I was nearly ready to run for the hills rather than pitch my story to her. Nearly, but not quite – I’d spent far too many hours working on this proposal to back out without even taking my shot.

“Lex, what can I do for you?” Jeanine asked impatiently, her tone immediately conveying that I was wasting her time simply by occupying space in her office.

“It’s Lux,” I corrected quietly. I’d worked here for almost three years, and she couldn’t get my freaking name right? Typical Jeanine.

“Right, of course,” she agreed. “Well?”

“I have an idea for a story,” I began, forcing myself to meet her stare. I imagined it felt similar to looking into the eyes of one of the Dementors from Harry Potter – her gaze radiated frost and seemed vaguely life-threatening, as though if I said the wrong thing she’d lean across the desk and suck the life right out of me.

God, I was such a nerd.

“Alessandra Rodriguez is coming to the city next month. She’s a bestselling author and Nobel Prize winner. Her awareness campaigns to put an end to violence against women have shaped global policy and helped thousands of victims.” I took a calming breath. “But there has been some speculation that her nonprofit is actually embezzling some of the donated funds, artificially inflating the company’s value while giving very little aid to the women they’ve promised to help.” I heard the excitement build in my own voice and hoped Jeanine was listening. “As you know, I have a background in investigative journalism. While I was in college, I had bylines in two national papers when my story about corruption and fraud by university officials hit the circuit. If you’d just let me interview her, ask some questions, and dig around a little bit, I think I might find something. I know Luster isn’t a newspaper, but an investigative piece would be a really great addi—”