Total pages in book: 92
Estimated words: 85593 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 428(@200wpm)___ 342(@250wpm)___ 285(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 85593 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 428(@200wpm)___ 342(@250wpm)___ 285(@300wpm)
By the time I made it to The Squawker building my perfect morning mood was thoroughly tainted. I was still brooding about my dad’s text, and stupid Mr. Blue Suit was practically ramming down the door of that “dirty dreams for later” closet I’d tried to shove him into. He was in real danger of busting straight into “dirty daydreams for now” territory, and I couldn’t have that on a day like today.
I pretended I knew how to meditate, closed my eyes, and focused on clearing my mind. It sort of worked.
Our magazine was located in a historic section of downtown Manhattan and sat on top of a two story apartment complex. A few decades ago, someone had renovated the second floor apartments and knocked down most of the walls to make room for a huge printing press. Now we still used the old press with some modern touches and had our offices in the same space. The whole building oozed with charm from the exposed brick walls to the faint smell of old socks. Okay, maybe the smell wasn’t exactly charming, but it was part of the building’s history and something about that spoke to me.
I stepped in the old rickety elevator at the back of the lobby and my eyes went wide when I saw what had to be a hallucination. Mr. French Blue was rushing toward the elevator with one hand on his coffee and the other reaching toward me.
“Hold that door.”
Something clicked in my brain. I smiled sweetly, twinkled my fingers in a girly wave, and then jammed the “close door” button. I lifted my middle finger at him and watched his perfect forehead crease in confusion and frustration as the doors shut just before he reached me.
Suck on that, asshole. I smiled as the elevator jolted and started groaning its way up to the second floor. I may not have handled the situation in the coffee shop like I wanted, but even the minor annoyance of making him wait for the elevator felt like a touch of justice. Maybe my day wasn’t doomed to be so bad afterall.
For some reason, I felt like if my life came with a narrator, he would’ve been cackling with laughter at that very moment.
2
DARCY
The bounce in my step was back. It was my freaking day, and how often could I say that? Normally, I’d start work off at my desk. Today was a Monday, so my inbox would be fresh and full of my weekly assignments. Usually, that meant a feature piece for the magazine that would take the bulk of my time. We also got other smaller assignments like writing advertising copy or helping brainstorm headlines and things of that sort. Honestly, it wasn’t as prestigious as something like The Union Coast and I wasn’t interviewing the important people of the world or tackling big issues. But I’d learned to be okay with that. I had fun writing for The Squawker, and I was good at it.
I flipped my hair, smiling and waving with a little exaggerated wink at Farhad, one of my co-workers. He rolled his eyes, then broke into a smile and shot me two thumbs up. Elizabeth rushed from her desk to come behind me and mocked rubbing my shoulders like I was a prize fighter about to enter the ring. I humored her, throwing a few unathletic shadow punches.
I headed straight past my station and went for the corner office. Jasmine Marshall was the one in charge of making sure our stories were clean and fit the overall direction of the magazine. She reported to some higher ups, but as far as we were concerned, she was the boss on the floor. She was also the one who was going to approve or deny my pitch for a new weekly feature.
I opened the door, smiling wide and ready to crush it. My face fell when I saw she had a plastic bin on top of her desk and had already stuffed most of her things inside.
“Woah,” I said. “You look like you’re moving out!” I laughed lightly, but my stomach was already flipping on itself. I went as far as making an emergency “if I puke” plan and decided where to aim it. Definitely the trash bin beside her desk.
Jasmine was beautiful with deeply tan skin and upturned eyes. She was in her forties, and just about embodied everything I wished I could be when I was older. She was calm, collected, didn’t take shit from anybody, and she was a kick ass writer. Of course, none of those qualities would’ve impressed my dad.
“Yeah, well, this is what it looks like, then,” Jasmine said. She gave me a sympathetic smile as she tried to shove a fake potted plant between some paperweights and a row of manilla folders. It didn’t fit, so she made an annoyed sound and thumped it into the trash bin.