There’s a gleefulness—carnivorous and ugly—in that guy’s nasally voice.
I kinda want to choke him.
But I’m surprised when Mr. Thunderclap cuts in, and that dead, empty voice takes on a note of thoughtful curiosity.
“That,” he murmurs, “now that, I believe we can work with. Not as a ‘waste,’ as you put it. There’s a human story here. Sincere loss, tragedy...the stuff that puts hearts through a shredder. We want our readers’ empathy for Miss Hicks. We want them to feel her pain like she’s their own appendage. As if she’s a dear friend and they care about her loss. Strumming the right chords is what makes a true connection...isn’t that correct, Miss Snoopy?”
Suddenly, I feel the weight of everyone’s attention shifting my way.
And it hits me with a pained gasp.
He’s speaking to me.
I whip my head around to stare at him in shock.
He hasn’t moved an inch, not in the slightest—but now there’s a wicked quirk to his arrogant mouth as he watches me with eyes like pure cobalt.
My shoulders stiffen.
“I...come again?”
He gestures with one relaxed hand. His fingers are thick and long like the rest of him, elegant yet strong, his movements controlled to give him a certain scary refinement.
“You’ve been terribly interested in our conversation for the last twenty minutes. I thought you’d like to offer some input in my editorial direction.”
I scowl at him.
“Um, right. I want nothing to do with your editorial anything, buster.”
It just falls out.
“Buster? Do I look like a buster?” Dark brows rise. Cultured, mocking, until I feel like an ant daring to speak to a god. “And what is it you think I do, Miss Snoopy?”
“You’re a dealer, dude,” I throw back. Hey, if I’m an ant, I’ll be a fire ant and make my bite sting like hell. “You get people hooked on dirt without giving a damn what it does to anyone. All you care about is getting paid. Not the lives you destroy to do it.”
Yay, I’m on a roll.
Shame his little gaggle of pigeons are gaping like I’ve just drawn a loaded gun, their eyes ping-ponging back and forth between me and him.
The young guy who brought up Hicks pushes his face into his palms.
The girl who had the first word looks pale as snow.
“On the contrary,” he grinds out slowly, those blue eyes sharpening like knives, never wavering from me until I feel like prey. “I care too much about who I destroy. I’m judicious in my choice of target. I do have standards, ma’am.”
“Ma’am?” I fling back, biting my tongue before I can say, Do I look like a ma’am? Do I look like that big of a bitch?
Then again, I guess I do feel like one...
I can’t help scoffing out loud.
And I’m a little satisfied at how everyone around him sucks in their breath dramatically like this is Drag Race and I’m the queen who just insulted Empress RuPaul.
“What would you know about standards?” I hiss. Okay, yeah, I’m feeling a little hot under the collar, and I can’t deny that a chance to raise hell to the face of one of the vultures who ruined my father’s life gives me a justice rush. “Your idea of good content is a sweat stain Photoshopped into a skidmark.”
His eyes narrow subtly, making them glitter with naked amusement.
“Such a foul mouth for such an innocent-looking mouse.” That’s enough to make my face burn, but he’s not done. “And what would you know about journalistic standards, Snoopy? I do wonder what you do for a living... Stenographer? Accountant? Librarian? You have that look.” He pauses and once again makes the same gesture, so graceful it’s almost hypnotic. “That one. Right there.”
What flipping look?
Now, I want to just sink through the floor.
Preferably with his detached balls in my hand.
I admit I’m a little frumpy today. I don’t dress to the nines for a flight, even if I’m taking first class for the first time, and he’s made it oh-so-clear he can tell.
That I don’t belong here in his pretty scenery.
That I’m not a part of whatever elite world he glides through every day with his perfect poise and tailored clothing.
Guess what?
I don’t care.
His world only glitters on the outside.
Inside, it’s all dry rot.
I don’t care to be a part of it.
My flash of mortification passes as I lift my chin with pride.
“We work in the same industry, I think—but I’m not tempted by the dark side. I’ve just been hired as chief editor for the most popular cultural and music messenger in Chicago, thank you very much. That, sir, is what I know about standards, and journalistic integrity, and ethics and...and lines I won’t cross just to get rich. I know enough to know you have no lines.”
This time, there’s not even a gasp.
They’re all just staring at me like I’ve signed my own death warrant, a few of them with a touch of distaste.