A loan I’m still making payments on each month.
Unfortunately, we can’t always get what we want, and although I spend my time writing fluff pieces, it pays my rent.
And when you’re living off ramen noodles and mac and cheese from a box like a college student while living in a tiny one-bedroom walk-up apartment . . . well, let’s just say beggars can’t be choosers. At least it’s not a studio. This place is a palace compared to my last rental.
Back before this job, I could basically pee and cook at the same time.
I continue to stare at the document on the screen, rereading what I have typed so far, and then I hit the delete button.
Delete.
Delete.
Delete.
Now my word count is a big ole five.
Great. Just fucking great.
I pound on my keyboard in frustration. Letting out an overly dramatic groan, I bury my head in my hands.
“How’s it going?” I hear the familiar voice of my coworker, Mara, who is also my best friend—the only person I talk to regularly besides my one cousin, Jordan. He’s the only one who’s still nice to me after the fallout with my parents.
Because really, how many lies should a person have to deal with?
Mara and I started working at the same time and instantly clicked. Both jaded and bitter. We’re practically inseparable.
I let out another strangled groan.
“That good, huh?”
The thing about Mara is, despite her prickly disposition, she’s got a heart of gold. Anyone would be lucky to have her in their corner.
She’s the Thelma to my Louise.
Dropping my hands, I turn my head to the right to see another coworker scurrying away.
That one isn’t for me. Too cute and young. Fresh out of college and happy to be here. She’s still optimistic. A glass half-filled kind of girl.
Yep, she doesn’t lunch with Mara and me.
We’re both seasoned members of the previously unemployed and used to struggling club. Neither of us is here because we love faucets. Mara at least has an appreciation for design, but her dream job is at a fashion magazine.
I know I’m still young and need experience, but I just want to get back to what I love. Journalism. And not just “news” but investigative reporting. Nothing gives me a better feeling of accomplishment than digging in and finding the truth at the heart of a story.
But no. I have faucets.
Mara leans over the cubicle, her wavy dark-brown hair falling forward like a curtain around her face.
At twenty-three, she shouldn’t be so jaded. Hell, I shouldn’t be either, but despite her being the opposite of me in the looks department—with chocolate-brown eyes and the height of a model—personality-wise, we’re very similar.
I place my hands on my desk and give her a smile. I’m sure it doesn’t touch my eyes, and by the way she rolls hers, she’s calling me out on my fakeness.
“See. That’s better. Fake it till you make it.” She leans farther down until she’s hanging over the divider, and now, I have a perfect view of her cleavage. Gee, thanks, Mara. “It will all work out. I promise.”
“One, do you mind?” I gesture to her chest, and she laughs, typical. “Two, how?” I lift a picture of the damn sconce I wrote about yesterday. “Because this”—I swing the image around as if I’m swatting a bug—“this doesn’t scream opportunity.”
Her full ruby red-stained lips pull into an overly dramatic, totally fake smile. “Just hang in there. I promise you’ll get out of this shithole.”
“Really? That’s your stance? Where is my partner in crime? Where is my Debbie Downer twin?”
“I’m maturing.” She bats her eyelashes at me, and I laugh.
“If you say so.”
At my words, Mara puckers her lips and blows me a kiss. “I do.”
“Sure. It might include a few awful articles about paint first, though,” I joke.
“Which gray is your soul mate?” she purrs, and I fake gag. “See, now you’re getting it.”
With a shake of my head, I place my hands back on my desk and pretend to type. The sound of my fingers hitting the surface of the wood echoes around us. “Fine, Mara. I’ll rock this faucet article. Just like I rocked the piece I did on sconces.”
“Don’t forget the toilet in the shape of a skull article you wrote. That was solid gold.”
I raise my brow. “It was solid, all right. Solid shit,” I deadpan.
A laugh bubbles out of Mara’s mouth. Then it bursts free. “And it was gold.”
It was. The toilet was made of gold. What is wrong with some people? As we’re hysterically laughing, a cough sounds from behind me.
Mara looks above my shoulder, then darts her eyes back to mine. Wide. Like a deer caught in headlights.
Damn.
Slowly, I glance over my shoulder, my swivel seat moving with me.
Busted.
I open and shut my mouth. Think of something to say. “Oh. I—” Well, apparently, my brain isn’t working right now. Instead, it’s cataloging all the things I just said and exactly what she might have heard. This isn’t good.