“I’m Hal Rodgers. Gray says you’re looking for a job?”
I glance over my shoulder at Gray, and he smiles encouragingly. Maybe there’s hope for me yet.
“Yes, sir.” I nod, brushing my sweaty hands down the leg of my wool pants. “I graduated top of my class from Arizona State. I was EIC of The State Press, our school paper…” My voice fades away when I realize Hal Rodgers is deep in thought, staring at my resume.
Finally glancing up, he takes a deep breath and drops the paper on the desk. “I won’t mince words. I’m not hiring. We’re not in a good financial position. I’m bleeding subscribers. Social media has killed my readership and no one wants to see what’s behind the paywall.”
Down go my hopes and dreams.
“But…” he starts again. “But I’m willing to give you a shot.” Resurrected, my hopes and dreams soar. “On a freelance basis. If I like what you bring me, I’ll pay you for it.”
Not exactly what I was looking for, but under the circumstances, I’ll take the chance to prove myself.
“Hard news?” I ask even though he knows by my resume that it’s clearly my lane and I should stay there.
“No,” he answers, sitting forward. Elbows on the desktop, he takes his eyeglasses off and rubs his eyes. “Hard news for us is dead. Twitter killed it. We can’t keep up that kind of pace.” A heavy pause follows in which he examines me closely. “I want you to do a lifestyle piece. My only request is that the focus be local.”
A lifestyle piece…huh. I did take that one creative writing class. “Deal,” I say, rising from the chair.
“Where are you going?” Hal says, amused by my abrupt departure. Hal should smile more. The one-sided grin he’s leveling at me make him look ten years younger.
“To get started. When do you need it by?”
“How does two weeks sound?”
I can’t stop the grin pulling my cheeks apart. “You’ll have it in one.”
“You’re gross. You know that, right?”
I’m talking to a cat. This is the state of my life these days. I went from cruising the Sunset strip for kicks and stories to this.
The devil’s spawn is sprawled out like Caligula in front of the fireplace in my father’s office licking his privates. What’s particularly creepy is that he makes eye contact with me when he does it.
Almost a week has passed since my meeting with Hal Rodgers and I still don’t have a topic for my lifestyle piece and it’s giving me anxiety. Meanwhile, I have my other job to contend with. We’re booked for a wedding in two weeks. I give that some consideration as a topic for the article. It might work. People love romance. But it doesn’t excite me.
My attention pivots back to the delivery schedule. I double check when the flowers are arriving, the extra linens and chairs. Any out-of-the-norm instructions from the wedding planner. And trust me when I tell you checking is important.
Once, Dad got a delivery of fifty mini butt plugs as weddings favors. Yeah, true story. We were all relieved to learn it was a mistake. It should’ve been mini bottle openers. Good thing we checked with the wedding planner who blamed a recently fired assistant.
Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Elvis is at it again. The fire is running on fumes so I decide to spare myself more kitty fellatio and go fetch more wood from the shed out back. Thanks to Turner, we have enough to last into my next life.
Except I’m not paying attention. I’m mulling over my article, the one that’s going to blown Hal away. It’s imperative I make a good impression because I may lose my mind if I’m forced to work here exclusively.
I’m stepping out of the back kitchen door when Elvis, that sneaky SOB, sensing my guard is down, makes a break for it. Horrified, I watch him trot down the back steps of the patio and gallop across the snow-covered yard.
Elvis is not an outdoor cat.
Then things to go from bad to worse as I watch him climb up the ancient birch tree next to my cottage.
“Elvis, come down. Sweet kitty…” I mutter, swallowing the urge to verbally eviscerate him. Shivering, I wrap my arms around myself. All I have on is a wool sweater and if you ask me 30 degree weather requires a goose down comforter.
For the past ten minutes, no amount of bribery has convinced him to come down. He continues to lounge on a thick branch with his blue-gray tail lazily swinging back and forth as if he has no fornications left to give while I stare up at him with murder in my eyes.
He’s taunting me. He’s definitely taunting me.
“Here kitty kitty. Here you evil piece of shit. I’ve got tuna for you back in the kitchen.”
I’ve been told a million times not to let the cat out, but I’m also no match for his speed and agility. Have you ever tried to herd a cat? Thus the expression like herding cats.
Even more troubling, I’m not sure if he’s stuck up there or he’s choosing to ignore me. He doesn’t look scared. Just the opposite, in fact. He’s sprawled out on that branch like he’s king of the damn jungle.
I’m two minutes from grabbing a ladder because my grandmother cannot find out. She’s in town, at the senior center for her weekly card game, and isn’t expected back for another hour. She will freak if something happens to this cat. When Maeve, the female, died two years ago, I saw my Nan cry for the very first time in my entire life. She took to her bed for two days and wouldn’t eat.
Nothing can happen to this cat––ever.
“Elvis please. I’m begging you.” Turning his nose up, he looks disinclined to grant me any mercy. “Seriously, if you don’t come down from there right this minute I’m going to go get a ladder! Get the hell down right this minute you!”
“Something tells me that’s not gonna work.” Turner walks up to stand next to me with two large paintings hanging from his hands. Landscapes. The first is the Adirondack Mountains in fall. The second is another winter scene. Both equally stunning.
He’s dressed in black track pants and a thermal again. And unfortunately my body chooses this special moment to remind me that Turner, the Scrooge, is an incredibly sexy man…wonderful.
He catches me staring, and I look away, back up at the cat, heat inexplicably crawling up my neck. Turner’s attention follows. Elvis, of course, is in the midst of licking his balls again.
“He does it all the time. It’s gross,” I glumly inform him. “Especially since he looks at me when he does it.
Turner makes a noise, and I turn to examine his profile. His expression is as serious as always, but I detect a subtle note of humor there, his lips pressed together to stifle a smile.
Well, well. What have we here…
“How did he get out?”
“I don’t know,” is my automatic reply. Which earns me a side-eye. “Okay, I may know something about it. Look, can we call a time-out on the Cold War? Tomorrow you can go back to hating my guts and stomping around as if I murdered your firstborn, but I need help right now. My grandmother will have a heart attack if she sees him up there.”
His dark blue eyes catch mine, searching for something. “I don’t hate your guts.”
Dare I say he looks puzzled. And he actually sounds genuine. That’s a two for two in the credibility department. For a moment, it knocks me off center, makes me doubt myself. What am I missing here?