Page 2 of Guarded By A Savage Shifter

The blooming hope withers and dies as Steve opens the door. “Next time call a repair man.”

He takes one step onto the decrepit porch and the cat rockets to the door with huge wild eyes. The lady snaps it up just as it’s about to taste freedom for the first time. She clutches it to her chest while it wiggles like crazy, meowing in desperation.

“Good luck,” I whisper to the cat as I follow Steve onto the porch.

“That was a waste of time,” I say as I get into the car. “Shockingly.”

“Not a total waste,” he says as he pulls out of the driveway. “There’s a coffee shop near here that has the best donuts.”

“How is a coffee shop going to get me a Pulitzer Prize?” I mutter as I gaze out the window at the sunny summer day.

Even though I’m stuck in this shitty little regional new station, I have big dreams and aspirations. Growing up, my friends all worshipped Taylor Swift, Kendall Jenner, and Rhianna. Not me. I had posters of Christiane Amanpour, Katie Couric, and Diane Sawyer on my walls.

I had visions of being the top reporter in the country and known around the world for my hard-hitting journalism and ground-breaking stories. I’m twenty-seven and I thought I’d be there by now, but things rarely work out the way you want them to. Doesn’t mean I’m going to give up. I’ll get there someday. I’m going to make sure of that.

Steve buys a dozen donuts and we head back to our crummy little office that shares a building with a dentist that’s rarely open and a call center that sells timeshares in Vermont. It’s not the cool dynamic workplace I was dreaming of as a teenager, but it’s a start. If it was a style, it would be called beige drab.

“Team meeting!” my boss Walter shouts as we walk in. “Conference room. And bring those donuts.”

Everyone has their eyes on the greasy donut box as we gather around the large table for an official CNR Media meeting. CNR is the premier news station in Northern New York. It’s a pretty remote and boring area, but we cover all of the local news up here. If a deer shits in the woods, we’re reporting on it.

I had moved out here hoping to work in New York City, but there aren’t many reporter jobs these days and all I could find was this. Everyone has to start somewhere though, right?

I sit in the chair right beside Walter and get ready with my pen and notebook. Everyone else is fighting over donuts and slouching on the chairs as I’m getting my potential stories ready.

“How was the haunted dishwasher story?” he asks as everyone gets seated, stuffing their faces with the powdery donuts.

“It was just a regular noisy dishwasher,” I say in a flat voice.

He nods with a thoughtful look. “I was afraid that would be the case.”

The weekly meeting gets started where Walter assigns all of the stories and asks us what we have cooking.

It’s all the usual bs. Sarah suggests we do a story on the corn maze in town, Reggie lets us know that the speed limit on a road I’ve never heard of was lowered from 40 to 35, and Angela says that a dog show is coming to town, which gets everyone talking about their own dogs for some reason.

Everyone groans when it’s my turn. “And what do you have for us, Gracie?” Walter asks, already looking ready for happy hour even though it’s only two o’clock.

I open my notebook and start reading off the stories I’m working on. “American weaponry in the hands of the Taliban,” I say. “I’ve requested interviews with several heads of the Taliban and with a US general on the matter. Still waiting to hear back.”

“Shocker,” Reggie mutters and everyone laughs.

I grit my teeth and ignore him. “I’ve contacted the head of an aerospace company about the rumors of faulty aircraft caused by aggressive cost-cutting and his role in the malfunctions. I’m hoping for a sit-down interview where I can expose his criminal negligence.”

Walter sighs beside me. I ignore him and continue. I list six other stories I’m trying to get going from industrial espionage to corporate fraud.

“Sounds riveting,” Walter says, thankful he gets to move on. “Sam?”

“Oh,” Sam says, getting excited. “My buddy Earl caught a trout this big! I thought we could do a story on it.”

While everyone is excited about Sam’s dumb idea, I catch a glimpse of Walter’s notes.

“What’s this?” I ask as I grab the paper. He tries to snatch it back from me, but I yank it away. “Hector Contreras contacted you? He wrote back? Why didn’t you tell me about this?”

Hector Contreras is the leader of a vicious South American drug cartel in El Nicanduras called Los Lobos de la Muerte. They’re responsible for over twenty percent of the cocaine that’s shipped to the United States.

I tried to get an interview with him last month, but he never answered me. At least, I thought he didn’t.

“He wants an interview?” I say, staring at the paper in disbelief. “You tried to hide this!”

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