Page 4 of Eight Second Hearts

The sigh is meant to stay inside, but I can’t catch it before it slips out.

Frank looks up with narrowed eyes. “You got a problem with that, girl?”

That’s how you know Frank is displeased with you. He calls you “girl” or “boy” instead of your name. He does it to everyone, not just me, but really, he does it more often with me than anyone else in this office. And I’m not even trying to be a nuisance.

“It’s just. . . isn’t there something more important I can write about?” I ask. “The fashion columns are killing me.”

“No offense, but you ain’t exactly an expert on rodeo.”

“Look at me!” I say, gesturing down at my black ripped jeans and combat boots. “I’m not an expert on women’s fashion either, but I’m managing that.”

He sets his pen down on his desk and my eyes follow the movement before flicking back to his face. “I get you’re used to more hard-hitting stories, Indie, but this ain’t Iraq. This is important. Lots of people rely on our magazine for their rodeo news, and we can’t let them down.” I blink at the clear barb about war reporting not being more important than rodeo news,but don’t say anything. “Besides, your reputation isn’t exactly squeaky-clean no more.”

I wince. No one has brought it up and I’d hoped it was because they didn’t know, but that was foolish of me. Of course they knew. And yet they still hired me.

“I get that, but I’m an expert at what I do. Clearly, you still hired me for a reason. I can get you so many better stories than the latest bedazzled bullshit.”

He levels his stare on me. I’m still not sure if Frank actually likes me or not. Most of the people in the office make their disdain for me clear, as if I’m a snake sneaking into their hen house, but Frank doesn’t give his thoughts away as easily. I suspect that comes with age and experience. He’s dealt with a lot of people for a long time, and this company has been in his family for three generations. Despite the decline in paper printed news, he’s still thriving where others have failed. He clearly knows what he’s doing.

“You want tougher stories?” he asks, watching me carefully.

“I do,” I nod.

“You got an idea what kind of story you’re looking for?”

I’ve done my research. I knew I couldn’t come in here and demand harder hitting stories without some suggestions. And there’s only one story big enough to tempt Frank Campbell.

“The Crimson Three,” I say immediately, my chin tilting up to brace for his reaction.

I’m not surprised when he laughs and sits back. “You really are insane then.”

“They’re the only story you’ve never been able to get, the one interview no one has been able to go on record with. I know you’re hungry for it. I can get you that story.”

Three men shouldn’t be so hard to track down, especially ones as famous as them. I don’t know why they refuse interviews, but they don’t need to do them to retain their fame.The Crimson Three are already legends even without talking to the press.

He shakes his head. “The world has tried to get their story. Every journalist in this office has tried to get the scoop and failed.”

“ButIhaven’t tried,” I say confidently. “I can get it.”

His laughter is half disbelief, half amusement. “You gotta chase the circuits to even get close, girl. I ain’t paying for that when Kim and Zander are already out on the circuits.”

Kim and Zander are the top journalists here, and also Frank’s favorites. Both of them get the biggest stories and their expenses are paid as they chase the circuit. I don’t need half the resources they do.

“I’ll cover it,” I announce. “I can get the story.”

He studies me carefully. I don’t know what he’s looking for, but whatever he sees, he finally shrugs and picks up that beautiful pen again. “I expect columns every week about the circuits and your normal fashion column. At the end of this, if you don’t get the full interview with them, that’s it. You’ll be the rookie forever.”

“Understood,” I say, nodding my head.

He sighs. “You’re a great journalist, Indie. I hope you know what you’re risking chasing those three. I’ve lost good people to their mental games.” He tosses a press pass on a lanyard over to me with the magazine logo. “You’ll have to grab a flight to catch up with the circuits. I assume you already know their schedule?” When I nod, he gestures toward the door. “Get going then. Have that column in my inbox by tonight.”

“Yes, sir,” I say, turning to leave.

“Oh, Indie,” he interrupts, and I turn back. He offers out his fancy pen to me across his large bullhorn desk. I hesitate before taking it, the thing heavy in my hands. No words are exchanged about it, so I don’t react to him clearly noticing my admiration.The weight of it is heavy in my hand as I tuck it against my journal.

“Thank you,” I breathe.

“Don’t thank me yet,” he says. “I expect that back if you fail. But if you pull this off. . .” He pauses and shakes his head. “Let’s just say legends are made. They ain’t born. If you know what I mean.” He looks back down at the papers on his desk and pulls out another fancy pen from his drawer, as if this is a very normal exchange. “You’ve got a flight to catch,” he says when I just stand there.

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