Page 5 of Doesn't Count

My heart sinks at the thought of letting him down. So much so, that I can’t bring myself to even say another word. As confusion fogs my mind, I only have one thought that breaks through the chaos.

Run.

So, I do. I run away from my best friend, I run away from the situation he’s forced us in, I run away from feelings I can’t bring myself to face right now. As I run, it never occurs to me that this would be the last time I would ever see Oliver. I made a choice to avoid his confession, to leave him there alone, vulnerable, and just as confused as I am, and it will haunt me for the rest of my life.

Chapter One

Ashton

The moment the clock strikes two in the afternoon, Blane Pieters’ door swings open. The entire floor goes silent. Fingers hover above keyboards, music is paused, chatter dies. We know something big is coming, his door has been closed for months now as he’s held meeting after meeting with too many faces to count. A nervous energy fills the office as everyone impatiently waits for our Chief Editor to speak.

He steps a few feet out and into the open space where everyone sits. It’s an open concept office, a few long communal tables spread out near the floor to ceiling windows allowing for collaboration. North of the suite, just outside the strip of offices, are our individual desks. It’s important that everyone has a space to call their own, but mingling is highly encouraged. It keeps us writers in check, making sure we’re not being too narrow-minded.

Blane halts before my desk, peering down at me for a brief second, those sapphire blue eyes glow with power and importance. The sun from the floor to ceiling windows behind usprovides a spotlight on him as if he needs it to call for our attention. Though, he doesn’t need it, every single person in this room – male or female – seeks him out any chance they get.

The silence in the office is palpable. I can’t help glancing over at my co-worker, Justina, eyeing her reaction. She smiles at Blane, sitting back in her chair, and crossing her legs. I’ve always suspected something between her and the boss, but it might just be my overactive imagination and deep disdain for women like her.

And by women like her, I mean manipulative, conniving, conceited, and just downright vicious when it comes to what she wants. It doesn’t help that we’re constantly pitted against one another, both fighting for top journalist. The only difference between her and me is that she’s willing to get dirty.

The sound of Blane’s throat clearing forces my eyes to his.

“I’m sure there have been rumors bouncing around this office about the many visitors we’ve had over the last couple months. Rest assured that Musical Genius is not closing, nor have we sold. Quite the opposite actually.

“These last few months I have been working closely with managers of a variety of artists to create a new project that we are calling the Genius Tours. A select few journalists here will be hired on for this project which will entail a very intimate understanding of the assigned artist. This means following the entire tour, sitting with them backstage, sleeping on their tour bus, memorizing their day to day. The Genius Tours will be a mini documentary with insight to these artists that no one else has, not even their damn parents.”

A quiet buzzing starts behind me, the excitement and adrenaline zipping from one person to the next. The opportunity to work on a project this large and this intense is once in a lifetime. It’s a no-brainer.

“There will be some artists that you all know well, likeTaylor Swift, Billie Eilish, and Bruno Mars. There will also be some artists that the general population isn’t familiar with. We have ten artists total so far, which means we only have ten spots to fill. If you are interested, send me a calendar invite for tomorrow. My office will be open all day.”

The chatter gets even louder now, but Blane is finished speaking and has already made his way back into his office. I turn to Jake, my favorite colleague.

“Are you signing up?” I ask him, my heart pounding inside my chest.

The thought of traveling around the world for six months with strangers is terrifying, but the opportunity to get to know an artist inside and out is not something I can turn down. My parents are going to kill me.

“Hell no! I just moved in with my boyfriend. I think he would be devastated if I left him for six months.” He pouts. “What about you?”

“I have to.”

“I mean, no you don’t have to-”

“I can’t pass this up! Especially if Justina is doing it. She’s already stolen enough from me; I can’t let her steal this too.” I school my face, refusing to let her affect me again.

Our senior year of college, Justina and I applied for an internship with Musical Genius. As two aspiring writers with a love for anything music, naturally we fell into all the same classes. I wouldn’t say we ever forged a friendship, but we definitely partnered together quite frequently for group assignments. When I showed up for my interview, it wasn’t a total shock that she sat there in the reception area outside of Blane’s office.

“What a small world.” I say, pinching my lips as I walk over to the familiar face.

“Ash!” Justina’s eyes jump to mine in surprise.

I always found Justina Sampson a little too loud in every way possible. Her clothes were always too bright, her makeup always too thick, her voice a few decibels too high. Even now, her neon pink power suit with her cream silk blouse and heels to match. Her dark hair falls around her shoulders in barrel curls as if she had a blow out for this occasion. She looks like she’s ready to deliver a segment of a recent shooting in Chicago on ABC7 Eyewitness News. Except, this is an interview for an unpaid internship...

I sit next to her, feeling inferior with my grey skinny slacks, emerald top, and ballet flats. I definitely overthought what to wear, like I do for every occasion, and it has yet to pay off. With the summer heat, I opted to wear my blonde hair in a bun on the top of my head and minimal makeup. When I looked in the mirror this morning, I thought modest and professional.

Sure, Justina exudes confidence, but I wear mine on the inside.

Plopping down in the chair next to her, I can’t help but notice her piece sitting on top of her portfolio that rests in her lap. I peer over, catching the title, my body stiffening.

“What is that?” I point to her article.

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