Page 134 of Doesn't Count

“You don’t need to remind me.” I mutter.

He sighs as I pretend like her presence in the office doesn’t feel like the building is on fire. My fingers type away furiously, my article on Taylor Swift being America’s Sweetheart twisting into something a little more bitter. How is it that someone like Justina can make me take my hatred out on my favorite artist? Taylor is way too wholesome to deserve my rage.

The sound of long, plastic nails tapping against my desk forces my eyes to shut. The little hairs on the back of my neck rise like a dog’s hackles, I even fight the urge to bark, everyone already looks at me like I’m insane.

“Ash, it’s so good to see that you’re back. We were all so worried for you. I hope you’re settling back in okay.” She drags a chair up and gracefully lowers into it.

The tension in my shoulders causes them to bunch up towards my ears. My eyes peel open as I tell myself to just breathe.

Yet, the second our gazes meet, all I can think about is the moment I found out that Oliver was alive. Tears claw at the back of my eyes, threatening to show her how weak I am, how much she truly affects me, and I’d rather die than to let her see it.

The focus it takes on not losing it has my mouth sewn shut.

Justina tips her head to the side as if waiting for my answer. When one doesn’t come, she continues.

“Well, the good news is the attention on your little incident really increased your audience. There’s a large demand for more about the band and your involvement.” She smiles softly. “We think you should pivot and give the readers what they want. We’re even thinking of creating a documentary. Imagine that. Little quiet Ash – famous!”

Rage bubbles up inside my veins, searing like acid from oneend of my body to the other. I want to scream, to rip her head off, to tell her that this isn’t some ploy to become a celebrity. This is my damn life and she’s ruined it! But as my thoughts all swarm together, something sticks out.

“We?”

Her eyes light up with satisfaction, “Yes, Blane and me. Didn’t you hear? He’s promoted me to Managing Editor.”

“HA!” The laugh flies venomously from my mouth, loud enough to catch the attention of the entire floor. “HA!”

Alarm colors Justina’s face as I stand, my chair swiveling back a few feet. I yank my arms into my jacket, grabbing my purse by the strap, not bothering to sling it over my shoulder while continuing to laugh maniacally.

“Ash?” Her voice cracks for the first time ever.

“Fuck you. Fuck Blane. Fuck this Company.” I smile at her sweetly before spinning on my heels and storming out.

I hear her push to her feet, her heeled boots only taking a few steps after me, but her pride refusing to actually follow.

Thank God because I would have murdered her if she tried.

I step out into the chilly spring air of Chicago, the sidewalk a little less busy than this morning and start stomping my way towards home. The wind, only slightly warmer than last month, still lashes at my cheeks like a leather whip, the sting almost unnoticeable against the burning fire under my skin.

Justina... my manager? Promoted because she ruined my life?

This whole situation is absolutely laughable.

A freaking documentary?

Come on!

I know I look insane as my pace is frenzied and my muttering becomes increasingly audible. Not to mention, myappearance rivals the homeless that are afraid to beg me for change as I pass.

By the time I’m slamming my front door and stripping my coat off, Sam is swinging around her door frame with wide worried eyes.

“Ash! What are you doing home?”

“Promoted! She was fucking promoted!” I laugh before letting out the sob that’s clinging to my dignity.

“Who was?”

She ushers me down to the couch before rushing to the kitchen to make me a cup of hot coffee.

“Justina!” I shout. “They promoted her! Then she had the damn nerve to tell me to write about my ‘incident,’” I finger quote. “As if she had nothing to do with it in the first place. Oh, and get this! They want to make a documentary, want to make me famous.”

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