Page 108 of Walking Wounded

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“Jesus Christ, I’ve been trying to call you for days!” Linda shouts at him. Her bob sticks out in all directions, and her lipstick was hastily applied. Luke’s never seen her like this: honest to God worried about something. Abouthim.

He tilts the tablet so the sunlight doesn’t cause glare on the screen. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I turned my phone off.” Actually, he hadn’t been able to turn it back on after the explosion, but he isn’t going to tell her that.

“Christ,” she repeats, and passes her hands back through her hair. The polish on her left index finger is chipped. “Are you okay? You look like shit.”

“A little banged up, but I’ll live.” He gives her a smile he knows is crooked, the way the bruises pull at his face.

“Have they caught the guy yet?”

“I’d watch the news in the next few hours; there should be a breaking news update.”

“Oh shit. What did you do?”

He shrugs. “Had a little chat with the FBI. We’ll see if they take me seriously.”

She shakes her head in obvious disbelief. “I sent you down there to interview some old guy, and you get caught up in FBI business. Seriously, Keller?” But she sounds fond, beneath that layer of worry.

“Yeah, about that. Why the fuck did you actually send me down here?” And he lifts his brows to sayDon’t feed me any lines.

Her gaze flicks away from the webcam. “Just because we’re mainly a social rag doesn’t mean we can’t talk about real issues, too. It doesn’t hurt to throw something political in every now and then.”

“Linda.”

“Luke.”

“I talked to Hal, you know.”

“Ugh, fine.” She throws her hands up in defeat. Then braces her elbows on the desk and leans in to the camera. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but you’ve been absolutely miserable the last six months.”

“I–”

“You have. Don’t lie to me. You hate the things you write, hate this magazine.” She snorts. “Not that I blame you. But you do. So when Hal called asking if I’d think about sending you down to interview Maddox, I thought, why not. Maybe you’d go down there, get your boy, do some real writing, and you’d quit on your own without me having to fire you.”

It stings worse than he would have thought. “You were going to fire me?”

“Let you go, technically. You can’t meet your deadlines.”

“Come on–”

“Luke,” she says, softening. “You know you’re my favorite, right? You know that everyone here watches reality shows as research, and they write at a fifth grade level, at best. You’re my star. You’re the best writer I’ve got, but you hate the work, and you aren’t doing it.”

Luke sighs. What can he say?

“Trust me when I say I’m doing you a favor. Take Maddox’s story and write a kickass literary history novel. You ought to be writing books, my friend.”

“You think?”

“I know. And something tells me your big hunk of man thinks so too, or he’d never have called me.” She grins. “How’s that all going, by the way?”

“He offered to move to New York for me,” Luke says, blushing like a kid. He’d long since lost the ability to feel bashful and happy about romance – or so he’d thought.

“No way!” She shrieks delightedly.

“I said I wanted to move to DC.”

“See? You already knew I was right.” She gives him a genuine smile, nothing like her sharp editor grin.

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