Page 4 of The Last Key
“Yeah. Of course. We always have fun together.”
“Fun. Right.” Now she sounds disappointed, and I don’t understand why.
I think for a second, then carefully roll onto my side, being sure to keep my hips pulled back away from her.
“Is fun a bad thing?”
“No…” She pulls her bottom lip between her teeth, and I almost groan. “I just… there are so many other girls you could go with. I saw at least one show you her cleavage this week.”
I roll my eyes at that.
“Yeah. And that’snotwhat I find attractive.”
“You don’t like boobs?” she teases.
Don’t look at her boobs. Don’t look at her boobs.
Keeping my eyes steady on her face, I say, “I do. But…”But what? I likeyourboobs?“I don’t want the girls who are shovingtheir boobs in my face.” I clear my throat. “You’re the one I’d rather go with. If you ever let me stop begging.”
She laughs. “Okay, then. I’d love to go with you.”
“Good.”
I flop onto my back again, and she drapes her arm over my chest and nestles her head against my shoulder. Then I switch off the LED lantern sitting next to us. As she slowly drifts off, I softly kiss her head and revel in this moment since I’m not sure I’ll ever get more than this.
CHAPTER ONE
KENNEDY
Monday
“You just hiredthree new people last month and now you’re layingmeoff? I’ve been here for nine months,” I fruitlessly argue with my department head, who I can’t stand.
From day one, he’s been a disgusting misogynist, frequently pitting women in the office against each other like there’s no role for women in journalism.Fuck this guy.Except for the fact I thought I finally hit career status. Instead of working freelance jobs or for tiny papers or websites—where I got laid off a few months after getting hired—I’d finally made it to one of the bigger online news sites. Long hours and shitty pay got me here, and I thought I was on the right track, not on track for another layoff. Even though this isn’t a layoff. It’s an underhanded way of pushing me out for someone he likes better.
“I’m sorry, Ms. Baker, but it’s not just about the length of time you’ve worked here. It’s also about overall performance?—”
“Was there a problem with my performance? All my review meetings with my editor have been positive.”
My editor, who is my immediate boss, has been extremely supportive of my career. He does his best to give me interesting pieces covering dramatic TV series, movies, and books. Rather than recapping the stories, I dove deep into how they played into the viewers’ or readers’ emotions and the meat of the storyline, all while connecting with my readers. My editor said our likes and comments on the articles about those shows had grown since I’d taken over. He said I had a way of reaching people and drawing them into the depth of a story, and would try to get me more human interest stories—my personal preference and where I think I shine.
I’ve been told for years I have a natural way of connecting with people, and it translates into my writing.
But this jackass doesn’t care.
Mr. Hunt looks at me shrewdly. “Frankly, it comes down to your professionalism, Ms. Baker.”
Ah yes.Over the nine months I’ve worked here, he’s harped on me several times for not looking “professional” enough. I wear dress leggings, flats or heels, and dressy tops that cover up everything. That’s the real problem. I don’t wear low-cut shirts or skirts that hug my ass. He wants the women who work for him to dress the wayhewants. I’m ashamed to say that after several comments about the length of my hair and how “ratty” it looked—despite it always being styled and often tucked back in a bun—I cut my hair into a bob. The approving and incredibly demeaning look he gave me when I walked into the office after that made me want to vomit.
I wouldn’t have stuck around in this job if he were my immediate boss or someone I had to deal with on a daily basis. Or if it hadn’t felt like I was settling into my career. I know I’ve done good work here, and I know this is bullshit.
So, I do what any good journalist would do. I pull out my notepad.
“What are you doing?” he asks.
“Writing down some notes.” I look up at him innocently. “How can I improve if I don’t take note of the problem?”
He clears his throat. “I see.”
