Page 33 of A Smile Full of Lies
Chapter
Nine
OCTOBER 14
ROS
THREE DAYS LATER
The silencein the house felt heavier than it had since Gran died. I had an interview this afternoon at 4:30, and my stomach was already tied in a nervous knot about it.
I sat on the edge of my bed, bare feet pressed to the cold floorboards, the same scuffed wood that Gran used to mop every Sunday like it meant something. Like keeping the house clean kept the grief of losing my parents — of her losing her only daughter — at bay. Now? Dust was gathering on the baseboards. The air felt still, like the house was holding its breath.
My black slacks were too tight at the waist. Not because I’d gained weight, but because they were old, shrunk, washed too many times in lukewarm water to keep the power bill low. I smoothed them down and reached for the blouse hanging off the closet door — a pale cream button-down that looked just professional enough if you didn’t look too closely at the fraying cuff.
My fingers trembled as I fastened the buttons.
This interview needed to go well. It had to. I was out of time, out of savings, and dangerously close to being out of power — literally. I’d managed to stall the electricity shutoff once, but that grace period was a match burning down to nothing.
Knox’s face flashed through my mind: his jaw, clenched with quiet anger, the way he’d handed me water like it was a lifeline. I shoved the memory aside.
The other day didn’t matter. The things I’d typed into that stupid forum with StrayDog777 didn’t matter. I was getting this job, come hell or high water.
When I arrived for my interview withStonewood Living Magazine, the receptionist didn’t even look up from her phone before waving me toward the back. The office was cramped, no windows, the air stale with the sour stench of old coffee and someone’s sad microwave lunch.
Sam Myers, the Editor-in-Chief, sat behind a cluttered desk like he owned the goddamn world. He was in his mid-forties, balding, and had a smirk that made my skin crawl. He didn’t stand. Instead, he looked me up and down like he was assessing meat at a deli.
“You’re Rosalind Cooper,” he said. “I didn’t expect you to be so cute.”
I sat stiffly across from him, my pulse hammering in my throat.
“Thanks for taking the time to interview me.”
He skimmed my résumé with barely disguised boredom.
“You’ve got some chops. But all this serious shit? No one here reads that. You wanna make it in this town, you gotta write what sells. Sex sells.”
I blinked.
“You mean fluff?”
“I mean columns about dating. Blowjob breakdowns. Confessions from your latest fuck.” He leaned back, his chair creaking as he all but undressed me with his eyes. “You could be the face of a new section. Local girl gives the people what they want.”
My mouth went dry.
“That’s not my voice.”
Sam shrugged, his gaze firmly locked on my chest.
“Then fake it. And if you really wanna stick around here long-term…” He grinned as he lifted his gaze to meet mine, slow and sleazy. “Maybe toss in a blowjob once in a while to keep the boss happy.”
Rage and humiliation surged through me so fast it made me dizzy.
I stood, my legs shaking.
“I’d rather starve.”
His smirk didn’t waver.
