Page 7 of Infamous Heart

“I should have left my card as well. Sebastian Taylor.” He might be standing across from Sofia’s desk, but his eyes were firmly locked on me. “In case you need to get a hold of me to discuss…” His voice trailed off as she snatched the card, annoyed that the hottest man in the room wasn’t focused on her.

“You’re welcome.” Ugh. I’m never going to speak again.

Sebastian slid the storyboards to the stack in my arms. It was near impossible to focus on his face as I stared at the chest hair around the first button of his dress shirt. Did it travel all the way down? I restrained myself from stealing a glance at his package.

“She has my number. Call me,” he said. With a wink, he exited once more, leaving me to dissect every stupid thing I had done.

Sofia held out the card, her electric pink nails pointing at the bottom. Balancing my work in one hand, I yanked the card from her. The small print read, “Revelations Artistic Director.” If ever I had experienced tragic irony, it paled in comparison to this moment.

“I’ll make a copy for you,” she said.

“What for? It’s not like he meant it. It’s the polite thing to say.” None of what I said made sense, but could this hunk really be asking me to call? Was it work related, or was it personal? Did I care either way as long as I got to see him? There was something taboo about the man, the art director for the Beacon’s only competitor. It felt naughty, even for me, and I have to admit, the tightness of my pants enjoyed the thought.

“You’re hopeless. Griffin Smith can’t tell when a handsome man is flirting with him. I don’t know what to do with you.”

I was about to speak when she pointed to Bossman’s office. He had situated himself behind his desk and waived me inside. It was hard to focus on my argument about Vincent and his lack of management skills. Instead, I wanted to daydream about the softness of Sebastian’s beard.

One problem at a time. “Wish me luck.”

4

“I see.”Bossman held one of my storyboards, digesting the immensity of my words. “You’re telling me that Vincent had no involvement in these?”

“Well,” I straightened out my back, determined to feel like a member of the Beacon community. “He isn’t doing anythingforthe magazine.”

“You’re sure?”

I nodded. For the last twenty minutes, I explained my designs in and out. Bossman didn’t have an artistic bone in his body, and relied heavily on the staff to fulfill the magazine’s mission. While he had no artistic talent, he appreciated our work, to a point.

There was a long pause as he inspected the boards. Seconds dragged into minutes and I feared I’d overstepped professional boundaries. Several times I caught myself, ready to break the silence. Even if it didn’t end well, I stood taller, knowing I had made an argument for myself.

“Mr. Smith,” he moved the boards, carefully stacking them. “I have no doubt that you’re a talented young man. You’ve done the superhero community a service with your work. I fully acknowledge that our magazine wouldn’t be successful without the journalists, photographers and designers.”

The “but” hung in the air.

“Did you know I’m a legacy? My father ran a magazine, and his father ran the largest newspaper in Vanguard. I’ve been surrounded by people with far more talent than I could ever muster. So, if I can’t write tear-jerking pieces or snap photographs that bare a person’s soul, what do I bring to the table?”

“Your business expertise?” He might not have the ability to execute his magazine, but he did have a vision. Bossman understood what the people wanted and delivered. The readers loved the behind the mask approach of the publication so much that heroes actively tried to appear in our pages.

“I want my creative team to push boundaries. While you’re reinventing the Beacon with every issue, it’s my job to manage and rein in the creativity. I believe us suits are necessary to make sure the magazine doesn’t descend into chaos.”

He held up a finger while picking up the phone. “Ms. Hahn, send Mr. Bailey in.”

I gulped. It was one thing to see Bossman to discuss an idea, but for me to go over my supervisor’s head, I had reached beyond my position. Instinctively, my shoulders slumped, and I tried to shrink to avoid the impending confrontation.

No, not this time, not for this jerk.

I straightened my back and watched as Vincent strolled into the office without a care in the world. He should be the one worried that somebody was spilling his dirty secrets. Not once did the crooked smile falter. Vincent had been taking credit for our work for so long he believed himself untouchable.

“Mr. Smith here has made some allegations about your oversight.”

Vincent didn’t bat an eye. With how poorly he managed the staff, it was a surprise this hadn’t been brought to light before. But knowing that it meant he was either extremely good at avoiding scrutiny, or he was an incredible liar. It was definitely the latter. The man thrived on confrontation.

“Has he? Griffin is a fine employee, I can’t—“

“You’re a waste of a paycheck.” The words left my mouth before I could parse them into something with a professional tone. If I was about to get fired, I might as well finish by saying my peace. “You’ve created a hostile work environment on the second floor. The creatives do all the work. Time after time, you sit back in the meetings and have us pitch ideas, and then you claim you came up with them. You’re taking credit for our work.”

“I am the artistic director.”

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