Page 3 of Broken Lines

Melody

Present, New York City:

“Pitch me.”

I swallow, doing my absolute best to keep the easy smile on my face. Which is no easy feat when the executive editor for one of the biggest music publications in the world is leering across the desk at you with a smug smile, just waiting of you to fail so that he can kick you out and go on with his day.

But I’ve been expecting this question. Becca, a friend of a friend of mine, who already works here at Ignition Magazine—who also got me this interview—prepared me for senior editor Chuck Garver’s legendarily smug, snide grin. Just like she prepared me for his favorite interview question: “pitch me”, where he wants the candidate to literally sell him a front-page-worthy story on the spot.

She also prepared me for the way the leering editor has a fondness for talking to thechestsof young woman…as he’s doing right now, to me.

I swallow again, sinking a little more into the chair at my back as I roll my shoulders forward slightly, as if to hide my boobs a little.

But Chuck is in it to win it, it would seem.

“Well? Ain’t got all fuckin’ day, kid.”

My teeth rake over my bottom lip.

Becca was right: I should have opened with who my mom is.

Should have. But won’t. But can’t. I spent my entire childhood living in the shadow of my mother’s fame and narcissism. Andyeah, it would probably help with getting a job at a famous rock music magazine like Ignition to mention the teeny, little fact that my mother is one of the most famous rock ’n roll groupies of the last thirty years.

But no. I want this, but I want this on my terms. I want it because I earned it. Not because Judy banged a bunch of famous musicians.

Chuck sighs, lacing his fingers together as he leans across his big desk.

“Elevator pitch. You’ve got thirty fucking seconds to grab me, Melody,” he grunts at my tits. “So…go.”

You’ve got this.

I take a deep breath.

“Okay, so, a piece about DJ Smash getting caught up in that e-cigarette company scandal—”

“Fucking boring. Twenty seconds. What else you got.”

Fuck.

I thought that’d be a slam dunk of a story. A mix of current events, politics, and music, which is what Becca was telling me Chuck is obsessed with finding for the magazine these days. Luckily, I came armed with backups.

“Alright, well, Madonna—”

Chuckle laughs coldly.

“Whatever it is, with Madge, it’s already been done to death. Fuck no. Ten seconds. Tick tock, kid.”

The panic starts to rise.

“The return of eighties synth—”

“Already published.”

“Cancel culture and nineties rap lyrics—”

“Hardfucking no.”

“Okay, okay…what about—”

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