“Anything but fucking weather.” He closes the folder as if disgusted and places it on the table.
He pushes the intercom. “Tristan, come in here, please.”
“Yep.”
I shrivel in my chair a little. God, he’s mean when he’s angry.
Tristan comes into the office, and Jameson exhales heavily. “Ms. Foster has written her story.” He gestures to the folder.
“Good.” Tristan smiles, and he picks it up and begins to read.
“A seismic weather event won’t do,” Jameson barks.
Tristan twists his lips as he reads on. “It’s very good, though,” he comments.
Hmm, I’m totally crushing on the wrong brother . . . my one is an asshole.
“Thank you.” I fake a smile. “With all due respect, Jameson,” I state, “if we name this weather event and hype it up as coming in the next four months and that it’s going to cause extensive damage, it will have legs. No names to trace, people, or places. I don’t see how I could have written a story about something else without jeopardizing our integrity.”
“We are not here to prove our integrity,” he growls. “We are trying to withhold it.”
I sit back in my chair, annoyed.
“I want a story on an FBI murder case.” He narrows his eyes as he thinks. “Make up a fake murder and name and a fake investigation and how close they are to closing it.”
My anger bubbles. “If you knew what you wanted me to write, why didn’t you say that yesterday?” I snap. “You told me to do what I wanted, and I spent four hours writing that for you.”
Tristan rolls his lips to hide his smirk. “I have things to do. Let me know what story we’re going with,” he says as he walks toward the door. “Thanks, Emily. Great work.” He closes the door behind him.
I glare at the asshole in front of me. “So what do you want me to do?”
His cold eyes rise to meet mine. “I told you what I wanted you to do yesterday, but you didn’t do that . . . did you?”
I frown. Wait, what’s he talking about now? I’m confused.
He doesn’t have to be so damn rude. I snatch the folder from the table. “All right,” I snap. “I’ll write a fake story about a fake murder of a fake CEO by a fake new employee.”
He glares at me.
“With a fake ax.”
“Well . . . ,” he says with a sneer, “just make sure she has a fucking gray skirt on.”
My mouth falls open; he’s pissed that I didn’t do what he asked.
The nerve of this jerk.
“No, she doesn’t wear gray skirts on demand. She’s naked because she’s just had wild sex with her hot boyfriend right before she chops off that spoiled-brat CEO’s dick.”
He narrows his eyes in contempt.
I stand. “You will have your story by five. I’ll email it over.”
“No, you’ll deliver it up here in person.”
“With all due respect, Mr. Miles,” I say as I smile sweetly, “I don’t feel like seeing you again today. I’ll deliver it to Tristan.”
“Deliver it to Tristan, and see what happens,” he barks.
I turn and storm out of the office with red steam shooting out of my ears.
The man’s a fucking pig.
It’s five thirty, and I sit at my desk as I type the last word of my fake story. I hate to admit it, but this one is better. My coworkers have gone to the bar, and I’m meeting them there. I’m supposed to be taking it up to his office, but I’m not.
Screw him.
I hit send to email it over, and I turn off my computer and pack up my desk.
My phone rings, and the letter J lights up the screen. I saved his initial so I’d know if he calls me. I pick up my phone and hit decline, and then I smile sweetly at the camera, knowing full well he’s watching me.
I did not just break up with one selfish asshole to go out with another.
He can kiss my ass. A text comes through.
Answer your fucking phone.
I glare at the text and write back.
I have nothing to say to you.
I’ve finished work for the day.
You have your story.
Good luck with it.
A reply bounces back.
This is a personal call.
I roll my eyes in disgust and reply.
Find someone else in a gray skirt to suck your dick on demand. I’m not interested in the position.
I put my phone on silent and then into my bag and continue to pack up my desk.
I take the elevator down to the foyer, and as I walk through, a security guard is on the phone. “Excuse me, miss,” he calls.