Page 21 of A Duet of Darkness and Dreams

“You’re welcome,” he says. His voice is soft and breathy and it both turns my legs to jelly and my stomach to lead. This isn’t healthy. How can I have developed a crush so fast? How am I going to stay professional if I have to write about him again? “Anyway, I better go,” I mumble.

“Right.”

“Bye.”

He doesn’t say bye back, and after a few long, quiet moments, I hang the phone back on the receiver, my hand lingering on the plastic like it might somehow keep us connected through space and time.

By Monday afternoon,the college newspaper has sold out every printed copy, and while I never could have predicted this in my wildest dreams, it appears it’s all because of my article. SomethingIwrote. It’s surreal. Of course, Randall has gone on a rampage, blaming me for the demand like I could have possibly predicted this. I know he’s just projecting because of the stress, but it’s caused me to be jumpy and on high alert all day.

“We’re all sold out! Go away!” Randall yells at the line of people banging on the glass door. “Simon! Can you please deal with those idiots?”

Simon swivels in his chair and glares at me. God, you’d think these guys hate success. Or, I suppose they just hatemysuccess. He pulls himself up, then stomps his way past my desk like a petulant child. “I still don’t believe you wrote this,” he says, pointing his finger at me. “And I’m going to prove it.”

Dropping my pen to my desk, I cradle my head in my hands and sigh. I need to get out of here or Randall might get so annoyed that he fires me.

“Rodriguez!” Randall shouts from his open office door. “Get in here now.”

Too late.

“Enjoying your success?” Henry asks with a grin.

Getting up from my desk, I stick my tongue out at him and head toward the office door. When I poke my head inside, I find that Randall has sweat through his shirt and his normally slicked-back hair is falling over his forehead.

“You wanted to see me?” I ask.

He looks up, loosening his tie. “Yes, we need to talk about what’s next for you.” He gestures to the seat across from him and I sink into it cautiously.

“What’s next—?”

“Yes, yes, what’s next. What you’re going towritenext. My phone has been ringing off the hook from students demanding to know where they can find out more information about this . . . this . . . Carnal Sins band. So what have you got for me?”

My jaw drops open. “I . . . I don’t really know—”

“Don’t come in here telling me you have no ideas, Rodriguez. You said you met the band right? Do you think they’d let you tag along backstage again? Get you another peek behind the curtain, so to speak?”

“Well, I—” My mind spins, trying to think of something. “Actually, they said I could come along when they manage to get some studio recording time.”

Randall’s eyes light up like he’s five years old on Christmas morning. “They asked—in a studio? I thought these were just some local losers.”

I frown. “They’re not losers. In fact, they’re signed to Megaloud Records. But I don’t know when the studio thing is supposed to happen. They didn’t have a date yet.”

Randall closes his eyes and rubs at his temples. “Okay, okay, I get it. Rodriguez, this could be huge. If these guys make it big, and we’re the first ones covering their rise to fame? I’ve already had to order three times as many papers to fill the demand, but if you can keep churning out stories like this one, people might actually care about our paper. In the four years I’ve been here, we’ve never sold as many as we did this weekend.”

My frown eases, but my stomach begins to twist. On one hand, this is great for my career—my portfolio. Maybe this is my ticket to an internship. And not just any internship, but a really,reallygood one. Like something notable that my parents could be proud of. I can use these articles as a jumping off point for my career in journalism. Surely magazines and papers are all aboutmaking money, so if I have a history of high-selling papers under my belt, no one will say no.

On the other hand, it seems Randall only wants me to write about the band.

“Are you sure we need another article about Carnal Sins? I’ve been working on this piece regarding the Chernobyl disaster in Pripyat, and I—”

“No one wants to read about that!” Randall says, exasperated. “One thing I know for sure, is that when there’s interest, you keep feeding it. You keep writing about it until the interest tapers off. Maybe that’ll be after next week’s paper. Maybe it’ll be in two months. But right now? I want your sole focus to be on the band. Besides, you somehow have this connection with them, and that’s invaluable.”

I uncross my legs with a huff. “Okay, fine.”

“Submission deadline is Thursday at noon, as usual.”

Standing, I nod my head and make for the door.

“Isabella?”

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