Page 31 of A Duet of Darkness and Dreams

My molars grind together. “I’m not a secretary, Simon. I’m a journalist, and apparently the only one in the building who can actually sell papers. So why don’t you run along?”

Anger flashes across his face for a brief moment, then that condescending smile is back as he leans forward on the edge of my cubicle. “You know, I was just chatting with Randall. It seems unusual that you’re able to manage all that you are. Writing the articles, answering all the calls, going to classes . . .”

My eyes narrow. “What are you trying to say?”

He shrugs. “Lots of people hire ghost writers, but I think you’ll find that colleges would frown upon that. Considering you get credits for providing your own original work.”

I shoot out of my seat, heat blistering my face at such an accusation. “Are you suggesting someone else is writing my articles?” I ask through gritted teeth.

“All I’m saying,” Simon says standing back, “is it would make sense. I mean, it’s unbelievable enough that you hang out with metal musicians.” He picks up the stuffed googly eyed pepper from my desk, shaking it so that the eyes rattle. What does he think? That just because I have a stuffed pepper on my desk, I can’t also hang out with guys who thrash around on stage to aggressive music?

“What’s unbelievable, Cranmer, is that you think you know enough about me to make judgments about who my friends are,” I spit back.

“At least it’ll give you something for your internship applications. I suppose it was slim pickings for a while there,” he jabs, ignoring my ire completely.

How can someone be so intentionally cruel? “One of my articles is better than fifty of yours,” I say.

He smiles in that self satisfied way. “I think a few publications would disagree. Already have a few bites coming in for a place in January.”

My heart falls out of my chest and onto the floor. “You—you have?”

“They aren’t my top choices—I’m still waiting to hear about those—but at least I know I’ll have something next semester.”

I bite the inside of my cheek so hard I taste blood.

“I guess you had to do something to get a decent story. Can’t exactly expect to get in with theEast Bay Chroniclewith crossword puzzles and makeup. I wouldn’t blame you for doing what needed to be done.”

I narrow my eyes. “What needed to be done?”

“You can be honest with me, Isabella,” he whispers. “I’m a feminist. There’s no shame in being a groupie in order to get your stories.”

Tearing around my desk, I storm up to him and his awful, smug smile. “Say that again and I’ll slap you across the face.”

He steps back with his hands held up in mock surrender. “Whoa whoa, easy. I always knew you were a hot tamale.” He chuckles to himself and turns to walk away. My fists are clenched at my sides, my chest heaving with righteous indignation, and there’s a ringing in my ears.

“Pinche pendejo,” I mutter.

It’s a full five minutes before I can bring myself to move, and when I do it’s only because that stupid phone won’t stop ringing.

“What?” I growl into the phone.

“Uh . . . Isabella?”

Something twinges in my chest. Like a balm to a burn—soothing. How can the voice of someone I barely know have such a visceral effect on me? My knees buckle as I sink back into my chair.

“Hey, are you all right?” Dave says through the phone.

I swallow down my anger and sniff. “Yes, yeah, I’m fine. How are you?”

There’s a pause. “I’m good. I—Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Yeah, sorry . . . I just ate something really spicy and my nose is running, that’s all.” Great. What a lovely visual for sexy Dave to have of me.

“Oh, well, I hope it was good.”

I clear my throat and rearrange myself on my chair. “H-How can I help you?”

“Al wanted me to call you and give you an updated list of show dates and venues.”

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