Page 42 of A Duet of Darkness and Dreams

He waves me over then retreats into his office, leaving the door open. My heart sinks. If Randall looks like that, it can’t mean good news for me. And the fact that Simon looks like he just won the lottery doesn’t bode well either. I make my way across the room, the group of men quieting as I approach, but all with the look that they were just talking about me. I try to keep my head up high, but every step I take feels like I’m about to crumple into a heap on the floor. No, I can’t do that. Not in front of these assholes.

I enter the office and close the door. Randall is sitting at his desk with his head on one hand.

“Sir, you wanted to see me?”

He looks up and gestures to the seat across from him. “Yes. Have a seat, please.”

I sit down, but nothing about me relaxes. For a long tense moment, he says nothing, just rotates back and forth on his chair. “Randall?”

Finally, he looks up at me and leans forward. “Listen, I’m really sorry to have to tell you this, but we’re not going to be running the article you submitted.”

“What? Why not?”

He sighs and picks something up off of his desk. “Because of this.”

I gingerly take the newspaper from his hands and find myself peering down at the front page of the entertainment section of theEast Bay Chronicle. My eyes focus on the handsome face blurred behind a drum kit, surrounded by his bandmates and friends.

“Seems like we won’t be the exclusive source of Carnal Sins news anymore,” Randall says with a resigned sigh.

I let out a breath. To be honest, I was sure it would be worse news than this. I knew I wouldn’t be the exclusive journalist forCarnal Sins forever. In fact, this is great news. The band will get more widespread coverage and now that I’ve shown I can be taken seriously as a writer, maybe Randall will be more inclined to let me write stories that mean something. Not to mention I can distance myself from a guy who isn’t interested in me like I am him.

“Well, it’s not the end of the world,” I say breezily, trying to make Randall see that this isn’t the worst news I’ve ever gotten. “We both knew it wouldn’t last forever.”

Randall looks up at me and stares for a long moment. “Did you not see the name on the article?”

I narrow my eyes and look down under the title of the articleThrash Metal’s Newest Starsto the author’s name.

“Simon Cranmer . . . Simon—” I look up and Randall nods his head.

This is what the storm feels like. My hands begin to shake and the blood rushes into my face so fast it’s as though my skin is on fire. It suddenly makes sense why he was at the release party. He was swooping in from under me to steal my story. But . . .

“How—” I splutter, gripping the edge of the paper so hard it begins to tear. “How did he manage to—”

“Apparently Simon has been trying to get accepted for an internship position with theChroniclefor weeks. He is in his final year of the program after all, same as you. This article he submitted solidified their decision to bring him on.”

I scoff loudly. “He could’ve literally written about anything!” I say, my voice rising. “Why was this the winner?”

Randall’s eyes flick down at the article, and taking his cue, I read. But as I do, nausea begins to surface, hot tears boiling up behind my eyelashes as the paper shakes in my hands with poorly restrained rage. The next moment I’m up, throwing open the door and marching across the room to Simon and his gang of wannabes.

“You!” I say, throwing the paper at Simon’s chest. “You stole my work, you pathetic, slimy snake!”

The other posers disperse but Simon grapples with the paper and holds up his hands. “Whoa there, little Bella, what’s the problem?”

“This,” I say, pointing my finger so hard at the paper in his hands it punches right through. “This is my work! You took all of the articles I wrote and mashed them together. The details in here are things the band told only to me! This is plagiarism!”

Simon’s smirk vanishes. “It’s your word against mine.”

My mouth drops open. “How could you do this?” I ask, my voice growing hoarse.

He shrugs. “It was easy, really. Or rather, you made it easy.” He takes a step closer to me then removes a notebook from his pocket.Mynotebook. The one I lost at the bar last night. The one with a dozen pages filled with notes from the release party.

“Youstolemy notes?” I shout.

“More like . . . recovered. You really should be more careful about leaving your stuff around.”

“You—You can’t! I won’t let you do this!”

“It’s done,” he says. “No one in here really believed you wrote those articles anyway. I dare you to try and prove it to anyone other than Randall.” His eyes are like ice—completely devoid of emotion. He returns the notebook to his pocket and leans toward me, speaking loud enough for everyone watching to hear. “But first tell me, because I’m dying to know, was the band only interested in you hanging around so you could write about them, or”—he reaches out and swipes his finger down my shoulder, Dave’s autograph zinging under my shirt—“did they have other uses for you too?”

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