Page 8 of Painted Scars
“I’m calling Murder Spice in the black.” Katar spins his knife. “She looks like a Hellcat.”
“I’ll take the redhead,” I say.
“No,” Grayson says, sharp and possessive. “She’s mine.”
“Looks like you got the unicorn, August.” Katar smirks and carves “Hellcat & Katar” into the desk.
I snatch his knife, stabbing it into the desk in front of him to get his attention. “Don’t make this personal. She’s our enemy.”
“Are we planting cameras?” Grayson scratches his lip with a thumb.
“You are.” He’s the tech guy, not me.
He stiffens. His white-knuckle grip on the remote gives him away. This is a big ask for a guy who hasn’t seen daylight in months. But he’s the only one who can do this. Katar will hotwire a bomb if I charge him to do it.
“I’ll go with you,” I offer. “We’ll do it together.”
Katar commences tattooing Hellcat into his arm with a new knife and a smile.
“Don’t you have somewhere to be?” I snap.
He saunters off laughing, daring the world to stop him. I just hope he doesn’t take his target down with him.
CHAPTER 3 - KATE
“Don’t look now,” Chey groans, minimizing her internet search window like it’s holy water. “Burt’s on his harassment tour.”
There’s a reason most of us keep job listings open in a second tab. When every newspaper in Shadow Lake answers to the Mercury family, you learn to keep your head down or get out.
I peek over the rim of my desk at the approaching offender swanning down the line of coffins masquerading as cubicles with Wi-Fi. Chey’s is cluttered with takeaway coffee cups, candy wrappers, and expired press passes. Mine’s as clean as a whistle, but it shares the sentiment of the shattered dreams of writers.
I slam the lid of my laptop down. “How much prison time do you think I’d get for stabbing him with my letter opener?”
Probably more than a warning. Perks of being one of Mercury’s golden boys, Burt can grope a filing cabinet and get a promotion.
“Incoming in five, four, three…” Chey keeps her eyes locked on the screen like that will protect her from what’s coming.
“Kiiitty Kaaat,” Burt drags out each vowel like a lech.
I grab my notebook and phone, slide them into my bag, and prepare to leave for my assignment. We’re working late tonight. Me to cover the Chinese New Year Festival starting at 5PM, and Chey to report on a new exhibition at the art gallery. At least she gets champagne and hors d’oeuvres.
I studied four years of journalism classes to chase stories that matter. But Mercury doesn’t assign pieces based on talent. Beyond placing family members in key media positions, they assign the rest based on who they think won’t dig too deep or who they already own.
Burt slides onto my desk like he’s been invited to pose for a men’s calendarno oneasks for. He leans across my desk, purposefully brushing my arm, rousing my gag reflex, and plucks a pen from my artisan-crafted desk organizer shaped like four books.
My boss locked his office door behind me once when he wanted a “word.” My stomach dropped when the latch caught. I banged on it, screaming before the assistant editor came to my rescue. Harmless things like a staff meeting in the conference room, a friend closing the door to talk, or a bathroom stall make my pulse spike. Suddenly I’m back there. Trapped. Defenseless.
Now I won’t go into Burt’s office, and so, he comes to me.
He displaces more of my belongings and boundaries with equal indifference. “Tidy. Cute. I prefer it messy.”
“Don’t touch my things.” I nudge the photo frame of my mom and me back into place. I have an order, a flow, Zen, and don’t like it when someone disturbs it.
“Fiery today.” He picks up my paperweight and juggles it between his palms with all the grace of a drunk walrus. “I like that.”
Chey is out of her seat and halfway out the door. Traitor loses her solidarity sister status. Rule number one of working for the Shadow Lake Reporter: Never leave a female alone withBurt. Rule number two: Don’t mention Mercury’s fingerprints on our editorial calendar unless you want your bylines reassigned to weather blurbs and dog adoption fairs.
“What are you up to?” Burt runs a finger along my wrist.
