He throws his hand up to silence me.
“Name?” he asks Jim again.
“Jim McKinney. Daily Examiner.”
Jim holds out his hand for a handshake. Coop doesn’t reciprocate the gesture. He just gives Jim a cursory glance and then turns to me.
“Is he a friend of yours, Owens?”
“He’s been on the beat for two years, Coop,” I answer defensively because I feel like he’s accusing me of something.
Even if he doesn’t talk to reporters, Coop should know who works the Nighthawk beat. He sees them all season and Jim writes about him specifically practically every Sunday. It’s not like I put him up to this.
“That isn’t what I asked you.”
“Yes, he’s a friend.”
Friendis a bit of an exaggeration.
“So, you want me to be nice? You want me to beprofessionalwith him?”
That was clearly a jab in reference to our conversation yesterday. I swear I can hear Carla and Monica’s voices in my head. What was I thinking? I didn’t realize he would react so badly to this. I should have given him more of a warning.
“Yes, that would be awesome,” I say through a forced smile.
He turns to Jim.
“Okay, Jim McKinney, on the strength of Owens here I’ll give you thirty minutes on a day and time of my choosing. She’ll arrange it.”
Every reporter in close proximity turns their heads with their mouths wide opened. Some are shocked, some are aghast, and some are pissed. I certainly don’t blame them. There are veteran reporters here who haven’t been able to get a peep out of Coop since he joined the team. He’s only doing this to prove some sort of convoluted point.
“Thanks so much!”
“You’re welcome and McKinney—”
“Yes?”
“The name is Mr. Barnes not Coop.”
“Oh, I apologize … Mr. Barnes.”
“It’s not that I mind so much, but our girl Owens here doesn’t like casual. It makes her … uncomfortable.”
Jim looks quizzically at me.
I think the reporter in him senses more is going on than meets the eye.
“I’ll text Tito myself, Owens. Meet me in the parking lot in thirty.”
I don’t respond but instead sit back down, place my damaged phone on the bleachers, and reach in my cooler for my turkey wrap. I’m famished. Being on the receiving end of Cooper Barnes’s wrath is taxing to say the least. This is going to be a long effin’ thirty days.
“What gives?” One of the old cronies turns and asks. “Seriously, Ursula, we’ve been wanting that interview for years. We’re the veteran reporters here. What the hell was that?”
I can’t respond because my mouth is full of a big bite of turkey.
“That was me getting the interview that you guys were too chickenshit to ask for over the last five years,” Jim croons.
“Fuck you.”
