“Good enough.”
With that, he turned his attention back to the current show, grumbling about how one of the anchors had not positioned her mic properly. Nothing was ever good enough for Mr. Roberts; I suspected that for most in this industry, nothing was good enough. It was a rather sober realization for something I’d dreamed about utilizing to make a difference.
The only real silver lining in the whole thing was that my work for the day was done. I could have gone back to the clubhouse and tried to get quotes, but I was too shaken to do that. Mr. Roberts was continuing to urge his anchors to speak with more clarity, an odd remark considering our team had won local awards for best news coverage. I took my leave silently, nodding once in case he wanted some sort of acknowledgment, but when he said and did nothing, I stepped out, breathing a sigh of relief.
I looked around the office as I left. Cameramen seemed on the verge of falling asleep at their station. Reporters all looked like they were ten years older than they really were—except the weatherman, who, bless his soul, probably had the best and maybe the easiest job of anyone at the station. Was this the life I had signed up for?
Maybe instead of reporting on other people’s lives, I needed to be the one living. It was easy to stand behind a mic and spout off things to the camera about someone else; it was much harder to actually live out those interesting things. I played a role of importance, but I couldn’t even pretend that role fulfilled me like I had hoped it would.
When I got to my car, I checked my phone. It was the first thing I did every day since I left it behind to focus on work. It was the usual—texts from my family, one from my sister who, apparently, had somehow known I was going to do a segment on the Devil’s Patriots, and one from my best friend, Leigh Faire.
I replied to my parents that I was doing well, an obvious and painful stretch of the truth. I texted Hannah that the Patriots had not only done no harm to me, they hadn’t done anything. And then I just called Leigh.
“I hope that call means yes,” she said in reference to her text asking if I was down for happy hour.
“Tonight, yes,” I said, causing Leigh to let out a yip and “woohoo” in celebration.
“About damn time, girl,” she said. “Let’s meet at UnderTow in an hour. Get dressed, girl; we need to let loose!”
“I—”
But Leigh had already hung up. She certainly enjoyed herself, far more than I would have been comfortable.
But maybe it was high time for me to get out of my comfort zone.
* * *
I walked into UnderTow an hour later, the only change I’d made switching my slacks to my jeans. Leigh was already there, sitting at a bar and looking as pretty as she always did.
Leigh and I actually had only met in the last two years, but as professionals from out of state with similar personalities—if not similar lifestyles—we hit it off immediately. She came from a small town in South Carolina, a true Southern Belle who had come to Phoenix to work at an IT company. People always found her to be a bit ditzy, but I knew that she sometimes used that to get people to underestimate her.
Professionally, she was an absolute pro. Working in sales, she knew how to make herself seem like the ridiculous blond while secretly angling to get people to give her and her company what she wanted.
Personally, she was outgoing, loved to party, and didn’t have much shame when it came to enjoying herself. I wouldn’t quite call her a hookup girl, but she certainly enjoyed herself more than I did. And with her looks—she was a slender vegan who had wavy blond hair and beautiful blue eyes—just about any man that met her would fall for her on the spot.
“Hey, girl!” she said as I pulled up a chair. “Happy Friday!”
“Indeed,” I said, trying not to think about how tomorrow, just like today and the previous four days, would be yet another workday. “Just glad the day is over.”
“Well, start with a margarita; that always gets my day going.”
As if by magic, she pulled a drink from the other side, handing it to me. She knew I loved margaritas, so it wasn’t some wizardry, but I figured I’d be able to at least ease into the evening.
I severely underestimated Leigh, it seemed.
“Thanks,” I said, sipping on it slowly.
Leigh, however, wasn’t letting me off the hook so easily, even though I was very clearly taking the drink in.
“Is that the only drink that you’re going to have?”
I sighed.
“Mr. Roberts wants me to go do some more shoots tomorrow at the biker clubhouse. I don’t really have a choice.”
“You do have a choice,” Leigh said. “One, you’re young, so just drink a lot of water and you’ll be fine. Two, get yourself a better job, girl! It’s noble that you feel this is your calling but is this really what you want to be doing for the rest of your life? At the whim and beck of some dude who’s a bastardized version of Mr. Rogers?”
I laughed.
