Authors: J.K. Hudson
Shapeshifter Romance: Duty of a Lion (Paranormal Army Hero Navy Seal Shifter Protector Alpha Lion Romance) (Fantasy Military Action Adventure Urban Wolf Romance Short Stories) (5 page)
The news van pulled into the parking lot at the school carnival. Brenae gave herself one last glance in the mirror before turning to her cameraman Terrence, who was sitting in the driver’s seat.
“How do I look?” she said.
He took in the sight of her. She was tall and slender, though her body was curvy in all the right places. His skin was like chocolate, and much darker than his. Her deep brown eyes were nearly black, her lips bee stung and surely tasting of honey. She was staring at him, waiting for his reply. Lost in thought, he’d almost forgotten her question.
“Girl, you look
damn
good. As usual.” He’d given up on getting a chance with her long ago. She’d made it clear she didn’t fraternize with colleagues.
Brenae rolled her eyes. Same answer every time. It was flattering, but heaven help that man if he ever let her walk on camera with lipstick on her teeth. She smiled at him and thanked him for the compliment. Waste of time or not, she still enjoyed his attention. As long as they both knew it wasn’t going to go anywhere she didn’t see the harm in it. She fiddled with her clothes again, smoothing her hands over her slacks and blouse.
She’d dreamed of being a reporter her entire life, and while Terrence was a blast to work with, this wasn’t what she’d had in mind. Instead of sitting behind a desk as a news anchor, she was working her way up from the trenches like everyone else had. All the schooling in the world couldn’t replace experience in her profession. She didn’t like it, but if she wanted to go anywhere in her field, she had to start at the bottom.
Brenae let out a huge sigh and smiled at Terrence. He’d been the only volunteer when a wet-behind-the-ears reporter from Philly had been hired by Dallas’ biggest news syndicate a few months back. She was ambitious and driven, which many found a bit obnoxious.
Everyone
wanted a spot behind the desk as a lead anchor, and the others acted like there was nothing special about Brenae. She would be behind that desk, of that she was certain. She may be young, only 23, but when she had her sights set on something, she didn’t back down until she got what she was after.
At least she had Terrence to work with while she clamored her way to the top. He was funny and friendly, making a long work day go by quickly. She was grateful that he was the cameraman she’d ended up with. After one final glance in the mirror, she opened her door and got out.
“Let’s go, Terrence,” she said with more enthusiasm than she felt. “This carnival isn’t going to cover itself.”
Brenae walked down the dirt path between the carnival attractions, her heels sinking slightly with each step. The booths were set up close together, each one testing the skill of the high schoolers, their family, and friends as they worked to raise funds for their senior prom. Not only was this not big news, it was really not news at all. Brenae couldn’t imagine how this warranted any broadcast time, let alone a mini prime-time segment. But one of the moms knew the producer and had asked him for a favor. So Preston had sent Brenae, lowest on the totem pole, to cover the human interest story no one was interested in.
She walked straight for the main booth, where the carnival organizers would be waiting for her to interview them. She introduced herself to the mother first, then the teens that were busy counting money while the carnival was still going. Terrence started to set up his equipment when one of the boys stopped them. His name badge identified him as Patrick, student body president.
“We’d like to do the interview over in front of the duck shoot booth,” he said. His words were polite, but the disdain behind them was clear. The young man was from a privileged neighborhood, and in certain neighborhoods, “privileged” meant that there were no minorities in the area. He didn’t like her and he obviously wasn’t thrilled that she was the one covering his story.
The young man looked at Brenae and licked his lips. She felt her patience fading as the teen led them to the exact spot where he wanted to be interviewed. She had to pay her dues like anyone else starting out, but this was pushing it. This kid needed a dose of reality, not a news segment to stroke his already inflated ego. Brenae suppressed the urge to tell him what for as she followed him to the booth.
Patrick stopped and indicated where he wanted her to stand. The ground was soggy and soft, and there was no way she was walking into mud in her pumps at the behest of a teenager. She took a spot close to where he’d asked her to stand and waited for Terrence to signal he was ready. Patrick gave her a look that said he didn’t approve, but then shrugged and moved into position. Terrence gave the signal for five seconds out and Brenae turned towards Patrick.
The other students were gathered around to watch Patrick’s 15 seconds of fame as he stood near her. He was off to the side and Brenae wondered briefly if he was afraid to get too close. She groaned internally. This assignment couldn’t be over soon enough.
Terrence gave the thumbs up that they were live and Brenae started her interview.
“I’m standing here with Student Body President, Patrick Bartlet-”
Without warning, someone in the crowd yelled fire, and Brenae was pelted with stream after stream of water from shot gun style water guns. She sputtered and stepped back, trying to see through the steady stream of water to find an escape route. She stepped into the deep mud and slipped, her feet flying out from under her. She landed with a thud on her backside, the mud splattering out from beneath her and covering her from head to toe. The onslaught continued, blinding her and keeping her from finding a hand-hold to pull herself out of the mud.
Over the ruckus and laughter, a female voice shouted. “That’s enough! This carnival is
over
!”
It was the principal.
Thank goodness someone stopped this.
Brenae looked down at her soaked blouse and slacks, completely covered in mud. Terrence had been jostled backwards by the crowd of hooligans, but his camera was still rolling, focused on the teens, gathering evidence in case things got really out of hand. Brenae prayed that the station had cut out their feed as soon as the water guns came out, though she doubted it.
The principal walked up to Brenae and offered her hand. Brenae grabbed the outstretched hand and pulled herself up. Expecting an apology, or at least words of distress on her behalf, Brenae was surprised by the principal’s words.
“You’ve ruined everything. Instead of a successful fundraiser, I’ll be trying to explain to parents why their children don’t have enough funds for the prom they wanted.” With an exaggerated sigh, the principal walked away, leaving Brenae with a shocked expression on her face, staring into the camera. The indicator light blinked steadily, and Terrence gave her the signal to wrap it up with her signature sign off.
Oh shit, we were on the air that entire time.
Brenae smiled at the camera, ignoring the urge to run away and hide. “Victims of a secret, newscaster conspiracy bent on ruining their prom, or entitled brats who don’t deserve a prom? You decide. I’m Brenae Riley reminding you that kindness matters. Back to you, Tom.” With that, she turned and walked off camera, leaving Terrance to cut the feed on his end.
Brenae walked to the van with an awkward shuffle, one of her heels broken, her clothes muddy and wet. Her outfit was completely ruined, and likely her career after this fiasco. She climbed into the van, not caring that she was dripping on the upholstery. She wouldn’t be working at the station this time tomorrow anyway, so why not ruin the seats while she was at? Terrence eventually returned to the van, his face set in angry lines. He put the camera away and got into the driver’s seat.
They rode in silence, Brenae dripping watery mud everywhere. Terrence wanted to reassure her, to tell her that everything would be okay. But the truth was, it was one of the worst human interest stories he’d ever filmed. He cleared his throat, searching for the words that would make her happy again.
“Preston ordered me to keep filming. I was going to cut it off and he yelled into the ear piece to keep rolling.” He looked into her eyes, and she knew he was being honest. “I’m sorry, Brenae.”
Preston was the station’s manager and producer. He was arrogant and selfish; he only cared about his bottom line and what a story could do for his career. She could see the ticker tape scrolling along the bottom of the now: “Reporter turned carnival attraction at local fund raiser.” No doubt the incident would be on an endless loop until the next big story broke, and then her humiliation would continue on the web.
She struggled to hold back the tears. This was
not
what she had signed up for. Preston had been sending her on the worst assignments since day one, promising her that she was “on her way.” But Brenae was starting to see that he hadn’t been honest with her from the start. She was wasting her time at the station; it was time for her to move on.
Terrence drove slowly, no more eager to reach the station than Brenae was. He looked angrier than Brenae had ever seen him. She patted his hand reassuringly, smearing him with mud in the process.
“You have nothing to be sorry for, Terrence,” she said. “I’d like to go home now. Preston can fire me tomorrow. Is there any way you could drop me off at my house?” Brenae could have her best friend Jenna take her to get her final check and her car tomorrow. Right now, she needed a shower and her bed. She gave him directions to her house and he nodded his understanding.
“Sure thing.” He took the next exit, driving the few blocks to her house and letting her out in the driveway. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Brenae.”
She smiled and waved as she walked up the driveway, holding her purse away from her body to keep the sludge on her blouse from ruining her imitation leather bag. She stripped in the foyer and tossed her clothes in the laundry sink.
Might as well be the trash
, she thought, despondently. She felt like her career was over.
She took the stairs two at a time, wanting to wash this horrible day off as quickly as possible.
Brenae turned on the shower and stepped into the spray. The water rinsed the mud off her body slowly while she lathered up. She smelled like a swamp so it would probably take several passes to get the smell completely gone. Brenae lathered again and went to work on the filth seeping into her pores. She wanted to get clean and get out as quickly as possible; she had a date with a memory foam mattress. Tomorrow’s problems could wait.
*****
Brenae walked through the halls of the station, thin manila folder in her hand. She’d been up since 4am, planning her next move. Without a doubt, she was losing her job today, but after a lot of thought, she had decided to go out on her own terms. Newbie or not, she clearly wasn’t valued by the station, or Preston. She had a sneaking suspicion that she’d been hired solely to satisfy a workplace diversity requirement since she and Terrence were the only black people employed by the entire station. She was done with this situation. She was a good reporter and a valuable asset to any new syndicate that she was a part of. If Preston couldn’t see that, it was his loss entirely. She would miss Terrence, but the rest of this experience was something she wanted to put behind her as quickly as possible. She had bigger things coming to her in this life, and she wasn’t willing to waste it here.
She picked up the pace down the hall to Preston’s sprawling office. Better to get this done now than to drag it out. She passed several people in the hall, all of them smiling at her. Brenae resisted the urge to hang her head in shame. Her worst day was caught on camera and broadcast for the world to see. It wasn’t her fault, but it didn’t matter. She’d fallen hard into the mud and her blouse was soaked through. She was certain that her less than graceful landing was overshadowed by her see-through blouse clinging to her breasts. Brenae laughed under her breath; so many
stellar
moments to choose from, she was sure that video would be circulating around the web for years to come.
Preston’s door was open, and he was talking on the phone, his feet propped up on the window sill. The view out his office window was stunning, the entire city visible from the high rise building. Brenae had a cubicle. It was not even a full cubicle that felt like an office, but a short one that came up to her shoulder. The entire bull pen was like that; Preston said it added a team effort type feel to the place. Brenae thought they looked like a family of prairie dogs peeking out of their holes, getting ready to make a run for it. When he saw her, he motioned her in. She sat in the comfortable chair, waiting for him to finish so she could be on her way. He ended the call and turned to face her, the smile on his face broad and handsome.
“That report last night was,” he searched for the words, “something. First, are you okay? You fell pretty hard.”
Brenae took a deep breath. She wasn’t going to drag this out and give Preston the satisfaction of firing her after rehashing the entire fiasco. They both knew where this was headed, and Brenae wanted to get there first.
“I’m fine and I’ll recover from this.” She handed him the folder, “Thank you for the opportunity you gave me here, but I think it’s best for all of us–”
“Wait. Whoa there, just hold your horses. You’re quitting? Why?”