Romancing the News: A Lesbian Office Romance Read online

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Other books

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Contact the Author

  Romancing the News

  Violette Grey

  Copyright © 2017 Violette Grey

  All rights reserved.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Other Books by Violette Grey

  Love by Design

  Chapter One

  The whining of the brakes from the bus that pulled up snapped me from my daze. Even before the doors opened, people were pushing against me. The bus was not going anywhere, and yet people acted like it would disappear at any moment and leave them behind.

  As soon as the door opened, the surge of people pushed me forward up the first step, my hand grabbing the handrail to steady myself as I climbed up into the bus.

  “Good morning, Harry,” I said to the old driver as I scanned my bus pass.

  He smiled at me and then took a drink from a coffee mug that probably pre-dated him. He always had a smile, but I had never heard him say more than a handful of words to anyone.

  Hurrying down the aisle, the usual faces of grumpy morning commuters greeted me as I found an empty spot about halfway back. I dropped into the seat and exhaled, feeling as though I had just survived the running of the bulls.

  With a jerk, the bus spurted and then took off again as I leaned back in the seat and scrolled through the news on my cell phone.

  As one of a handful of assistants of a small free weekly paper in Denver, Colorado, my dream was to become a journalist. It had now become a game to spend this leg of my journey to and from work reading articles and deciding if I could have written them better. I loved the challenge of making the articles “my own”, at least in my mind, anyway.

  "Ah-ha!" I said loudly, the woman across from me jumping. "Sorry," I said with a smile. The woman only grimaced at me and returned to staring out the window. The old bitty always sat in the same seat every day and not once had I seen her lips even curve into the tiniest bit of a smile.

  I ignored her as usual and looked at the article, smiling again. It was from one of the major papers, the headline read “New Flushers Good for Environment.” Sure, it was not of great importance in the grand scheme of things, but as I scanned the article, I knew I could have written it better.

  The bus came to a stop and I looked up expectantly as Daisy got on. Daisy Ahenny and I had been best friends for as long as we both could remember, and we always rode the bus together every day to work. Although Daisy did not work at the same company, she did work as a dental hygienist one floor down from mine in the same building.

  "Hey, Paulette," Daisy said as she plopped herself into the seat next to me. "How are you?"

  "I'm OK," I replied. I shoved my cell phone toward her. "I found this article on how the city put in those new toilet handles that are coated with some anti-germ plastic and how they will ‘save the environment’.”

  “Yeah, I’ve seen them. ‘Pull up for number one, push down for number two.’” She grimaced. “So crude. Anyway, what about it?”

  “I could have written it so much better,” I said, feeling pretty pleased with myself.

  “OK, tell me how.” She tried to sound bored, but still scooted in toward me.

  “Well, the city is telling everyone that they are saving water, which is good for the environment…”

  Daisy nodded and then raised her eyebrows in expectation. “So…?” She knew me too well.

  “So…in reality, they don’t give a damn about the environment. All they care about is the bottom line. They really are just saving tons of money on their water bill.”

  Daisy stared at me, her eyebrows knitted together.

  “See, they tell people they are doing it for the environment when they are really doing it to cut water costs. It sounds like the same thing, but all they try to do is give everyone this feel-good excuse rather than being honest and say that they want to save money. It’s all about everyone feeling like they are doing their part to make the world a better place. But why not just be honest with people?”

  Daisy rolled her eyes, she always did. "You are just too much," she said. "What do you get out of this morning ritual?"

  I sat up straight. "I get to show that I am just as capable, if not better, than some of these hacks out there. I can do so much more with my life."

  Daisy laughed. "Well, I know you can," she said with a smile. Then she reached in and pulled a small gift bag from her purse. "Happy birthday."

  I had completely forgotten about my birthday. I was thirty-two today.

  “Oh, Daisy,” I said, tears filling my eyes. “Thank you for remembering.”

  Inside the bag I found a silver bracelet with a single charm on it.

  "It's a pencil, you know, for the journalist," Daisy said with a huge grin on her face.

  I laughed. "This is great,” I said, placing the bracelet on my wrist. “I love it.” I gave her a hug.

  “I thought it would be nice to get you something that would, you know, support what you want to do, what you want to be.”

  "Oh, sweetie, it’s perfect,” I said, giving her another squeeze.

  Daisy laughed and hugged me back. "You're welcome." She paused and then added, “Did Brook remember?”

  I harrumphed, which was enough of an answer for her not to pursue the subject. She glanced out the front of the bus and said, "Here's our stop."

  We alighted the bus and walked the two blocks to a five-story building that was in great need of a coat of paint and could use new signage. Two of the windows had duct tape holding the cracked pieces of panes together in rotted casings. The smell of urine assaulted my nose as we passed an alley where a man lay, his cardboard blanket covering his withered body.

  I walked over to him and placed a pre-made sandwich in front of his sleeping form, checking to make sure he was still breathing. I was not sure what I would do if I found him dead. I did not even know his name, but it was all I knew to do to help him.

  The elevator stopped on the fourth floor and Daisy gave me a hug. "Happy birthday, again,” she said as she moved into the hallway.

  "Thank you so much for the charm bracelet." I smiled as I shook my wrist, the tiny silver pencil clinking against the chain link of the bracelet.

  "You're welcome. Are we riding home together tonight?"

  I shook my head. "I'm going to run over to that new Chinese place off of a Hundred and twentieth and pick up dinner for Brook before I go home. I don't feel like cooking tonight, and it’s my night."

  Daisy looked crestfallen, but she always did when she had to ride alone. “OK then, see ya tomorrow."

  "Love you," I called out as the elevator doors closed.

  "Love you, too!"

  On the fifth floor, I got off the elevator to the typical mountain of chaos. Lou
d voices echoed off the cement walls, bouncing off the metal beams on the high ceiling. People rushed from one desk to another, leaning over to talk to each other before moving on to another. Although the paper was free and quite small, there was always that same feeling of excitement and anxiety the bigger papers experienced the day before the final copy was sent off for printing, the only difference being that it occurred on a daily basis for the larger newspapers. Ours was weekly, so we only had one day per week of craziness.

  "It's about time you got here," Jason Thopolopogos said, a wave of his brown hair coming down over one eye. I wondered how he could even see with his hair in his face half the time. As usual, he stood glaring at me, his hand on his hip, reminding me of a father berating his child. One of the journalists, and my boss, he had an infuriating way of talking down to me.

  "I'm here at the same time I am every day, Jason," I said patiently. It was the same every week the day before the send-off. I would get off the elevator and Jason would bombard me before I even made it to my desk. At least I felt appreciated in some sort of demented way.

  "You have got to look over this Rizzo's article," he said, sounding frantic. "Something is not right with it. Would you please take another look at it and tell me if something is missing?"

  I grabbed the pages from him and made my way to my desk. When I set my things down and turned, Jason was standing right behind me. I thought I would jump out of my shoes.

  "Jason, give me a minute to sit down," I said, my patience running thin. "You know it’ll only take me a couple of minutes to look it over, but I need to get settled first."

  The man looked at me as if I were speaking Greek, or in the case of Rizzo's Restaurant, Italian, and then came to his senses. "Oh, yeah, sorry," he said, although he did not really mean it. "How long do you think it’ll take?"

  I gave him a pointed look. God, but this was getting old. "You know it won't take me more than ten minutes." It never did.

  "Right, OK, thanks, Paulette," he said, only a little less anxious than he had been a moment before. "I'll leave you to it. Just hand it directly to me when you've finished."

  I glanced up at the wall clock. It was nine o'clock and the dummy sheets were due to the printer by one. Jason was definitely super high-strung to be worrying about an article that should have been pretty simple to write.

  I scanned through what he had written. It was pathetic, really. Not only did I find three typographical errors, overall it lacked cohesion, was difficult to follow, and left the reader with no feelings whatsoever for the restaurant. I had never personally eaten there, and what was on this page would not convince me if I should or not give it a try.

  But I knew he was not asking me to edit it for him; he wanted me to look through and stroke his ego by saying it was great. I made the mistake of pointing out ways he could improve the first article he asked me to look over three years ago; he bit my head off. After that, I stuck to pointing out typos and making suggestions on how to expand, but never once made another comment about his writing style.

  Ten minutes later I handed him the article. "Didn't you do an interview with a customer while you were at the restaurant?"

  He rolled his eyes. "Yeah, I decided to not include it. Is that all you found?” He shrugged. “Then I guess it’s done.” He grabbed the pages out of my hand and left me standing there. Not even a thank you.

  It amazed me. How was it this man was a journalist and I was only an assistant?

  I knew the answer without having to think about it. He had completed his journalism degree several years earlier, but jobs in the field being what they were—or what they were not as the case may be—he still could not find a job at a respectable and high-flying newspaper or magazine. Plus, to be honest, his writing sucked.

  Then there was me, just working on my degree, taking night classes because I did not qualify for a grant since I made just a little too much money. With my credit in the dumps because of credit card debt, I did not dare apply for a student loan. If I had a student loan to pay off, I’d not even make it to the next payday. Arapaho Community College was the only place I could afford, but I did not mind. The classes were actually pretty easy and it gave me something to do away from home and work.

  "Paulette," a voice called from across the room. "Would you come here, please?"

  I walked over and entered the large office, the name on the door displaying 'Neil Freedman-Editor'.

  It was standing room only; the only other chair was piled with old newspapers and boxes and more newspapers took up the remainder of the space. I tried not to grimace when the odor of an old salami sandwich assaulted my nose.

  "Good morning, Mr. Freedman," I said cheerfully. The man only glared at me. I wondered if it was part of the job description to be a tool; it seemed almost stereotypical that the editor-in-chief was always in a bad mood. Then again, it was the day before publishing.

  "I just wanted to let you know that Pat Wallace was chosen for the apprenticeship program for this quarter."

  "Pat Wallace?" I said angrily. "I have been here two years longer than he has and I have taken more classes than him."

  "Well, he completed his program last month, so he was bumped up on the list," Freedman said. "I'm sorry." He did not sound very sorry.

  “This is the fourth time I have applied in the past year,” I said, trying to keep my voice calm and failing miserably. I’ve applied every time the board opened up the applications, and again I’m passed up? I thought applicants didn’t have to have their degrees to be considered for the program.

  “While that is true,” Freedman said as he sat forward, his eyes narrowing. “Having a degree does make a candidate much more desirable. That person already has the knowledge set necessary to take on a journalism position. We extend the opportunity to those who prove they are serious about becoming a part of the news reporting community, and Wallace has done just that by taking on extra classes to finish quicker than you. It is what it is, Ms. Stevens.” He waved toward the door. “You may go.”

  I stomped back to my desk and plopped down into my chair, wishing I had mentioned the fact that no women had been chosen as long as I had been with the Free News.

  Maybe it was time for me to look for another job.

  ***

  My spirits had not improved by the time I got home from work that evening. As I unlocked the door, I heard Brook shout from the other room. "Did you bring dinner?"

  "Yes!" I kicked the door closed with my foot. "I stopped by the Golden Palace and got some Chinese."

  Brook walked into the room, the tight black runners outfit clinging to her lean body. Jogging was how she maintained her thin figure despite her poor eating habits and couch-potato evening routine.

  I walked up to her and kissed her. "So, how was your day?" I asked as I unpacked the food while Brook took out plates and silverware. I pushed away the anger from work and put on a smile. There was no need to impart my bad mood onto her.

  "It was OK," she said. "Fred quit today; that's the third one this month." Brook was a waitress at a local restaurant. She always complained about how management treated the staff and then acted amazed when people walked out on their job. However, the manager, Ingrid, was a good friend of Brook's, and Brook said she could not leave her in a lurch, no matter how much she hated the job.

  "I’m going to start looking for another job," I said as I scooped out some fried rice.

  I could tell immediately that I should have prepped her before I said anything. "Why?" she asked. "You're getting a decent paycheck, and they treat you well enough."

  "Yeah, but they passed me up on the apprenticeship program again. I’m not going anywhere…and I swear they hate women there."

  Brook was spooning beef with broccoli onto her rice when she stopped and stared. "But, Paul, babe, if you get into the apprenticeship program, that means you won't get paid. You know we count on your paycheck to help pay the bills because it’s steady."

  I felt my heart drop to m
y feet. Brook never supported my decision to go back to school and earn my journalism degree, but when I decided to go ahead and go for it, she did not try to stop me. What she cared about most was how much money I brought home. Whether or not I was happy didn't seem to matter one bit.

  But I also hated to rock the boat. Brook was beautiful, and although sometimes she was a little brusque, I knew she loved me. I was lucky to have her.

  "Yes, I know,” I said, “but I want to find a job that will allow me to move up the ranks. This one will keep me as an assistant forever."

  Brook set her plate down on the counter and walked over to me. "Yes, babe, but they recognize what a great job you do there." Brook leaned in and kissed me. Her lips were soft and always sent tingles down my spine. "How about this, you try again next quarter and see if you can get into that program. You only have a few more classes to be done with college. Maybe once you have that degree, they will take you a little more seriously. But remember, a lot of those people who work at that paper of yours come from better backgrounds than you. People like that look down at people like us. You're a good-looking woman and you might know your stuff, but few will accept a dyke for most positions."

  God, how I hated when Brook used that word; it was foul and only made me feel dirty. But, as usual, I said nothing. I sighed. "OK, I'll give it a little while longer. But, would it be OK if I keep an eye out for something else in the meantime? Just in case?"

  "If you find another job that pays better, you take it." She smacked me across the butt. "We have to keep the money coming in, babe, you know that."

  "Yeah, I know." It did not make me feel any better, but she was right. We had to pay the bills.

  Yet, I knew there was something better out there for me somewhere.

  And Brook never did mention my birthday.

  Chapter Two

  Monday morning I was in my usual seat on the bus on my way to work and not looking forward to Jason's insistence that I was wrong about the Rizzo's article. He had ignored my recommendation to add the customer interview, and in the process, the article fell flat. All I would be able to do was shake my head and offer condolences because anything more than that and he would blow up.