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Julie
“You have got to be kidding me!” I slam my hands down on the desk, which causes a chain reaction that I was not prepared for. My pen cup tips over causing pencils to roll all over the desktop, my USB mouse falls on the floor knocking the battery out which then rolls under the file cabinet. I bang the back of my head on the desk while sitting back up after failing to retrieve the battery before it rolls to the land of the lost, which shakes the cubicle wall and knocks all the magnets off onto my neighbor Marie’s desk. This then causes her to jump back in surprise and spill her tea onto the floor.
“Julie!” Marie squeals from her side of the divider. “What gives chickee?”
Marie Tolson is a high-spirited 26-year-old with bright pink hair that has been working here at Metropolitan Weekly for three years. Marie is upbeat, outgoing, a lover of all types of music, and has an unhealthy obsession with candy filled suckers. She is rarely seen with headphones, even though she constantly has a mysterious playlist playing in her head that only she can hear. She keeps me on my toes, but we rarely hang out outside of work even though she’s technically my only friend. Marie’s idea of a great night involves a bottle of merlot and whatever hot new erotic romance novel she has downloaded to her Kindle.
I met Marie a little over three months ago when I first started working here. I was new to the city, having moved here by myself right out of college, and I didn’t know anyone. Marie introduced herself to me right away when she saw me take over the cubicle space on the other side of the wall from her. I liked her right away, she was easy to talk to with her congenial attitude and she took me under her wing immediately offering to show me around and help me acclimate to city life.
Marie is very opinionated on the types of things that I should be wearing saying things like “You have a great body you just need to show it off a little.” Or “Your eyes are so lovely, maybe if you did a little bright lipstick to detract from those glasses, you could really show them off.” I’ve never been ashamed of my glasses. It has just always been something that I learned to accept when I was growing up having been wearing them since junior high. My glasses are just another part of me now. I did try contacts once just to see if I could get past the bulky frames and I just couldn’t get the hang of it. There’s just something about putting a foreign object in my eye that I never quite got comfortable with. And taking them out? I’m not even going to go there; I will just say it was a nightmare and not something that I’m anxious to repeat.
“Nothing is going right for me today.” I cry, putting a hand to the back of my head to soothe the ache from hitting the desk. I look up in time to see Marie standing beside me with her hands on her hips and one eyebrow raised.
“What could possibly have happened to cause you to destroy my sanctum?”
“I’m sorry, Marie. Is it bad?”
She relaxes in her stance and waves her arm in the air dismissively. “Nah. The tea was shit anyway, even before it went all over the floor. It didn’t get on anything important.” She giggles. “So, what’s up?”
“This story I’m working on is bogus. Seriously, when are we going to get something real to report?”
“Something real? Have you forgotten where you work?” Marie has a point. Travis, our editor, acts like we write for a two-bit gossip rag. The stories are shit. Most of them are embellished and impossible to prove but they sell papers and keep me in a job.
“Ugh. You’re right. I just thought I’d be doing something better than this by now.” I say as I slam my head down on my desk, resting my forearms on my knees.
“Cheer up, buttercup. At least you’re still pulling a check, yeah?” She laughs, walking back to her desk and rehanging her magnets.
I sit back in my chair and huff out a breath. I begin to rub my temples as I glare at my laptop and consider how I ended up here. I knew at an early age what I wanted to be when I grew up, I wanted to be just like my father. He was an English Professor at the University of Southern California, but he was also a writer in his spare time, which is probably where I got my interest in writing. My father, Michael Harrington, was a writer of fiction who had written hundreds of short stories and was published in different magazines around the country.
My mother, Melody, is still a librarian at a grade school in Inglewood where I grew up. That was how she met my father as a matter of fact. She had gone to the University library one evening to look for a book, something other than one she would have found in a grade school. While there, she literally bumped into my father. He used to tell the story all the time while I was growing up. It was an easy anecdote to pacify friends and family at their anniversary dinners. She was walking through the book stacks with her nose buried in a book and ran right into my father who was doing the exact same thing. It was love at first sight, or so the story was told.
My high school had a journalism club which contributed to the school paper. I signed up my freshman year and knew right away that I had found my calling. Writing for the school paper challenged me to look deeper than what was obvious and uncover the truth no matter the consequences. As much as I wanted to follow in my father’s footsteps, my imagination would not allow me to write fiction. I realized by the end of my freshman year that I was passionate about exposing and writing the truth.
During my junior year, I wrote a story reporting on a scandal in the sports department which had involved a wrestling team, football cheerleaders and plenty of marijuana. I had spent several weeks befriending a couple of the girls that were trying to ‘fit in’. We had gotten an invitation to one of the parties, which I reluctantly attended in order to get more information to substantiate the rumors that I’d heard. It didn’t take long talking to the right people and getting a few well-positioned selfies to have the evidence that I needed for a story.
My mother was livid when I showed her the article in the school paper. She was more concerned with how I would be mistrusted by my classmates rather than making more friends. I suppose that she was right because there were quite a few students that got into trouble. I ended up with a lot more enemies than friends for the last two years of school. It did, however, help me to decide my senior year that I wanted to pursue a career in investigative journalism, and I was accepted at UCLA.
Two weeks after graduating with my degree, I packed up and left my mother’s small bungalow and moved to the city for my new job and life as a journalist. Leaving was difficult since it had been just me and my mother since my freshman year of high school when my father had passed away. The one-bedroom apartment that I rent in the city is small and cramped but it’s mine and I love it. Not to mention it’s affordable and I don’t have to struggle on the little bit I get paid at the paper. It may not be my dream job but once I get a good story, and make the front page, my prospects will start to look up.
The newspaper that I write for, Metropolitan Weekly, is not big and certainly not very well known. They don’t even have real photographers. They purchase most of their photos from local freelance photographers, which I’m sure they pay pennies for compared to some of the other papers.
This is a steppingstone in my career. I always had high hopes of writing about Hollywood scandals or something more interesting that made the papers and magazines around the country. I really wanted something that would involve more investigation and less time on the phone or sitting in front of a laptop. I rarely get any field work with Metropolitan Weekly. I used to dream about my name being well known or seeing my face on the side of the city busses as they speed down the street. But we’ve all got to start somewhere, and for me that somewhere just barely pays the bills.
“Hey, isn’t today Wednesday?” Marie mumbles around a sucker as she begins typing again.
“Yeah.” I answer. “Why?”
“Umm. You’re gonna be late.”
“What? No, I’m not. It’s only...” I look at the clock on my laptop. “Oh shit!” I exclaim noticing the time. I reach into the bottom drawer of my desk and grab my purse, shoving my phone in my back pocket, and rushing to the elevator. In my haste, I leave everything open on my desk, including my laptop. Oh well, it will be locked in a few minutes anyway.
This morning is no different than any other Wednesday morning. Every week since moving here, my mother drives into the city to meet me for coffee. Club Coffee, the coffee shop where we meet, is only a couple of blocks from my office and takes only a few minutes to walk there. She usually spends an hour blathering about her knitting club friends, criticizing my life choices and lack of a relationship, or trying to set me up with her best friend’s son, Edward. I spend most of the hour every week smiling and daydreaming while she talks about whatever new project she’s been working on.
I love being able to spend this time with her since I moved out of her house, regardless of my lack of interest in knitting. I did try to learn how to knit once hoping that it would be something that we could do to spend time together. I watched hundreds of YouTube videos and spent hours trying to get a single knit purl sequence down until my fingers were cramping. I gave up before I even had a single row done and decided that coffee would be all that we’d be able to really share together. I was not a knitter, and she was not a writer.
I walk through the door of Club Coffee and take my place in line deciding to order my coffee before finding my mother. The interior of the café is a mixture of hipster meets retro chic with its hard wood floors, brick accent walls, black chalkboard menus, and Edison lights hanging over the counter. The walls are adorned with photographs and paintings of all types and sizes featuring the work of local artists. If you stand close enough, you can see a small strip of paper attached to the lower corner of each frame with an Instagram name that will lead you to the artist’s page.
As I approach the counter, I am greeted by an exuberant barista wearing a nametag that lets me know her name is Amber. Amber is petite with blond hair pulled back into a tight ponytail and purple eyeshadow which matches her tight purple jeans. She has a diamond stud glittering in her left nostril and an extra pep in her step that makes me think she consumes just as much caffeine as she sells daily. I place my normal order for a skinny caramel macchiato and tell her my name so she can write it on my cup. Using my phone, I pay for my order before turning to find my mother sitting at a table near the window. I wave, letting her know I see her before standing to the side to wait for my order.
There’s still quite a few people waiting to place their orders, so I step around to the side of the counter so I’m out of the way. My eye catches a beautiful photograph which is framed in brushed nickel and hanging on the brick wall. It’s a black and white picture of the Los Angeles skyscrapers in downtown. It’s an amazing contrast of new and old architecture, but what catches my eye is the angle in which it was taken. The camera was facing up at an angle, perfectly framed by palm trees, as though being viewed by any pedestrian or tourist on a tour of the city. I’m just getting ready to step closer so I can see if there’s an Instagram tag on the corner when I hear my name called from behind the counter. After grabbing my coffee from Amber, I walk to the table to greet my mother with a hug. “Hi mom.”
“Hi Julie. How are you?”
“I’m good mom. How are things with you?” I always ask her the same thing even though we talk daily, and I see her every Wednesday. She looks distinguished today too in her navy-blue dress and sandals. Her hair is pinned on her head in a loose bun, with her glasses perched high on her nose. She and I share the nearsighted gene, probably the only thing that I inherited from her rather than my father. She still looks like a school librarian, with her knitting bag sitting on the seat next to her. She never goes anywhere without her latest project.
“Julie.” Mom says while resting her hand on my arm and leaning across the table to get my attention. “Have you heard anything I’ve said?” There I am, caught in a daydream again. I honestly don’t even know what she’s been talking about. No doubt something to do with her latest knitting project.
“I’m sorry, mom.” I sigh, looking down at my nearly empty coffee and spinning the paper cup between my hands. “I just have a lot on my mind right now.”
“That’s okay, dear. I just feel like you need some time to relax. Stop thinking about work for a while. You know my friend’s son, Edward, has been in town for a few days and he keeps asking about you. You should think about going out with him sometime. Maybe I could give him your number, he can call you and you can go out together for a few drinks. Wouldn’t that be nice?” She asks, a mischievous smile spreading across her face. I see what she’s trying to do.
“Mom, really. Why would you do that? I told you I am not looking to start dating right now. I’m trying to focus on my career.” It doesn’t matter how many times I have told her that I’m not interested in dating Edward, she is not giving up any time soon apparently. She and her best friend, Veronica, have been trying to set the two of us up since high school. He was always a jock, and I was never interested. That has certainly not changed.
Edward Beardman, last I knew, was working for some insurance company in Oregon. I never was close with him and I wouldn’t even consider us friends. So, I never bothered to keep up with him after high school. Not that it would ever stop my mother or her friend from trying to get us together.
“Darling, you really do spend too much time working. And you are not going to get any younger. I would certainly love to have some grandbabies to spoil while I’m still able to get around.” I narrow my eyes and shake my head at her. Not that she is old, but she acts like she will just die if I don’t marry soon and become a baby factory. That is just not something I’m ready to do at 23 years old. And it will never be something that I would want to start with Edward.
Standing up and pushing my chair in, I lean across the table to hug my mother’s neck. “I love you mom. I will think about it okay. I have to get back to work.” And away from this conversation about Edward.
“I’ll see you next week, dear.” I leave her at the table as I exit the coffee shop and head back to the office. She smiles and waves as she watches me leave, while taking a sip of her coffee. I wave at her as I walk past the window on the sidewalk outside.
My phone buzzes in my back pocket while I’m standing at the corner, waiting for the walk-signal to change so I can enter the crosswalk. Unlocking my phone, I grimace at the notification that I receive. It appears to be about another robbery that took place this morning. Apparently, it is comparable to a string of robberies plaguing the city recently that no one has been able to solve.
The robberies all fit the same modus operandi. Typically, they take place at a small business, like family-owned jewelry stores, boutiques, or pawn shops. It’s always very little money being taken from the site, but countless items reported stolen. There have not been any reports of broken entry like windows or doors. Locks are expertly picked leaving minimal damage caused by the initial entry.
What I don’t understand, however, is the lack of evidence. Each victim was reported to have had video surveillance recently installed on site, but no one was able to procure video of the actual crime. That alone seems suspicious enough for me to warrant looking further into the robberies.
Supposedly, the police have no leads and witnesses have not come forth with any information. My head tells me there is more to it than what is being reported, maybe even someone that is covering something up. This is exactly the type of story that I need in order to catch my big break, and I’m determined to be the one to break it.
Pulling up my email app, I start typing out an email to one of my contacts at the LAPD for information on recent burglaries while I walk into the building and toward the elevators. I’m just finishing up the email and pressing SEND when the doors open onto my floor. I start to step out and stop abruptly as I run straight into what feels like a brick wall.
I drop my phone, and of course since I am looking down at the time, my glasses fall off my face and right onto the floor. Great, now not only have I run right into something without paying attention, but I can barely see clearly enough to tell who or what it was. My breath releases on a rush of air and an ‘oomph’ as two hands reach out to grab my arms and stop me from falling on my ass.
“Whoa, steady. Are you okay?” The brick wall asks me in a sexy as hell deep timbre. Ok, obviously not a brick wall after all. Now I feel even worse for not paying attention.
“I’m fine,” I reply. “I’m sorry, I should have been watching where I was going. We post so many ads about texting and driving, I guess I could be the poster-child for texting and walking, right?” And there goes my mouth. I have a bad habit of rambling when I get nervous or embarrassed. I shift nervously from one foot to the other before I look up to see who I ran into, completely forgetting that I can barely see, and squint tightly. I’m sure I will look back on this moment later and think about how embarrassingly stupid I looked trying to make eye contact with someone with my eyes mostly closed and my nose scrunched up.
“Don’t move. Let me get your glasses so you can see.” He says, keeping one hand on my arm.
“Thank you so much.” He places my glasses in my hand and I put them on. When I open my eyes and look straight ahead, I am gazing right into the broadest chest I have ever seen in my life which is covered by a tight black t-shirt, his muscles straining against the fabric at his chest and biceps. My eyes slowly trace down to a narrow waste where the shirt is tucked neatly into black jeans. I lift my eyes back up to see who this perfect body belongs to and I need to take a step back and tilt my head back in order to make eye contact with this beautiful stranger. I have never seen this man before, believe me, I would remember this face. He has dark colored, almost black, hair and the most brilliant Arctic blue eyes I have ever seen. He is exotically attractive with his chiseled jaw, thick dark lashes and his enticing scent of cedar and musk.
“I’m going to let go of your arm now. Are you okay?” He asks, the corners of his mouth curling up slightly.
“Um, yeah. I’m really sorry about that.”
“No harm done. I’m Devan by the way.” I know that he’s checking me out. His eyes are roaming over my body and he’s not being bashful about it at all. My breath catches in my throat as he looks back into my eyes and smiles, displaying a deep dimple in his left cheek. That smile does things to me, I feel it down to my core.
“Julie.” I introduce myself, only one word because I can’t form any other words, but at least I remember my name. My mouth has gone suddenly dry and my tongue seems to be sticking to the roof of my mouth. I can’t form any coherent thoughts at this moment either, but I can stand here and stare at that smile and that dimple all day.
“Nice to meet you, Julie.” He says.
He stares at me expectantly and I clear my throat a few times before I’m able to talk. “Are you new here?” I ask him after managing to find my voice. He doesn’t look like the type to write for a small newspaper like Metropolitan Weekly. “I don’t think I’ve seen you here before.”
He proceeds to tell me that he is a freelance photographer and has been coming here every two weeks for the last three months. That explains why he’s here, most likely getting ripped off by Travis for his photos. Then he asks me something I never expected.
“Did you just ask me out?” I ask him, completely confused.
“Yeah.” He lifts one eyebrow and smiles a crooked smile. “I did.”
“Um... I’m not sure.” Not even thirty minutes ago I was explaining to my mother that I don’t want to date. I have all intentions on getting my career on track before I try to even think about settling down. But I am so tempted right now. I think I might give my right kidney just to be able to sit across from this man and watch him smile at me, just so I can see that dimple again.
“Let me give you my number.” He holds my phone up so it can recognize my face before using it to send himself a text. “There, now you have my number and I have yours. I’ll text you, or you text me, and we can set it up. Seriously, think about it.”
“Um... Okay.” I draw out the last word as I reach out and take my phone from him. Shaking my head, I turn and begin walking away toward my desk. “It was nice meeting you, Devin.”
“It was nice meeting you too, Julie. I look forward to hearing from you soon.”
Still dazed from that conversation with Devan, I sit in my desk chair and stare at my black laptop screen. I’ve never met anyone as bewitching as him and it is going to be a struggle to stay on track and not see him. I jump when my phone vibrates in my hand notifying me of a text message.
Unknown: I’m really glad you ran into me today
I save his phone number in my phone and smile to myself. Oh, this is going to be hard. I really want to see him again.