Just a Girl - Becky Monson Page 0,13

have happened if it weren’t for me. Well, it might have happened, but we’ll never know, will we? So essentially, she owes me. Maybe she could . . . no. It would definitely be a no. Plus, I have no other ideas up my sleeve.

I huff out another breath. “Are we done here, Jer? I’ve got some news reporting to do,” I say with a chin lift toward the studio where a crew is checking lighting.

He mutters something under his breath. “Enjoy it, because who knows how much longer ya got.” He raises his eyebrows, displaying his come-at-me-B face.

I roll my eyes. Jerry tends to err on the side of catastrophic. When the original video came out, he was sure we were both going to get the boot. But that never happened. And even though I knew the station wasn’t happy with me, they didn’t make a move to fire me.

We still don’t know how the video got out. It could have easily been recorded with a phone or another device, or even spliced from a DVR recording. But what was released was so crisp and clean, it was almost as if it had to have come from here at the station. At first I had wondered if it was the execs who had done the deed thinking it could be good exposure for the station. But that seemed a bit far-fetched. Plus, our demographic—especially during the day—tends to be old retired people who don’t care for such “colorful language.” At least that was what we heard over and over again in the emails, social media posts, and hundreds of calls that came into the station.

Jerry walks away in a huff. Why did he feel the need to tell me this before I have to report the news? A good producer would know it would be best not to fluster the talent and to wait until after the show to tell them about something that might take their focus away. But Jerry has no sympathy in his body. Not even a pinkie finger’s worth.

I feel a tap on my shoulder and turn my head to find Carlos standing behind me with a mic set in his hands. I stand up and slip off my jacket, pulling my blonde hair over my shoulder so he has access to my back. He gingerly pulls my tucked-in blouse out and hooks the receiver to my pants. I pivot before he attempts to tuck my shirt back in. He’s tried that before, and I know it wasn’t meant to be in a creepy way—Carlos is the sweetest guy. It was more of an awkward thing, like he wasn’t sure what to do after he’d untucked my shirt and felt responsible to tuck it back in.

I throw my jacket on, and he clips the mic to the lapel. And then with a nod, he’s gone.

Carlos usually shows up ten minutes before we go on air; I look at my watch, and sure enough, it’s just about that time.

Here we go.

~*~

She’s seen it. Moriarty has seen the blooper reel. I can tell by the twinkle in her eye when she spies me across the newsroom. I just wrapped up the show with my co-anchor, Parker, and am heading back to my desk when she catches me in her devil snare.

She saunters over my way, her thin figure in a red tailored suit coat and matching pencil skirt. Red is perfect for her—it matches her evil insides. She tosses her perfectly straight dark-brown hair over her shoulder as she approaches, her large brown eyes wide with anticipation. Her eyebrows and forehead stay perfectly in place, due to a regular diet of Botox.

I hate that she has the job I want. And I hate that she will never lose said job. She’s been at KCFL for nearly fifteen years. Her name is synonymous with the station. I know for a fact she’s done some shady things—like take money for side gigs, which is a big no-no here. But no one seems to bat an eye. I bet if she dropped an f-bomb on air, they’d give her a raise.

“Well, hello, Quinn,” she coos, and I briefly wonder what kind of machine she uses to file down her horns.

“Hey there, Stacey,” I say, adding as much brightness to my tone as I possibly can. It’s not easy. “What can I help you with?”

“Oh, I’m good. I was actually wondering if you’ve seen it?”

I give a smile, hopefully reflecting the