The Dirty Series 1(6)

A memory of my slimy, weakass father flashes across my mind. He wasn’t legit. I’ll never forget the day they came to arrest him for a laundry list of embarrassing white-collar crimes. It wasn’t until the trial that I saw him for what he was: a coward and a fraud. The last thing I need is to get into a situation that looks like it’s just more of his “creative accounting.”

This isn’t creative accounting. From what John has said, this is a bailout.

And who has more power than the guy writing the checks?

I’ll do it. Why the hell not? I can afford to lose a couple million if it goes south, and either way I’ll come out smelling like roses. If I can’t turn around some publishing company when they’re up against the goddamn Internet, I won’t be the first.

“Tell you what, John. I’ll bite. But I’ll warn you—I don’t plan on leaving power structures intact. I’m going to be doing some reorganizing.”

“We expected as much.” The relief in his voice is palpable.

“Be ready for a call from my business manager by the afternoon,” I say crisply, then let him thank me too many times before I disconnect the call.

The thought of the destruction I’m about to wreak on Williams-Martin has my blood humming in my veins. I could go another round right now.

But Alina is long gone. Sometimes you’re too hasty, Hunter.

My heart is still beating with leftover anticipation as I strip off my clothes and step into the shower. It’s just a pet project, something I wouldn’t normally pay much attention to, but I could use just this kind of distraction from all the shit that’s been going on.

All I need to do is get to the office.





Chapter Four





Cate



Sandra shuts herself in her office for most of the morning while I force myself to sift through the daily deluge of emails, tracking shipments, scheduling, confirming, confirming, confirming. It’s hard to type with jittery hands, a jittery mind. But the work never ends. There’s always another issue in the works, always another set of clothes, models, designers to slot into Sandra’s schedule. I have to get it done, or the afternoon will be a nightmare.

That bitch.

The thought bubbles up from behind my barricade of professionalism and I swat at it like it’s in the air in front of me, like I’d swat away a mosquito. Sandra isn’t a bitch. She’s demanding and hyper-focused on her work, and the problem she’s faced with—that we’re both faced with—is something I can’t help her with, even if it takes everything I have not to press my ear up against the doors to her office. A single word. A single word is all I need to take the edge off after what she told me this morning.

Her words reverberate endlessly in my mind. “Williams-Martin is bankrupt,” she’d said, slipping her reading glasses off and placing them precisely back into the drawer. “They’ll need a solution shortly. If one isn’t found, the office will close. In a matter of weeks, I assume.”

Instead of letting my mouth drop open, I pinched my lips shut to keep from screaming.

I’ve been at Basiqué for fifteen months. Fifteen agonizing months. Back in college, I struggled with pulling all-nighters for important projects. I’d start out determined with a stack of granola bars and some off-brand energy drink and by 2:30 in the morning I’d find myself in the dorm-room bathroom, brushing my teeth too hard and fast before a frantic dash back to bed. How long has it been since I went to bed early or slept past 7:00? Months. And all for this job. If I have to start over…

The phone on my desk starts to ring, and my hand is on the receiver before the first tone is over. In that split second I register that it’s Sandra calling from her office and not an outside request of some kind.

“Hello, Sandra—” I say before she cuts me off.

“Tell editorial to stop work on the policewoman feature. The content will be substituted.”

“I’ll do that right away.” The line clicks off.

I had been in the middle of writing three related emails—now that Sandra has cancelled this morning’s meetings, the approvals process for a photo shoot scheduled later in the week has to be pushed back, so I need to re-coordinate the photographer and the designer for later in the week at a time that won’t completely screw up the rest of the week. It doesn’t help at all that tomorrow is a bank holiday. I must need to sleep more—how did the Fourth of July slip my mind?—but more sleep is a joke, especially now. I can’t afford to let anything slip.

It’s not an ideal situation, leaving my desk empty so I can go talk to Kirk—the head of editorial—but I slip my cell phone in my pocket and push the “forward” button on my phone. I’ll only be gone a few minutes.