Geektastic Page 4

  I glance around the assembled group.

  Stan is the closest to me in age, maybe ten years older. He’s not terrible looking, if you don’t mind the beer belly and receding hairline.

  He belches and then shifts and glances around to see if anyone noticed, and I avert my eyes.

  Maybe not.

  Also, ew. I really am getting desperate.

  “I can cover the parade next week,” Mike puts in and Bruce assigns him the coverage.

  “Speaking of the parade, Annabel, how’s it going with the public opinion surveys?” Bruce levels me with a squinty-eyed stare that he thinks makes him look like Clint Eastwood but really makes him look sleepy.

  “It’s going. I also have the write-up from the township meeting to put in.”

  “Uh-huh. How many respondents so far on the parade question?”

  It’s a point of contention within the community. There’s a Turkey Parade and a Holiday Lights Parade within a couple weeks of each other and they’re both in November. Part of the population thinks the light parade should be moved closer to the Christmas holidays. Another segment thinks it should remain as it is since it’s tradition. And the rest think the two parades should be combined because the Turkey Parade is basically a bunch of glowing turkey floats and balloons and very similar to the light parade anyway.

  I glance over my notebook like the number on the page will magically grow before I have to answer. “Three.”

  It’s not my fault.

  Bruce comes up with these boring questions, like, What’s your favorite winter activity in Blue Falls? What new businesses would you like to see make their homes in Blue Falls? How do you think the mayor is doing? That last one had me tied up for an hour while I listened to an angry constituent go on and on about the state of affairs and how the new mines being run outside town ruined everything and are only here to line the mayor’s already fat pockets. Then when I tried to take his picture to accompany his statement, his eyes darted around and he yelled, “I won’t be captured!” and ran off.

  Bruce’s bushy white eyebrows lift. “Three?”

  I nod.

  The entire room falls silent. I half expect a tumbleweed to blow through.

  Finally, Bruce nods. “We’ll talk later.”

  Then he has Jane recap our assignments before the meeting breaks up.

  Stan corners Bruce to talk more about his article and I escape to my little cubicle to power up my computer and get things started for the day.

  Maybe Bruce will forget about the whole having-a-conversation thing.

  I take a breath. I was incredibly lucky to get this job. The last reporter left for New York and an opening basically dropped into my lap. It helped that I’d kept an eye on the place from across the street when I was schlepping burgers at the Finer Diner through college, and that Bruce went to high school with my parents.

  I log in and open a blank document to start on the township meeting write-up.

  For a second, I stop and stare at the white page.

  I used to love a blank screen. It used to mean a fresh start. Endless possibilities. No limits. Hope flashing in every blink of the cursor.

  Now it means writing the riveting details of Prudence Brown’s prize-winning roses, the newest flavor at the Frostee Freeze, or the latest play showing at Blue Falls High.

  I’ve given up on old dreams. They can’t pay the bills, and every time I chased them in the past, I got knocked back down to earth.

  I’m still staring at my computer, my heart suspiciously heavy, when Stan comes back to his desk. A breeze of excess cologne and stale coffee wafts by as he plops down in his cubby next to mine, chair squeaking.

  “You’re up, Anna Banana.” He smirks.

  I hate it when he calls me that and he knows it, so I ignore it. “What do you mean?” I sort papers on my desk and sit up straight, trying to appear important.

  “Bruce wants to see you in his office.” Stan is grinning at me like he can’t wait to listen in from the break room like everyone does every time someone’s in Bruce’s office. The walls are so thin you can hear nearly every word in the bullpen.

  I roll my eyes at Stan and march toward Bruce’s office like I have nothing to hide.

  And I don’t.

  Bruce’s office has the same muted-blue carpet and beige tones as the rest of the building. There’s an old chair that smells like cigarettes and moldy paper. I choose to stand after he shuts the door and sits at his desk.

  “You wanna talk about why you’re struggling with the opinion pieces?” His voice is flat.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Come on, Annabel. Don’t piss on my leg and tell me it’s rainin’. We’ve talked about this before. You don’t take this job seriously.”

  “That’s not true. I’ve been working really hard. I’m doing the best I can.”

  Maybe if I tell three different lies, he’ll believe one of them.

  His brow lifts. “If getting three people to respond is your best, maybe it’s time to cut your losses and find a new horse to ride.”

  “What do you mean?” My voice emerges on a high squeak. I clear my throat and cross my arms over my chest. “You said I’m a great writer.”

  He nods. “You’re good with words.” He leans his elbows on the table and steeples his hands. “I know you think this town is as country as cornflakes, but if you want to make it in this business, you need to prove you have what it takes. Journalism isn’t like it was twenty years ago. You gotta work harder than a funeral home fan in July no matter where you’re livin’. And you gotta take every job seriously. Even the surveys.”

  I don’t know what to say so I stand there stupidly. I don’t want to be a journalist. But no one knows that except me.

  “There are other people in this town who would love to work here.”

  My ears start ringing. “Are you . . . firing me?”

  “No.” He sighs. “Not yet.”

  “Yet?”

  “I’ll give you a month probation. But you need to contribute and give it your best. I know you hate the routine articles, but come up with something new. Wow me.”

  I nod. This whole conversation sucks. I want it to be over. Mostly because . . . he’s right. My face is warm and tingly and I can’t meet his eyes.

  I don’t take this town seriously and now I’m going to end up a jobless, homeless, talentless wretch.

  When I turn to leave, he speaks at my back.

  “I know you can do this. You have all the markings of a great writer. You just need to put yourself out there more.”

  Saying nothing, I shut the door behind me without looking back and make a beeline for the bathroom.

  Stan and Mike step into my path.

  “Nice work there, Barbara Walters,” Stan says.

  Mike chuckles.

  I ignore them both and keep walking.

  Once safely alone with the door locked, I take a few minutes to splash cold water on my face and breathe deep. Maybe Bruce is right. I’m being a snob. I can find a good story no matter where I’m at or what it’s about. I need to focus on the here and now. I just need to . . . put more energy into it. Do the hard work. And focus. Isn’t that the mark of a great writer? Tenacity in the face of insurmountable odds? Even if it’s not what I want deep down?

  I head back out to my desk, head high, but it doesn’t really matter because Stan and Mike are gone already anyway.

  At my computer, I pull up a file where I keep all my ideas.

  I run down the list, discarding most and adding a few new thoughts from last night’s township meeting, trying to stay positive. Sometimes even the most innocuous leads can lead to something. I think.

  Once I’ve narrowed it down a bit, I eye each option more critically.

  The crop circles at Mr. Johnson’s.

  No. Aliens are overdone anyway.

  Creepy vans moving around town.

  Has potential. Maybe there is something to it. I could creep around town and
find them myself. Knock on the window, maybe. But what if it’s as simple as Rudy said? More people in town, nothing to worry about. I need something good.

  My eyes move over the next item on my list. Jude Parker.

  Damn his eyes. His name is on the list next to the campus gambling line item from a meeting two months ago, and something buzzes in my head.

  It was actually Bruce’s idea. He had gotten wind of the campus gambling and thought there might be a story. Since I had gone to Blue Falls U and graduated only a year ago, I was the only one who could blend.

  That’s how I found out Fitz was involved in said gambling and living with Jude Parker.

  When I told Bruce the deets, he was interested in Jude himself and who he was, where he’d come from, how he had gotten involved in the gambling, and why the cops weren’t more concerned about it. I mean, there hadn’t been as much as a noise complaint.

  We did some digging, but he had no trail. Nothing on him. Like a ghost.

  I teased and argued with Jude to try to get him to spill hints about his past, but he always eluded my questions.

  I even snooped around his place but didn’t find anything useful except he definitely has more computer equipment than your average citizen needs, and his level of tech doesn’t fit with the appearance he’s trying to project. It’s definitely a façade, but to hide what?

  I ended up writing a lame piece on the ethics of campus gambling because the cops didn’t care about a little wagering—I mean, the frats have casino night at least three times a semester—and there really was nothing all that interesting about Jude except the fact that he’s hiding something, including a six-pack underneath that beard and those weird cat robes. But no one was interested. The fine readers of the Daily Blue want to hear about where the next Rotary Club meeting will be, why the stoplight on Main Street is broken, and what the one-screen cinema downtown will show next.

  But maybe I can follow this thread. Just once more. If it doesn’t pan out, I’ll drop it. But I need something to keep my job, to keep a roof over my head and Fitz’s.

  I know Jude’s using Reese’s car tomorrow night. It would be easy to follow him. I can do this. My goals will not be swayed by a hot dude with sexy lust tentacles.

  Not ever again.

  Chapter Four

  Sing in me, Muse, and through me tell the story of that man skilled in all ways of contending

  A wanderer, harried for years on end . . .

  —Homer, The Odyssey

  Jude

  I reckon I’m being pursued.

  Annabel would be less conspicuous if her fan belt weren’t shrieking like a hog being tied at a barnyard picnic.

  Maybe I should attempt maneuvers to lose her, but I find myself curious about what her intentions are and why she feels the sudden need to tail me through town when she’s been working so hard to avoid me.

  I want her to find me, even if it’s just to fight me.

  She’s the Gamora to my Star-Lord.

  The Leia to my Solo.

  The Dean to my Sam.

  A few blocks away from the middle school, I pull down a darkened side street and park under a tree. I keep to the shadows, weaving through the residential neighborhood. People are home in their living rooms, watching sitcoms and movies and eating popcorn. Wouldn’t that be nice, to have no more to worry about than what’s on TV and what to make for dinner?

  There’s some kind of soiree transpiring at the school tonight. The lot is full of family vans and sedans. I avoid the area near the gym doors, where the thump of music spills out into the night, and instead make my way to the side entrance, where I’ve been informed the door to the band room will be left unlocked.

  I reach the prescribed location without incident, turn the scuffed metal handle, and slide it open on a long creak.

  The room is empty. Moonlight through the windows highlights chairs and music stands stacked on the sides of the large open space.

  I check the trash can, as that tends to be Grace’s modus operandi, and locate a lumpy object under the bag lining the can. An envelope.

  There’s a flash drive inside. I glance around the room, making another cursory check for any additional items, but nothing else is out of place. She doesn’t typically leave more than one item anyway, but it never hurts to check. I toss the envelope, and while I’m walking out the door, I slide the drive into the front pocket of my pants.

  Hopefully, it contains information about her future plans and endeavors, but I doubt it. She doesn’t want us to get hurt. She’s always been too damn honorable for her own good. And knowing Grace, leading me on this wild goose chase is all good fun for her.

  A flash of movement catches my eye. On my right, behind a tree about fifteen feet away.

  There are two options here. The more likely one is that a blonde-haired, brown-eyed goddess who was already on my tail has found her way to my location and is currently awaiting my next move. Option two is more sinister and connected to Grace and perhaps those dark vans that were a topic of conversation at the town hall meeting.

  Better to be safe than attacked.

  Tense, but not wanting to let on that I know someone’s there, I pat my pockets like I’ve forgotten something and slink back into the building, down the hall, and into another classroom. I have to pull off the screen, but then I shimmy out the window, coming out behind the tree that hides my watcher.

  When I discover my tail, a smile presses at my lips. From behind, her blonde hair glints in the darkness, calling like a beacon.

  Annabel.

  Moving as silently as Mr. Bojangles, I approach her from behind.

  She’s peering around the trunk of the tree, her head turning this way and that, likely wondering where I’ve disappeared to.

  She’s completely unaware I’m behind her.

  She spins on her heel and lashes out with her fist, right at my solar plexus.

  I’m caught off guard, thought the blow would have been much worse had I not pulled back at the last second. I lose a bit of breath but manage to reach out for her arms before she does any more damage. Mistaking my reach as aggression—at least, that’s what I tell myself—she blocks my hands and skims her foot behind my legs, sending me to the ground. I grab her by the shoulders this time and yank her down with me.

  “Annabel,” I wheeze. “It’s me.”

  She either can’t hear my attempt to push words out of my lungs or doesn’t care because she’s on top of me—and not in the way I’ve always imagined.

  She pins my arms down, her hair a messy halo around her. I could break out of this hold with ease, but I don’t want to. She’s a lioness. A beautiful, skilled warrior. An amazon.

  She’s breathtaking.

  And so I laugh, which clearly pisses her off, and her hands flex on me tighter.

  “What are you doing at a middle school dance?” she hisses. “Are you some kinda pervert?”

  I take my time answering, regaining my breath and enjoying the feel of her over me. “I could ask you the same question, darlin’.”

  “Don’t call me that. And don’t you try and turn it around on me, Jude Parker. What are you mixed up in? Why are you here?” Clearly not concerned about any retribution I might administer, she liberates one of my arms and uses a free hand to pat at my front pockets. “What did you put in here?”

  She must have observed me putting the drive in my pocket. I’m not sure what’s worse, having her on top of me, legs squeezed around my waist, or her hand roaming around my hips.

  Said hand stills when it comes across the hard, small lump of the flash drive.

  I shift underneath her, making no moves to stop her roving hand. “I’ve got something a little bigger for you over to the left.”

  “Ha ha ha, you sure about that Parker? That’s not what I remember.”

  I recognize the verbal tongue-lashing for what it is. She’s still hurt about when I wouldn’t sleep with her.

  But it was for her own good. When we’re tog
ether I want it to mean something more to her than a quick release, which was all she was interested in. Catch and release. Not happening.

  She sticks her fingers into the lip of my pocket and that’s when I take the upper hand, rolling until she’s underneath me. I hold her hands in one of mine, a gentle bracket over her head since she’s already squirming.

  “I find this position is more appealing at times for the ladies. The angle can be better.”

  “Tease,” she says, just before she tries to head-butt me.

  I jerk back and narrowly avoid a forehead to the nose. And then my wild cat relaxes every muscle, allowing herself to go limp.

  I’m in serious trouble.

  I don’t relax my hold. “Annabel. I’m going to get up. Please don’t hurt me.”

  Her shoulders start shaking. Now she’s the one laughing.

  “Oh, you find this situation humorous?”

  I take a deep breath to brace myself before pulling back and up, stepping away, prepared for another sneak attack. But she doesn’t attack.

  She rolls to her feet, hair flying, cheeks flushed with exertion.

  She’s so beautiful. My brain transforms into a browser window with 1400 tabs open, gets overwhelmed, and goes into shutdown. I’m momentarily dumbfounded. So much so, she’s waving the flash drive at me for a full three seconds before I realize she even has it. “So. What’s on this?”

  “You don’t know what you’re getting involved in.”

  “Then tell me.”

  “I reckon I can’t do that.”

  “Why not?” One hand on her hip, cocked to the side.

  “It may not be safe.”

  She rolls her eyes. “I know you’re not who you say you are.”

  Everything inside me stills. “I am Jude Parker.”

  She shrugs. “So you say.”

  “Who do you think I am?”

  “Nope. No way. You spill first. Then I’ll give you this back.”

  My mind rushes through possibilities and potential outcomes. I have no one to talk to except Beast, and Beast doesn’t talk. I want Annabel in my life, despite her prickly demeanor. Plus she’s a local. Maybe she could help. Maybe I could offer her a story in exchange for her assistance.