Skila

I barely make it to the toilet before projectile vomit shoots out of my mouth, coating the bowl of the toilet. Slumping against the seat, I wait for my racing heart to slow and the watering of my mouth to dry up. I hate getting sick, abso-fucking-lutely hate it. My whole body shakes uncontrollably, making it hard for me to stand, but I manage.

I turn the faucet and fill my hands with cold water. Bringing it to my mouth, I swish it around and then spit it back into the sink. Rinse and repeat. Rinse and repeat. By the time I’m finished, my heartrate has slowed and the shaking has subsided. Leaving the water running, I let the noise distract me. I open the medicine cabinet and search for a thermometer. What I thought was nerves from the move has swiftly morphed into something more. Always the hypochondriac, I fear the worst. Lisa knocks lightly on the bathroom door.

“Skila, Are you okay?”

It was taking more time than I thought to adjust to living with someone else, like having someone there during all your embarrassing moments—including but not limited to jumping up from the breakfast table and making a mad dash to the bathroom to puke your guts up.

“Yeah, I’m fine.” I open the door so she can see for herself. “I think I have the flu. Do you have a thermometer?”

She reaches in and places her hand against my forehead. “You don’t feel warm. Look behind the Q-tips.”

I move away from her and grab the thermometer, popping it into my mouth. It beeps a minute later—99.1. Lisa’s still waiting by the door, so I turn it to her and let her read it.

“Not bad. I can make you an appointment with my doctor if you want. He can usually get you in pretty quick,” she says.

“Thanks. Will you text me and let me know what time? I gotta hurry and get ready.”

I’ve got exactly one hour and three minutes to get dressed and resemble some sort of human being before I'm due to arrive at Los Angeles Daily Home. My boss in Atlanta had come through for me and managed to get me transferred. I'm now the presiding sports reporter of the biggest newspaper in the Los Angeles district. It was going to be a big change for me, transitioning from reporting political issues to sports.

Luckily, I have two older brothers, so I know my way around them . . . sorta. Either way, I need to be on my A-game. Beginning the morning with puking my guts up isn’t the way to do it.

Twenty minutes later, I’m showered, dressed, sliding my feet into a pair of comfy black flats, and running out the door. Twenty-five minutes after that, I'm walking through the front doors of my new job.

This place is magnificent. I take the elevator up to the third floor and tell the waiting receptionist—a busty blonde wearing way too much lipstick—that I'm there to see Mr. Ames. She rakes her eyes over my body, clearly finding me lacking in something, before meeting my eyes.

“Name?” she asks. Her voice is rough and raspy. I’d bet my new Coach purse that she smoked at least a pack a day.

“Skila Parker,” I say, getting straight to the point. Nothing about this woman makes you think that she would be up for small talk. She doesn’t reply. I stand for a moment at her desk, wondering what to do now. She’s typing something on her keyboard, ignoring my presence. I take the opportunity to glance around. Across from her desk is a wall of clear glass. I can see straight through it to the numerous offices throughout the third floor.

It’s a busy office. I can tell that immediately. People are rushing around in a state of calm chaos. I notice a man walking toward the exit door and assume he’s coming for me. My assumption is granted a moment later.

“Miss Parker? I’m Brent Ames. Follow me, please.” He greets me warmly, offering his hand. I take it and follow him without a single glance back at the snobby receptionist.

Mr. Ames—Brent—makes quick work of showing me the ropes. He introduces me to the editor, a short, balding man in his early forties, and then gives me my first assignment. Hiding the surprise on my face took effort—more than I had at the moment.

“I know, I know. If this were a perfect world, then I’d spend a week training you before throwing you to the wolves, but it’s not, and my senior sports reporter left me high and dry last week. So it’s all on you. Your boss claimed you were one of the best he had ever seen—a natural, and I’m gonna have to put that to the test. No choice, ya know.” He shrugs his shoulders, and I almost feel bad for him and the position he’s been left in.

“I’ll do my best.”

He leaves me to get settled in. My office is one of the larger ones on the floor, situated in the back corner, and I can feel the stare of others in the room, no doubt wondering how the hell I managed to land this job. Squaring my shoulders, I log into the computer in front of me with the passcode Brent gave me and go through some prior articles of the old sports reporter to try and get a handle on what the paper is looking for. After two hours of endless searching, my head is pounding and I’m ready to scream. All I see are numbers. Is that all this is? I feel like it should be more . . . personal.

Lisa texts me around ten to let me know I’ve got an appointment at two this afternoon. Perfect. I leave my new office around one and hail a cab to the doctor. When I finish there, I head home to get ready for tonight and my first assignment.

Tonight, the Bolts play at home against the Tycoons in the first playoff game of the season. I spent the better part of the wait in the doctor’s office reading up on the game and rules so I would have a better understanding when the time to interview came. I pray I get the chance. I need to prove myself to my new boss, and this is my one chance to do it.

Stepping from the tub, I dry off gently and coat my skin with sweet smelling cherry almond lotion. I close my eyes and imagine my stranger’s hands rubbing the lotion into my skin, massaging it with his large, masculine hands that he trails up and down my body, touching and caressing every part of me.

Snapping my eyes back open, I shake my head clear before stepping into my tight high-waist, black pencil skirt. I tuck the tail of my bright red blouse into it and zip the side up. Pulling the pins from my hair, I let it cascade down my back and then choose a few small strands around my face to twist and pull back away from my face. I finish the look with a pair of black, closed-toe heels and a yellow cardigan just in case I get chilled.

I’m still adjusting to the temps in LA. Late April in Atlanta is usually warm, mid-sixties at least, but it could get a little cold at night. LA seemed to be the perfect temperature year-round, but I knew the one time I didn’t bring something warm would be the one time it got cold. Better safe than sorry.

“I’ll be back later,” I call out on my way to the front door.

“Be careful, and have fun,” Lisa’s reply comes from the kitchen.

It’s now or never. I take a deep breath and close the door behind me. I’ve got this. Please, God, let me have this.