“Are you kidding? You did not!” Julie screams it so the whole house shakes.

“Okay, don't make a huge deal out of it. It was just one night,” I say. Just one night. We’ll see if I can hold out for that long. Once his lips were on me, I realized just how long it had been since any guy had gone down on me. Elijah never did that. He didn't “like the taste of pussy,” he once said. He was “like most guys,” he said.

“Lord. He's hot as hell. If I had the chance, I'd sit on his face for days,” she starts the coffee maker and fans herself.

“Julie!” I shield my face in embarrassment.

She simply shrugs and takes a bite of toast. “What? I love it that you're coming out of your shell. God knows it’s about time.”

“Oh God, I just don't know if it's a good idea. He like really served over there, you know?” I say the word “there” like it’s a bad word and I immediately regret framing it like that. “Okay that sounded bad,” I admit.

She laughs “So he's like a hero? Yeah, that's real disgusting.” She rolls her eyes at me.

“Well, we’re seeing each other again I guess,” I say. The coffee maker starts making some gurgling noises and I can see that it's done, so I pour two cups for each of us. “I'm going to write a piece on him.”

“Sounds serious. When's the wedding?” She sips her coffee. I laugh when she burns her tongue.

“None of that,” I warn her. The thought of going to work this morning is something I'm dreading. I still have to deal with the wrath of Elijah. I just know he's going to have a field day with Colt threatening him at the festival. Small town drama is not my thing, yet I'm eternally stuck in the thick of it. “Ugh, I'm going to have to deal with the Elijah stuff today. I know he's going to bring last night up. I just want to call out sick and sleep all day.”

“Then do it.” She eats the rest of her toast and throws her plate in the sink. Then, mouth full of crumbs, she mumbles, “I swear. I don't get your dilemmas, girl. Just follow your gut and take control of your life.”

Of course, it's not that simple. I have a house I have to pay rent on and an alcoholic sister who, despite her knowing every good decision for everyone else, has yet to make one good decision for herself. I'm constantly taking care of her and never myself. “I need the money. Plus, I’ve already used up all my sick days. It's out of my hands. I’ll just have to bite the bullet and face him.”

“Good luck,” she sings the words to me as I down my coffee. Lucky for her, she doesn't have a job that pays very well right now. Her job is to “stay healthy,” a task that's proving harder and harder to tackle. She owns the bar, but that’s more like a debt if anything.

When I finally do walk into work, I'm disheveled and frantic. I’m ten minutes late and Elijah is standing by the manager and staff, laughing wildly. He puts his hand on the manager’s shoulder when he sees me and they all stop in their tracks.

“Welcome, welcome. You're late,” Elijah says through a slight smirk. It's okay though. I've prepared for this encounter.

“Here’s my write up.” I drop a hard drive on the desk and sit down. “Alright, what do you got for me?” The perfect way to combat people like Elijah was to ignore the problem completely and remain professional.

“That was quick,” the writing manager says, glancing at Elijah. “Great job, Lena. Everyone take note. Lena Skye is slowly taking over your positions.”

I cough slightly, mostly because I feel awkward that he called me out like that. Even if it’s praise, it creates a tension in the office I’d rather not have to deal with right now. My story is on the speech given last night and the sacrifice our soldiers made. It’s a total feel-good story, ripe with trite cliché’s and overused rhetoric. I’m not a huge fan of it and since I wasn’t even there for the speech, I had to call around for quotes, but it’ll have to do.

“Fill me in, from the top. What stories do we have today?” I ask, looking around the room.

Peter Lerwalden, our Bureau chief, points at the board. “Lots to write about, people.” Let’s see what we got. There’s a sex scandal at a public high school, a shooting in downtown on Myrtle Avenue, and, of course, the biggest story of the century that took place in Kabul, Afghanistan.

“Alright. I think we should really look at the public reaction to these types of stories. People are outraged at the status quo. That much is clear. The question is what do they want to happen?” he asks us.

“That’s easy,” I say. “They want answers. They want to know someone is going to save them from all this misery. They look to government officials, religious leaders, and innovators. They want to feel like all of this will eventually change for the better.”

“Good. Yes, of course. They want to see the light. However, I don’t think we’re being useful to the American people by instilling a false sense of hope. No, today I want to create something different for this paper. I want to make an impact,” he says, holding his pen to his lip, in thought.

The thought of this paper actually taking a stand for once fuels me to no end. I feel a sudden rush take me over and I suddenly yell “Yes!” Of course, everyone turns to look at me and I let my body sink back into my chair.

He’s smiling as if he just got a bright idea in his head. “Yes, indeed. Look, we’re a small paper. But we have an inspired staff and that means all the difference in this day and age. I want real investigative reporting, real fact checking, and I want you all to dig as deep as you can go. Hell, go to the ends of the earth if you have to. Find that big story and nail it. When you feel like you have something, bring it to me. I’ll direct you further. Alright, people. Let’s move!” He finally claps his hands loudly and walks out the glass door.

Elijah, of course, steps in after he’s already finished, and says “You heard Peter. Move! I want to see ideas done by four o’clock at the latest.” He looks at me and sighs. Oh, god. He’s walking towards me now.

After everyone disperses to their cubicles, he leans over my desk and whispers “Well, you got your way.”

“What’re you talking about now, Elijah?” I can barely take any more of his shit. I swear, if he touches me, I’ll scream.

“The paper. You’ve successfully converted Peter to your liberal bullshit. I don’t see it lasting too long. Not after it all blows up in his face.” He sees me tense up and laughs in my face. “What? Are you going to get your little Army buddy to help you out? Your big, strong man. It all comes off as extremely desperate. You know that?”

I sigh and shut my laptop. “Just leave already. I don’t have time for this.”

His greasy hand reaches toward me. For a second, I’m paralyzed and unable to react. His little fingers brush aside the tips of my hair and I almost vomit all over him. That’s how disgusted I am with him. “You looked gorgeous the other night,” he says, and I finally get his angle.

“Gross. Don’t touch me.” I run my hands through my hair and bury my head against the desk. There’s no escaping him. Not here, anyway. I look at my phone and see that there’s still seven full hours left of work. I swear the clock is actually moving backwards like in one of those David Lynch films.

He laughs and picks himself up from my desk. “At least you have your looks. It’s about all you’ll have when I take Peter’s job next quarter.” He starts to walk away, but I grab his hand. “What’re you doing? I thought you wanted me to go.”

I lower my voice. Even still, I’m practically yelling through my teeth. “You know damn well you’re playing your little games with me again. What the hell are you talking about? And give it to me straight. If you don’t, so help me, I’ll rip off that single testicle you have and feed it to your stupid dog.” Okay, that was a bit harsh. But damn did it feel good.

He ignores me and whispers “You didn’t hear? Peter’s leaving the paper. He’s writing for The New York Times.” My jaw practically drops to the floor. “What? You thought he was ‘dedicated to the cause’ or something? Hell no. The guy is so over working here. Then again, so are you right? Where are you working next again? Oh, that’s right! You’re going the blog route, aren’t you?” The sarcastic little bitch. I swear I could pounce on him right now. But not in the sexual way. Never in the sexual way with him.

He laughs and slaps my desk loudly. Peter looks up and smiles. I don’t think it’s possible to be more depressed. I feel betrayed. This paper is my life. Without the right leaders, though, it’s subject to falling apart. All credibility relied on our freedom to write good stories. I just knew that Elijah was not the leader to push us forward into the 21^st century.

I glance at the topics on the board and exhale, feeling dizzy. My eyes blur. Kabul, Afghanistan. What the hell happened there? I decide to scour the web until I find something of importance.