Ann
"This is fucking bullshit," I hiss. My outburst causes heads to swiftly turn my way, eyebrows raising as people around me try to figure out what is grinding my gears this time.
I'm the only person in this office who regularly forgets that this is a shared space and people can actually hear my exasperated curses. Most of them don't care, or are even amused at my little outbursts, but there's always one face that displays little sympathy for my temper, and that face is sitting right across from me.
Brandon is a very talented and in demand freelancing graphic designer whose arrogant and entitled attitude complements his above reproach career success. His face puckers into a scowl, as he narrows his eyes into slits and pierces an icy gaze through me from across the table. His freshly coiffed blond hair is gelled back, giving him a sleek look that is eased by his hipster clothing style. He's a beautiful young man, dashingly handsome in a clean-cut and benign way.
It's no wonder I was drawn to him when we first met. I'm pretty sure most women can't resist his in style appearance.
But I wonder, too, if most of them also regret sleeping with him after the fact?
It should have been obvious to me. Sleeping with someone you share an office with is never a good idea, even if you're not technically working together. This is a co-working space. We're all freelancers, writers, designers, programmers, each of us working on our own stuff. Nevertheless, we share this common space, just as we share any fighting over our coffee machine, the dishwasher, and the general mess left behind by everyone except the person complaining about it. We may not share the work itself, but we share the work environment and all the social aspects that come with it.
I should have considered all of this before giving in to his goddamn charm. Even though it happened only a few weeks ago, I feel like an entirely different person now. I can't relate to the girl I was back then, the girl who couldn't focus because his sparkling blue eyes unsettled me, because his arm touched mine as we stood close to each other in the kitchen, or because he said something funny, pulling my attention away from anything else I might have been doing in that moment. He had a definite, all-consuming effect on me from the start.
Now this effect not only no longer exists, it has been replaced by something else: annoyance. Disdain, at him and myself. Brandon is a constant reminder of my own stupidity.
"Hush," he hisses at me, putting his index finger up to his lips.
Seriously, what was I thinking?
The glare I cast him lets him know I heard him. I redirect my attention to the task at hand, the initial reason for my cursing. My eyes are glued to the screen, re-reading the same passages I've read half a dozen times already. My eyebrows furrow in irritation as my eyes travel across the e-mail one more time.
It's outlining a proposal for an article that I don't want to write, but know I should. They say beggars can't be choosers. Sadly, this all too true for me. It was my choice to become a freelance reporter, and though I still relish the freedom this job affords me and can proudly be my own boss, I also have to admit it’s not the most profitable career.
The contradiction is particularly annoying because it means my desire for creative freedom clashes head-on with my desire for financial freedom. My dream has always been to no longer have to work for money by the time I turned thirty. I still have seven years to make the dream a reality, but with the way things are going right now, I don't see myself reaching that goal. Not even remotely. I’m barely getting by paycheck to paycheck, and still far away from that big leap to success, whatever it might be.
In any case, I can't afford to stick to certain principles. As much as I hate giving in to market trends, if I want to earn enough to live a halfway decent life, I have to write what I'm assigned. I've tried to sell my work on my own before, but with very little success. If no one wants to buy my stories, I'll have to write what others assign. I know the market demands unique and unusual stories to draw readers, but a high class escort agency? Really?
And how on earth did my name come up for this story topic? Mrs. Jenkins, one of the lead editors, recommended me personally. On one hand, it’s a great honor, but on the other, it’s very confusing. I realize it could be a big-selling story guaranteed to boost my standing at one of the biggest newspapers in the area, but I can't help feeling slightly disturbed by the proposed subject matter.
An escort agency. High class, exclusive, and expensive. The story would mostly be based on an interview with one of the agency’s leading HR personnel.
An escort agency has its own human resources department? I can't suppress the dry laugh that escapes at the idea. What could possibly be in this person’s job description?
Truth be told, I can't deny the curiosity that's creeping into my head at the notion of taking on this story. Despite my initial aversion to the topic, I'm beginning to contemplate the various appealing angles to this story.
"Oh, fuck it!" I exclaim, once again causing Brandon to raise his head and cast me a warning look. I shoot him a sly smile as I reach for my phone.