Conflict
Remus rubbed his sore knee, threw his glasses across his paper-strewn desk, and leaned forward onto his elbow, which twinged and cracked unpleasantly. Fuck, he missed the Baghdad bureau where you could smoke in the newsroom.
“You’re telling me,” he said, fixing his editor with a disbelieving stare, “that I spent 15 years covering conflict zones, and now you’re giving me a story like this? It’s fluff. I hate fluff. You hate fluff! What are you doing to me?”
“It’s not fluff, Remus, it’s human interest. And it’s huge!” Marlene said. “Just because it’s not war, doesn’t mean it’s not important. Also, he’s here and requested you specifically, so you better put on your fucking game face.”
“Here?” Remus exclaimed. “Like, now?”
“Yes, like now,” Marlene said, standing up and putting a hand on Remus’s office doorknob.
“I have no questions prepared, I haven’t done any research…” Remus sputtered, but Marlene waved him off.
“This isn’t the interview,” she said. “He just wanted to meet you.”
“Since when do interview subjects get to call the shots?” Remus said.
Marlene took her hand off the doorknob, strode back over to Remus, and planted her palms flat on his desk, leaning over so their faces were inches apart. Remus could smell the stale coffee and drugstore perfume that clung to her shirt.
“When the reclusive, playboy son of the head of a conservative media conglomerate inherits his billions and plans to siphon it into programs for refugees, reproductive health, and LGBTQ kids you let him tell you the story any way he fucking wants to,” Marlene said in a low—and frankly a little dangerous—voice. “Got it?”
“Got it,” Remus grumbled, and Marlene gave him a winning smile.
“He’s fucking gorgeous, too,” she said with a wink, opened the door, and stuck her head into the hallway.
“Mr. Black?” Remus heard her sweetly say. “Come on in.”
