One
Don’t Look Up
The key to career advancement is being left at the altar.
At least it worked for me. If I’d only known getting dumped would lead to a job at the network, I’d have done it much sooner.
Well, maybe not. It wasn’t like I’d been in control of that situation anyway—the dumping part had been Mark’s idea. But still, two months later, here I was in the Worldwide News Network’s Atlanta headquarters, grateful to be back in the news business after stupidly quitting my last TV job. (Also Mark’s idea, the weenie.) I was way better off without him.
Really.
“Know anyone in southern Missouri?” Deb turned to me from the desk adjoining mine. “Please say ‘yes.’”
“Yes, actually. A couple of people. Looking for tornado witnesses?”
“Yep. We need to find an iReporter on the ground there to give us some sound—maybe even some amateur video until our crew can get there.”
A senior producer, Deb had taken me under her wing as soon as I’d been assigned to her show. As a news assistant, I did whatever she and the associate producers needed, answer phones, monitor the news feeds, order graphics, coordinate with field crews.
Occasionally, I got to write a script or a tease. Deb was a little like a twister herself, doing all that and more, and making it look easy.
Someday, I wanted to grow up and be Deb.
“Okay—I have a couple friends from college who live in Missouri now,” I said. “One from J-school who’d probably be great, actually. I’ll try to get in touch with them. We’ll see if there are any cell towers still standing, though.”
“Thanks, Kenley.”
Deb went back to punishing her keyboard, writing a script for the primetime news show she produced, Overstreet Live. It would air in a half hour, and so far, we had no one lined up to talk about the tornado aftermath.
The storm had touched down only about fifteen minutes ago but had been a big one and had reportedly taken out several schools and had severely damaged a hospital as well as destroying a Mississippi River casino and dozens of homes. There was no word on casualties at this point, but the count was sure to be significant. We’d look bad if we didn’t have at least something on it for the show. Obviously, we couldn’t have a news crew located in every tiny town in the nation, but viewers sort of expected us to.
I tried the one phone number I had—for my sorority sister from Missouri—it went right to voicemail. Then I logged onto Facebook and found my journalism-school friend, Beth. She’d actually posted only a few minutes earlier, telling her friends she and her family were safe, hunkered down in their basement in a neighboring town.
I messaged her. “Glad to see you all made it safely through the storm. How’d you like to report for Worldwide News tonight? Give me a call if you can.”
I typed my phone number and was waiting for a reply when the show’s anchor, Larson Overstreet, came over for a final pre-show chat with Deb. He stood a foot away from me as they discussed the story that had been at the top of the rundown. Then he asked about the latest on the Missouri tornado.
“How’s it going? Any video yet?”
“Not yet,” Deb answered him without pausing in her lightning-fast typing. “Kenley’s your girl for that.”
In my peripheral vision I saw Larson turn toward me, and I tensed.
“Um… yes. I’m working on it. Hopefully I’ll have something soon.” I didn’t look up at him, just kept my eyes trained on my computer screen as if it emitted a powerful tractor beam. Pretty typical of all my interactions with him over the past few weeks—he’d speak to the side of my face in that deep, shiver-inducing voice of his, and I’d do my best to give short answers and avoid eye contact.
Larson walked over and sat with one hip on the edge of my desk, giving me an unavoidable view of his suit-clad torso and one powerful-looking thigh. “Great. I’d love to have something on it off the top. Any hope of getting someone at the scene who can talk to us on-air?”
Still keeping my eyes down, I worked to make my voice steady and even. “I’ve got the fire chief in Carutherstown lined up for a phoner. I’m working on a possible iReporter.”
“Okay, great. Thanks.” A pause. “You look lovely tonight, by the way.” He rose and sauntered off toward the studio.
I resumed breathing and finally looked up, watching his retreating form—tall and lean, wide shoulders, perfectly-cut strawberry blond hair. As he did every weeknight, he wore a beautiful suit that probably cost more than my car—designer label, without a doubt.
Not that WNN was famous for its high salaries. No, Larson didn’t need the money. Everyone here knew he was the only son of Warren Overstreet, the president and CEO of Overstreet Resources, one of the oldest and largest asset management firms in the country.
His mother was Corina Videau, the famous clothing designer and heir to the Vivienne Videau cosmetics fortune. Larson didn’t have to work a day in his life if he didn’t want to.
Maybe he hadn’t been satisfied with being obscenely rich—he needed to be famous, too. It had probably taken Mom and Dad one or two phone calls to get him on air here, hosting his own show. At twenty-six years old.
Hmph. Rich boys. “You look lovely tonight,” I lowered my voice and mocked his compliment, certain it wasn’t sincere. “Smooth-talking jerk.”
Deb’s fingers paused on her keyboard. “You should be nicer to him. He’s just being friendly. And he’s not a jerk. He’s really sweet once you get to know him.” She gave me a reproving look, her sharp, dark brown eyes seeing right through me.
Though we’d known each other only a month, she was one of those people who lured you right past the shallow end of small talk and into the deep end of real life before you’d even had a chance to acclimate to the water. We discussed far more than work during our long hours here.
And Larson might as well have been Deb’s second son, as much as she doted on him. In fact, pretty much everyone around here kissed his privileged butt.
He’d been deemed WNN’s rising star and potential ratings savior, the embodiment of the network’s hopes of bringing in the coveted younger demographic.
“I won’t be ‘getting to know’ him, and he could be made of pure sugarcane for all I care—he’s not my type,” I muttered to Deb, unrepentant.
“What? Single, handsome, and rich?” She laughed.
“Single and handsome I have no problem with.”
“Oh, so it’s the whole double-heir-to-the-wealthiest-families-in-America thing that bothers you. I can see how that would be a huge turnoff.” She looked up from her monitor and smirked at me.
I had to laugh. “It is actually. I know—I’m weird. Do you know anyone nice from the feed room, maybe? Any twenty-five-year-old unpaid interns still living in their parents’ basements? That’s more my speed these days.”
“Don’t sell yourself short, kiddo. You could totally land a guy like Larson.”
The muscles between my shoulder blades tightened. Deb had no idea what a nerve she’d hit. “I’m not selling myself short. I just don’t happen to like rich men.”