Page 2 of I Saw You First

Ryan’s door is open, but I knock anyway.

“Abbey! Abbey Rhodes, what a name.” Ryan chuckles. Glad he finds himself so amusing. “Right on time. Close the door and have a seat.” He gestures toward one of the leather armchairs facing his desk.

I close the door—although Kim isn’t here yet—and sit. I tug my skirt closer to my knees, and when I glance up, I see Ryan’s eyes follow the motion. I clear my throat, and his eyes flick to my face.

“How’s your day?” he asks. He smiles with blinding, artificially white, perfectly straight teeth.

Ryan’s a tall, lean white guy with neat, wheat-blond hair that he keeps trimmed close and I suspect might be dyed. The color variations are too uniform. Intentional. He’s tan—most likely the result of a tanning bed—and while his pale hazel eyes are striking, they’re also… insincere.

I don’t trust this dude—for a lot of reasons, beginning with the nepotism. He has a finance degree, not journalism, from a place called Hammond University that no one’s heard of. I swear the diploma that hangs behind his desk is as fake as his tan and his teeth.

Then there are the rumors, of course. For example: Someone heard from someone else that Ryan ran into Carina, last summer’s entertainment intern, at a club downtown, backed her into a corner, and threatened her job if she didn’t blow him right there. Carina came into work one morning, packed up her things, and walked out without a word. Gen from accounting reported him to HR for grabbing her ass in the break room. He denied it, HR denied it, and now Gen eats lunch at her desk every day.

“Abbey?” Ryan says now. “I asked how your day’s going.”

“Fine.” I frown. “Where’s Kim?”

He swishes a hand in a dismissive gesture and leans forward, elbows on his desk, and steeples his fingers. “I think it’s best if the two of us meet one on one, if you get my meaning.” His voice is a low purr, and my stomach twists.

There’s a lump in my throat the size of Pluto—the planet, not the cartoon dog. “I—I feel like Kim should be here,” I manage.

“That’s not necessary.” He smiles again, and one of my grandmother’s favorite phrases pops into my head: He looks like the cat that ate the canary. I’m fairly certain I’m the canary in this situation. “If I should decide to offer you the position,” he continues, “Kim has already expressed her willingness to allow the move.”

I’m sorry, if? There’s no one else to offer it to. Kim told me that none of the external candidates met Ryan’s high expectations, and everyone knows the only other internal candidate, the associate sportswriter, is on a performance improvement plan.

I studied journalism with a women’s studies minor and a focus on feminist works. I subscribe to Ms. Magazine. Gloria Steinem is my sun. The bumper sticker on my Sunbird reads, “Women make great leaders. You’re following one.” I wrote my senior capstone project on the Hollywood casting couch. My point is that I’m not going to let Ryan Bradford intimidate me, even if the beast in the pit of my stomach has other ideas and is currently spewing shards of broken glass.

This position is mine. I earned it.

I swallow the planet-sized lump in my throat and straighten my spine. “Ryan, I’d prefer if Kim joined us for this meeting.”

“Aw, that’s cute,” he says. “You’d prefer.”

I’ve got to stand my ground. But I can’t look at those teeth, that smile. I grip the file folder in my hand more tightly. “If Kim can’t make the meeting, let’s reschedule.” My voice shakes.

“There’s no need to reschedule. If you’d like to discuss the position, I have time now. If not, I’ll let HR know that you’re no longer interested.”

I clench my jaw as a wave of bile surges into my throat.

“Kim tells me that writing for music and entertainment would be a dream come true for you.” His words drip with condescension. “Tell me why you think you deserve this job.”

I still can’t bring myself to look at him, so instead, I focus on the fake diploma over his shoulder. There must be a black market for this kind of thing. It’s probably as easy to get a counterfeit college diploma as it is a fake ID. I wonder if Slick Dick is in on it.

Ryan leans back in his fancy leather office chair and spreads his legs in that annoying guy way. “Go on,” he says. “I’m waiting.”

“I—I believe that I’m a perfect fit for this role.” I take a deep breath and hold out the folder. “Details about my qualifications and experience can be found in my application materials, which I’m happy to discuss.”

He ignores the folder. “I don’t want to hear about your boring degree or the drivel you’ve been writing. As I said, I want you to tell me why you think you deserve this position.”

He thinks my work is drivel. I bristle. “I—I’m not sure what you m-mean.” I stumble over my words, and that makes me angry—at myself and at him for making me feel this way. “I-I’ve worked hard for this newspaper, and⁠—”

He holds up a hand. “No. I don’t want you to regurgitate the trite garbage I hear from every candidate.” He stands and walks around to my side of the desk. He leans against it and crosses his arms, but the space between is so narrow, his right knee nearly touches my leg. Now I have to look up at him, too.

I try to scoot back on the chair, but I’m as far as I can go. The movement causes my skirt to hitch up, and I feel his eyes on me. And then he leans forward, and he puts his hand on me, too, his fingers pressing into my thigh. He squeezes. I freeze.

And I know, in that instant, that all the rumors are true.

“You think you deserve this promotion because you can write mediocre articles about the latest fitness craze?” he continues in that smooth tone. “Because you’ve stayed late to meet deadline? No, Abbey, I need something more.”