Drive Me Wilde (Breathless 6)

Chapter One

Tasha

Fired Up

My heart rate sped up. Blood raged through my veins at an astounding rate and pressure that made every part of me feel alert. I saw red. My temples pulsated. This could not be happening.

“Fired? You’re firing me?” I asked in a low and unbelieving tone that didn’t match the explosive volcano of emotions erupting inside of me.

Melinda Lory had the nerve to look at me as if she actually felt bad for firing her best writer. “I’m sorry Tasha, but we gave the head writer position to Nina after she submitted that raving Hollywood Jailbreaks and Heartbreaks piece last week. She was supposed to be temporary, but she has solidified her place here and we just don’t need you right now.”

“Oh, you mean she’s being promoted after she stole my story from me?” I asked. More pressure built inside of me, this time slamming into my gut and causing physical pain. I tried to mask the sorrowful look that I knew was piercing from my deep-set brown eyes.

“You’re kidding right? What are you suggesting, Tasha?” Melinda’s round red cheeks flew up into a smirk, and she had the nerve to try to look indignant. She knew very well what I was saying.

“Mel, we both know she doesn’t write the type of content that was in that article, and the fact that she’s sleeping with Richard is the only reason she can do what she does and get away with it. She’s the reason I wrote the story about sexual misconduct in Hollywood, and she’s getting promoted to head writer while I’m losing my job. There’s nothing right about this,” I said in disbelief.

After building my own popular blog, I had landed a position writing for the celebrity column for two full years, the longest I’d ever been at one particular nine to five job in my adult life. Before coming to Colorful Times, I’d put in my time generating clicks on my personal blog and growing my following. Except lately, I’d been losing traction of what I created, all because of Nina’s sticky fingers.

“Like I said, I’m sorry Tasha. Your column just isn’t doing good, and numbers are all that matter to the big wigs. I hate to say this, but maybe you should consider another profession,” Melinda said slowly, or at least the words hit me slowly…and hard.

My eyes nearly popped out of their sockets as the tension from our conversation bubbled over to a climax. “You have some nerve, Melinda! I’m a damn good writer, and the only reason my column isn’t doing well as it should is because Nina keeps hijacking my stories,” I said through a clenched jaw.

“As far as that’s concerned, it’s your word against hers, Tasha.”

“This is so unfair. You know I’m not lying. Hell, you might as well give her the password to my computer, because she’s getting my stories to print faster than I can press ‘the end’ and submit them,” I continued to state the same argument I’d been putting up since Nina stole my first story.

“The higher ups are not falling for your argument. They’re only concerned about what’s making money, and right now you’re not it. Listen, I’m just following orders,” Melinda briefly looked away from me before returning her dead hazel eyes to mine to say her final devastating words. “Clean out your desk and be out by lunchtime. Your last paycheck will be in the mail.”

“This is really fucked up,” I said as I stood up and stormed out of Melinda’s office. I had no doubt that she knew what Nina was doing. She had been reading my stories for years, and she could pick my writing style out of a line up. Still, she let me take the fall instead of the slimy, opportunistic office pass-around. I felt hoodwinked. Without being able to prove Nina stole my stories, I had no choice but to pack my things and leave the Colorful Times office building hoping karma would bite all of them in their asses.

Good people always get the shaft, I thought as I marched across the parking lot to my car, holding the small box with my belongings in my hand.

I managed to crank my few years old Chevy Malibu car and drive home, crying until I couldn’t shed another tear. I had dreamed of becoming an editor for a high-profile blog or magazine one day, and that was dashed by two conniving women who were too lazy to squeeze an ounce of creativity out of their own brains.

I kept asking God why was this happening to me, when I always followed the Golden Rule of doing to others as I would have them do to me. By the time I arrived home, I was still hurt, but I had come to terms with not being employed. I had been dealt a low blow, but I would somehow recover and find a way to pay my bills.

***

Two weeks later, I was done licking my wounds, but the thought of writing another word drained the life out of me. I’d unwillingly lost my thirst for storytelling, for research, for creative writing. I found myself doing what I never thought I’d do—taking Melinda’s advice and working in another field. It seemed Melinda also set another precedent in my life, me becoming all too familiar with being fired. After a week at a local photography studio, again I was let go.

“Fired?” I questioned the overbearing manager, when she ambled into the session I was shooting and asked me to come to her office.

“You can’t tell parents you need a wide-angled lens because their kid has a big head,” she said, giving me the side eye.

“He did have a big head, and I was trying to get the whole thing on the picture. It wouldn’t look right if I took the picture with half of the head on there.” I argued my point, and well, she didn’t see things my way. I was let go.

Then, there was the coffee house. I didn’t believe it would be that hard to make coffee. After all, it was coffee…not gourmet dishes. However, staring at the contraption with buttons, nozzles and steam maker attempting to make a mocha something, I felt so helpless. I yelped when I dropped yet another cup of the hot liquid on the floor.

“Holy cow, Tasha. This just isn’t working out,” the frustrated manager was livid, though I could tell he struggled to talk to me in the calmest voice he could muster. “The cup is too hot for you to hold because clear plastic cups are for cold drinks,” he said.

“My bad. I think this cup was in the wrong spot,” I said.

“Look, we’ve given away too many complimentary beverages because of your mistakes. You’re fired,” he said easily, before stripping me of my apron and telling me not to come back.

By the fourth firing, I was harshly reminded that answering one’s cellphone instead of ringing up groceries was unacceptable. “I know, I’m fired,” I told the manager. Yeah, I had been fired that day, but not before I had been so lucky as to have to ring Melinda’s groceries.

“Tasha, is that you?” she’d asked with so much glee in her voice as our eyes met. Seeing me ringing groceries made her smile so hard that one would have thought she’d gotten the news that her bank account would be credited ten grand by midnight.

I didn’t respond to her. Instead, I scanned her goat cheese, salad mix and alkaline waters as quickly as I could, s

o I could get her out of my space.

“Well, I’m happy that you found work,” she said as she scanned her card to pay for her groceries.

She tried to sound sympathetic, but I knew she was gloating, and a part of me wanted to reach across the counter and knock the smirk out of her.