The Deadline Page 2

  “Bitch, I said where is the money?” the robber boomed after only getting about six hundred dollars from behind the bar. I had almost jumped out of my skin thinking he had seen me sneak the phone. My hands were shaking. I swallowed hard as my eyes darted around wildly. There were three more gunmen in my immediate sights. All sorts of things had run through my head, but my thoughts were quickly interrupted when I noticed another gunman dragging the club owner, Sly, into the main club area too. Sly was bleeding from his head. I knew then he had been hit with a gun.

  “Please don’t kill me,” Sly begged. He was begging and crying harder than some of the women in the club. The Big Bad Wolf that he had pretended to be had surely changed into a blubbering bitch in that instant.

  With sweat beads dancing down the sides of my face, I moved forward apprehensively to the register to see if there was any more money inside to offer the gun-wielding thieves.

  “There’s not a lot of money in the register,” I said, raising my hands in surrender to let the masked gunmen know I wasn’t going to resist. “But in the back . . . there’s a safe. Sly can get you inside. He’s the only one who knows how, so if you hurt him . . . you’ll end up with nothing.” I locked eyes with Sly. He looked relieved, upset, hurt, all in one glance. I didn’t care. I wanted to get out of there alive, especially because my ass shouldn’t have been there in the first place. All for a story. All for a story, I kept chanting in my head.

  “I want every dime! Every dollar, you fucking bitch!” the second assailant growled through the black material of his mask, while two more had yanked Sly up from the floor and started dragging him to the back.

  “If this nigga try anything funny, y’all are going to find his brains all over that office,” the masked man had said. His words had taken me back to seeing my father shot dead, and a shot of heat spread throughout my body. For the first time since they had busted into the club, I had felt sheer and pure fear grip me tightly around the throat. It had been so bad, it made me gag.

  “Take the bartender too. I think she know more than she’s saying,” the biggest of the robbers had said, pointing his gun in my direction. I shook my head no, but it was too late. They’d snatched me up and dragged me to the back with Sly. All the way I was praying Sly didn’t try to front on them. I knew he was scared, but I also knew he was an asshole.

  “I . . . I . . . don’t know . . . um . . . anything,” I had pleaded. I was desperate because I wanted him to believe me.

  “Bitch, nobody asked you. You’re my insurance policy, just in case your fake-ass gangster boss here act up. Now shut up!” he boomed. His words had reverberated through my skull so hard, I felt like it had shaken my brain. I swallowed hard. I was pushed forward. I stumbled toward the back office. My insides churned so fast that I just knew I’d throw up. Once we were in the back office, they tossed Sly down in front of the safe. He got to his knees and I could see that his hands were shaking badly; he could barely twist the knob for the combination lock. Who the fuck still has a dial combination lock and not one with a keypad? But I had quickly learned from the short time I’d gone undercover at the club that Sly was a cheap bastard. He treated the strippers like pure shit too. All of this had probably been his karma, but I couldn’t understand why the universe would involve the rest of us if it was paying Sly’s ass back.

  “Don’t fuck around, you punk-ass nigga! Don’t play like you can’t open the shit. I ain’t got no problem spilling your brains,” the main gunman had ordered, swiping his gun across the back of Sly’s head.

  Sly winced and frantically fumbled with the ancient combination dial again. I finally heard a loud clicking sound. I breathed out a sigh of relief.

  “Move,” the gunman had demanded, and pushed Sly down onto his back. I heard Sly’s head hit the floor so hard even I felt it.

  “Fill this shit up,” he called out to the others. They all filed in with black garbage bags that they’d pulled out of their jackets. The other two robbers went about filling their bags. I couldn’t believe how much money Sly had in that safe. It didn’t even look big enough.

  When they were done, Silver, Blaze, and Billie were all brought into the office. The robbers made us all sit together with our backs against one another.

  “Stay sitting like this until we are out of here, or else I will spray all y’all,” the tallest and meanest of the gunmen had commanded. It was almost over, and just like everything else in my life, nothing could just go smoothly.

  “You niggas ain’t going to . . .” Sly never got a chance to finish what he was saying. Before he could utter another word, a loud crunch sounded through the room. The metal of a gun had connected with his skull. Sly didn’t stand a chance. The impact from the blow of the gun knocked Sly out like a light. His body slumped to the left and blood leaked out of his head like a faucet. It was the last act of violence before the robbers fled.

  When it was all said and done, I had the exclusive, but I was also traumatized as hell. When I brought the story in, Christian was all impressed back then. She had bragged on me in front of all of the other assistants and junior reporters. I could see them green with envy. It had happened several more times too, when I’d had to get down and dirty to get a story.

  At first, I was rewarded at the studio for how gritty and real and up close my stories were. They didn’t ever ask me if I was all right after nearly losing my life a couple of times for a good story. I didn’t care either. I was in their good graces. Within a year and a half, I was promoted to an off-air journalist, and in no time was dubbed the most valued junior segment producer.

  Granted, most of my stories up until now had been about robberies and prostitution rings and some car larcenies, and in my opinion those were interesting. But those types of stories weren’t where I wanted to be in the end. I had big dreams and the biggest was that I would get a seat at the six o’clock on-air news anchor desk. I knew I had my work cut out for me, and if you asked me, I’d say I had been doing what I needed to do to get there.

  * * *

  Still, even after risking life and limb for stories, here I stood in Christian’s office with my mind reeling backward in a million directions and her staring me down with a look of disgust like I was a pile of dirty laundry.

  “You sure you want to stand there looking all goofy?” Christian asked without cracking a smile. You would’ve thought she was joking, talking to me like that, but there was nothing funny about her tone.

  “Yes, I’ll stand,” I said, barely above a whisper. She had that effect on me. Around Christian, I felt like the kid that got called out in front of everyone for saying the dog had eaten her homework. Getting called in by Christian was nerve-racking, to say the least.

  “Listen, Khloé, you’ve done some decent work thus far. I won’t take that away from you, but if you expect to earn a seat at the news desk, you’re going to have to act like a real journalist and step up your game. You’ve gotten to the point where petty theft and hood rat robberies just aren’t going to cut it anymore,” Christian said, constantly licking her dry lips like she always did when she was acting like a straight passive-aggressive bitch. I wanted so badly to tell her to kiss my ass and that I had been going above and beyond to bring in quality stories, but she was my boss and I did want a permanent seat at the desk, so I just shut up and let her have her moment.

  “I’m working on it, Christian. I just don’t know what else to do. I get out there and get involved, you know that from my past stories,” I said, biting down into my jaw. This bitch shrugged like she didn’t care.

  “And your point is?” she shot back in a sarcastic manner.

  That comment made my blood pressure rise. “We are the local news, so we pretty much have to go by what is happening in the area to predict the types of stories we will have. I can’t just make stuff up,” I said, trying my best to keep my voice level. I mean, what did she want me to do . . . kill someone for a story? I almost died twice getting stories from the streets!

 
“You’ve been saying the same thing for a month now. It’s up to you. I would think you would want to make sure you secure a spot here at WXOT-TV, right?” she pointed out.

  “Wha . . . what do you mean?” I asked, my voice crackling with fear.

  “I mean that nothing is guaranteed . . . not even the job you have right now. If you don’t pull your weight around here, there are thousands of other hungry young reporters out there that would love to be in your shoes,” Christian shot back without one ounce of empathy. She was a cold bitch, and she didn’t care who knew it.

  “Are you saying my job is at risk?” I asked, my heart racing at an alarming rate.

  “Well, you said it, I didn’t,” she said sarcastically. “What I am saying is you need to stop standing here looking like a silly kid and get your ass out there and get me a story worth this station’s time and money,” she finished up.

  I felt angry tears burning at the backs of my eyes, but there was no way I could cry in front of Christian. That would have definitely been career suicide. I turned on my heels fast and started for her office door.

  “Khloé,” Christian called at my back.

  I stopped walking, but I didn’t turn around. I wasn’t going to give her the satisfaction of knowing she’d rattled me to the core.

  “Just know that if you can’t do it, then you can pack up your belongings and leave the building so I can get someone who really wants to give me a great story,” she said, speaking to my back. “It’s business . . . never personal,” she continued.

  I swallowed hard, the cusswords I had ready for her ass tumbling back down my throat like a handful of hard marbles. Without saying another word, I left her office in a fury.

  Everyone in the whole studio must’ve heard Christian chewing me out because as soon as I closed her door behind me, everyone was staring. I rolled my eyes at every single one of those ass-kissing clowns. And how dare that bitch Christian threaten to take away my job! She was going overboard now. I mean, why all the fucking pressure?

  I’d done a lot to get some of the stories I’d brought in so far. For the past year I had always been first on the scene to store robberies, home invasions, some carjackings, and a few snatch-and-grab street robberies. I guess those weren’t good enough. Not good enough to make it to the prime-time news desk, for sure.

  Christian wanted me to get an exclusive. A scandal. Something so big, the whole world would find out from us. A story that would make the news station move into the number one spot again. All of the pressure to blow up the ratings was on my back. I guess when I didn’t tell her to kiss my ass that meant I had accepted the challenge.

  Nothing I had in mind as I walked to my car was good enough. I was going to have to get out in the streets and find some juicy stories. But damn . . . Christian had me almost wanting to create stories to keep my job.

  2

  STREET TIES

  It had been three days since my meeting with Christian and my story prospects so far had been nothing more than an old lady getting her purse snatched and a hit-and-run driver that caused a three-car pile-up on Virginia Beach Boulevard. I’d gotten pictures of the fire that resulted from the accident, but unless someone’s charred remains were in the photos, I knew Christian would snub them.

  I was at the end of my rope. I couldn’t think anymore. I decided I needed to go see my mother. She always knew how to comfort me, whether it was with her good cooking or sound advice. I didn’t always get to have that mother-daughter relationship with her, so we were kind of making up for lost time over these past few years that she’d been drug free.

  * * *

  I shook my head to rid it of the memories of the past. I had worked hard to forgive my mother for the things we’d gone through. I had moved on from the hurt and anger, but on days like this, when I was super stressed-out, those memories still came back. I tried not to hold it against her, but sometimes indirectly I blamed her whenever I was hurting or stressed. I guess you could say it was just a bad cycle of thoughts.

  I put my car in park, breathed out the breath I’d been holding when I was remembering the bad times, and put on a smile. I needed my mother right now. No sense in dwelling in the past. I rushed up to the door and knocked. Too full of energy, I tried the knob before she could get to the door and it was open.

  “Hey, baby girl,” my mother sang as soon as I crossed the doorway into the house. She rushed over with stretched-out arms for a hug. My mother still looked good for her age. She was curvaceous like me, and although I’d taken after my father with my hazel eyes and sandy brown hair, I had my mother’s shape. We both stood five-five and had Coke-bottle shapes—flat stomachs, small waists, and nice round hips. My mother was gorgeous back in her day. The drugs had taken a bit of a toll on her looks, but not as bad as some other addicts I’d seen in my lifetime. I was just glad she’d made it out on the other side.

  “Hey, Mama!” I returned the greeting and walked into her embrace. I closed my eyes for a few seconds, appreciating the love. She smelled like warm cocoa butter as usual. That was a secret she’d passed down—cocoa butter to keep the skin looking young. The smell made me feel nostalgic and loved.

  “Okay . . . what’s wrong? You know I can sense it as soon as I touch you,” my mother said, her tone serious as she pulled away from me so she could look at me. I could see the concern in her eyes. “You and Kyle have that twin bond and can feel each other’s pain, but I have that special bond with both of y’all. I know every time something is not right with either one of you.” She continued looking me over hard, as if she would be able to tell what was bothering me by sight.

  I sighed loudly. My mother had been saying that same thing all of our lives. She always told us that her bond and her ability to feel what we felt when we were happy, sad, hurting, or in distress was how she knew we were in danger the day my father was murdered. That was how she’d busted in with the cops and saved us in the nick of time. I sighed again and flopped down on her couch. I leaned my head back and stared up at the ceiling in silence for a few minutes. I had to gather my thoughts on how I was going to talk about how I was feeling. I was stuck between looking weak and helpless (something I hated to portray), or just being honest so I could get shit off my chest.

  “C’mon, I’m waiting to hear what is going on,” my mother pressed, not giving up. “And you know I am not going to stop, so you might as well just tell me. I don’t take no for an answer when it comes to my children being in distress.”

  I sat back up and shook my head. There was no fighting my mother on this, because I would be fighting a losing battle with her.

  “It’s this job,” I groaned, swiping my hands over my face. I was exhausted just bringing up the topic.

  “I thought you loved the job,” my mother questioned, sitting next to me on the couch.

  “I do . . . I mean, I did . . . It’s just that . . .” I didn’t even know what I was trying to say. My brain was muddled with the pressures of nabbing the perfect breaking-news story. All I could think about was Christian’s threats and her nasty ways. It was a lot to process and to talk about all at once. I was silently wishing I’d chosen to go to Starbucks, instead of coming to see my mother. I wasn’t a talker like this. I’d failed at therapy for years because of it. I was a suffer-in-silence person who just made shit happen in my life. This was difficult. “I don’t even know where to start. It’s just a lot,” I finally said, dreading to reiterate what had gone on back at the office today.

  “Calm down and talk to me, baby girl,” my mother comforted, stroking my hair. It was a little weird whenever she had these big displays of affection. I was still getting used to our new and building relationship. Sometimes my mother overcompensated because of her guilt from the past, but this was one time I was appreciative of her efforts.

  I blew out a windstorm of breath and eased the tension in my neck and shoulders. I turned slightly so I was facing my mother. I guess I wanted her to see the distress in my eyes. I guess I wanted he
r to know I needed her, but was too set in my ways to ask for her comfort.

  “Okay, how can I explain it so that you understand how bad it is?” I asked the question, but wasn’t expecting an answer.

  “The best way to say it is, my boss, Christian, is a bitch. That’s first,” I spat with a bit more venom than my mother was probably used to hearing from one of her kids.

  “Watch your language,” she said immediately. Then she softened a bit. “Go ahead, I give you a pass because you seem very stressed-out.”

  I shook my head a little. This lady forgets I am grown. I am twenty-seven years old and can cuss whenever I like. I didn’t say that, though. Once a mother, always a mother.

  “Anyway, Christian, the Devil in disguise, has loaded me down with the task of getting a breaking-news story that will blow our ratings through the roof. She wants some exclusive that no other station in the area or in the nation, for that matter, will have first. She has made it clear that it is the only way I will ever accomplish my dream of becoming an on-air prime time news anchor. She even threatened my current job, which, you know, with all of these student loans from grad school, I cannot afford to lose,” I relayed to my mother with tinges of angst underlying my words. Honestly, saying it all made me feel like someone had lifted a one-thousand-pound weight from my chest. I let out another long breath and felt slightly better. I guess my mother was right about how beneficial speaking to her about my problem was for me.

  “Hmm, what kind of story does she want?” my mother asked, rubbing her chin as if she could help me. “I mean, news is news, right? You can only report on whatever you know to be happening. Sounds like she is expecting a miracle in this little area,” my mother continued.

  “She didn’t say exactly what type of story, which is another thing all together. She just wants something so hot it will make the whole world want to know and watch our news station. My entire life and livelihood are hinging on me bringing in something that would blow her socks off. As if I could just come up with something off the top of my head like a damn fairy godmother or something,” I said. I was so disgusted by Christian’s never-satisfied ass. I could’ve just screamed and pulled all of my edges out by hand.