Page 11 of Austin

I pick up a pillow and throw it toward the doorframe as she walks away. It’s easier than telling her she’s most likely right.

3

AUSTIN

“Good morning, Mr. Sexton,” Martin, a security guard, greets me as I walk through the two-story lobby of marble and granite.

The word SEXTON is in bold black letters on the wall behind the security desk, letting anyone who enters know who owns this place.

I pass through the turnstile without having to swipe a badge, and when I get to the elevator bank, an attendant waits to push the call button.

Once the elevator doors open to the twenty-second floor, and Stefanie, my assistant, is waiting with a portfolio in one hand and a large coffee in the other. It’s our Friday tradition.

She’s a smart one, so she hands me the coffee first. “Good morning, Mr. Sexton.”

“Have I ever told you, you’re the best assistant in the world?” I ask as I start to take a sip.

“Daily. And I know it.” She pushes her glasses up her nose and follows me down the hallway toward the main workspace where desk after desk is filled with people scurrying to write tomorrow’s news when today has barely started.

We continue down the hall to my corner office. The room is decorated with mahogany wood paneling and a cream-colored rug. The floor-to-ceiling windows at the far end have a fantastic view of the Golden Gate Bridge and, my favorite, Alcatraz. When I look at it, I hear Sean Connery’s deep brogue in my head.

“Alcatraz,” I mutter to myself in my best imitation.

There’s a button on my desk that moves a large bookcase and swings it around to make a bar appear. It’s my Mad Men office. Makes me feel like Don Draper.

Stefanie stops at the door while I proceed to the bar. It’s lined with mirrors, glass shelves, and these gaudy crystal canisters to house my whiskey collection. It’s cheesy but cool as fuck. It was a gift to myself when I was summoned to work as President of Digital Media within Sexton Media.

I take out a glass and hold it up to Stefanie in offering.

She shakes her short brown hair and raises a palm, as if to say, No, thanks.

I pour a shot into my coffee and then take a sip before I walk around my desk and sit in my leather Aeron chair. I prop my feet on the desk and listen while Stefanie gives me the rundown of my day.

“You have a nine o’clock call with the sales team at Under Armour to talk about the digital sponsorship for the web series on Stephen Curry.”

I roll my eyes at the project my editorial team conjured up. Everyone has done interviews with the Golden State Warrior already. That’s not the type of thing that sets you apart from the competition. But everyone keeps saying I don’t know what I’m talking about.

Stefanie continues, “Missy called a ten o’clock board meeting.”

I take another drink and try to taper my disgust at the mention of my stepmonster.

“And Steven Miller called you back.”

I pop up in my seat, my feet hitting the ground with a thud. “He called back? What did he say?”

Her face lights up bigger than her five-foot-five stature. “He said he’d been waiting for your call and agreed to talk today at four.”

I slap my hand down on my desk in excitement. This is a meeting I’ve been preparing a long time for, and knowing it’s finally going to happen brings a nervous feeling rushing through me.

While I might hate what my father and his new wife are trying to do to this place with their sensationalized news and pop culture–only headlines, stories like the one Sergeant Miller has to tell make it more than worth it.

Every media outlet has been after an interview with him since he was awarded the Medal of Honor. He barely survived his heroism and has asked for his privacy while he heals. I had a feeling the time was right, and I’m glad I listened to my gut to reach out to him.

“Confirm that call and then get me a list of the top ten producers my father hasn’t royally pissed off.” I tap my finger on the desk as the wheels in my head set in motion doing an actual human-interest story, like the ones we used to do. Back when the smartest woman I ever knew was in charge.

“Oh, and Bryce wants to see you in his office,” Stefanie says tentatively, making my high immediately disappear.

I wave off the notion. He already ruined the event last night with his speech about how I needed to pull my weight around here. It’s why my phone’s been off all morning, avoiding his calls.