The Deadline. KiKi Swinson

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СКАЧАТЬ 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 СКАЧАТЬ