Win a Filthy Bad Boy: A Bad Boy Romance Read Online Free Page B
Author: Lacy Carter
smiled.
Passing by each cubicle, she noticed every eye was on her. The atmosphere at The Daily Journal was dictated by a mishmash of ambitious personalities. If careless, your ideas would be stolen before you could blink, your article written before you could jot down a letter.
Bonnie didn't hate her job, but often succumbed to the frustration of being stuck writing sensationalist articles for a tabloid paper, when she'd once dreamed of writing stories that went deeper and explored the many facets of the human condition.
This put her at odds with her peers who were interested in writing stories that catered to the requirements of The Daily Journal , which were to grab the reader by the jugular, at any cost. This wasn't Bonnie’s dream job; she would have liked to work for Salon , but being in the job for three years, as an intern, then part-time and now full-time, she had to make do with what she had. Some days it worked, and other days it sucked.
Bonnie reached Al’s office. Its misleadingly calm shallows never dispelled the sense that she was stepping into a storm.
“Close the door,” Al said.
Bonnie closed the door and sat opposite the editor-in-chief.
Even though she believed he came into work neat and tidy, she could never shake the nagging feeling that Al Gibson slept in his clothes. Reinforcing this suspicion was his wrinkled white shirt, which he never seemed to change.
He sat with his tie loosened, almost flung over his shoulder; the knot looked too tight as if he'd been strangling himself with it. A laptop was opened in front of him. Behind him, the mockups of papers with Al Gibson's name in the headlines were hung and held in place by thumb tacks.
Al owed his bronze skin to weekly tanning sessions. Where he found the hours, Bonnie never knew. Piercing blue eyes bore into her, and they stood in strong contrast to his tan, like sapphires embedded in earth.
“Do you mind telling me why I gotta hear the scoop from a crappy online blog post?”
“What blog post—”
“It doesn't matter, what matters is—you're finally thinking like a journalist,” he said. “Congratulations. Always knew you were a winner. A perfect story for you. An exponential boost to your career.” He pulled out a cigar and stuck it between his teeth. “I like what you did here, Jensen. You showed initiative —” he peered around Bonnie and shouted out to the entire office “—something those sniveling, miserable excuses for journalists out there lack!”
“With all due respect, sir. I don’t know what you're talking about,” Bonnie said.
“I'm talking about the competition, for chrissakes!” Al said, as he spun the laptop around and destroyed Bonnie's world.
The image on the screen was of a brunette woman walking along the beach in sunglasses and a white bikini. She recognized the large breasts and curvy figure. She also recognized the beach; she had gone there with her sister two years ago.
The title of the article read:
PLAIN JANE WINS BIGGER PRIZE THAN NEW YORK LOTTERY! A CRUISE WITH A FILTHY BAD BOY!
Had Bonnie not been seated, she would have collapsed.
“What the—” she began, then stopped, closed her eyes, and took a deep breath.
“A good move. An outstanding move. We don't even have to pay expenses for this trip—the producers will deal with that. Ha! It's a win-win.” Al looked triumphant.
“Wait a minute, there is no way I'm going on that show just to write an article. What’s the angle? I've never even watched the show, and I'm sure it's been covered to death. What am I supposed to write about?”
“Ever heard of a guy called Mr. Steel?”
“No.”
“Well that's who you're going to write about. He's your partner on the show.” Al stabbed the unlit cigar into the air, before shoving it back into his mouth.
“Not a chance,” Bonnie said, folding her arms.
“Apparently he's
Passing by each cubicle, she noticed every eye was on her. The atmosphere at The Daily Journal was dictated by a mishmash of ambitious personalities. If careless, your ideas would be stolen before you could blink, your article written before you could jot down a letter.
Bonnie didn't hate her job, but often succumbed to the frustration of being stuck writing sensationalist articles for a tabloid paper, when she'd once dreamed of writing stories that went deeper and explored the many facets of the human condition.
This put her at odds with her peers who were interested in writing stories that catered to the requirements of The Daily Journal , which were to grab the reader by the jugular, at any cost. This wasn't Bonnie’s dream job; she would have liked to work for Salon , but being in the job for three years, as an intern, then part-time and now full-time, she had to make do with what she had. Some days it worked, and other days it sucked.
Bonnie reached Al’s office. Its misleadingly calm shallows never dispelled the sense that she was stepping into a storm.
“Close the door,” Al said.
Bonnie closed the door and sat opposite the editor-in-chief.
Even though she believed he came into work neat and tidy, she could never shake the nagging feeling that Al Gibson slept in his clothes. Reinforcing this suspicion was his wrinkled white shirt, which he never seemed to change.
He sat with his tie loosened, almost flung over his shoulder; the knot looked too tight as if he'd been strangling himself with it. A laptop was opened in front of him. Behind him, the mockups of papers with Al Gibson's name in the headlines were hung and held in place by thumb tacks.
Al owed his bronze skin to weekly tanning sessions. Where he found the hours, Bonnie never knew. Piercing blue eyes bore into her, and they stood in strong contrast to his tan, like sapphires embedded in earth.
“Do you mind telling me why I gotta hear the scoop from a crappy online blog post?”
“What blog post—”
“It doesn't matter, what matters is—you're finally thinking like a journalist,” he said. “Congratulations. Always knew you were a winner. A perfect story for you. An exponential boost to your career.” He pulled out a cigar and stuck it between his teeth. “I like what you did here, Jensen. You showed initiative —” he peered around Bonnie and shouted out to the entire office “—something those sniveling, miserable excuses for journalists out there lack!”
“With all due respect, sir. I don’t know what you're talking about,” Bonnie said.
“I'm talking about the competition, for chrissakes!” Al said, as he spun the laptop around and destroyed Bonnie's world.
The image on the screen was of a brunette woman walking along the beach in sunglasses and a white bikini. She recognized the large breasts and curvy figure. She also recognized the beach; she had gone there with her sister two years ago.
The title of the article read:
PLAIN JANE WINS BIGGER PRIZE THAN NEW YORK LOTTERY! A CRUISE WITH A FILTHY BAD BOY!
Had Bonnie not been seated, she would have collapsed.
“What the—” she began, then stopped, closed her eyes, and took a deep breath.
“A good move. An outstanding move. We don't even have to pay expenses for this trip—the producers will deal with that. Ha! It's a win-win.” Al looked triumphant.
“Wait a minute, there is no way I'm going on that show just to write an article. What’s the angle? I've never even watched the show, and I'm sure it's been covered to death. What am I supposed to write about?”
“Ever heard of a guy called Mr. Steel?”
“No.”
“Well that's who you're going to write about. He's your partner on the show.” Al stabbed the unlit cigar into the air, before shoving it back into his mouth.
“Not a chance,” Bonnie said, folding her arms.
“Apparently he's
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