The Deadline. KiKi Swinson

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.