Riders Of Tyr 5: Ironhand

I don’t bother knocking. I just swing the door open, letting it slam against the wall.

“What the hell, Chiara?”

“Funny, I was thinking the same thing,” I retort, hands on my hips.

“What’s your problem?” Clarence rises from his chair, peering at me over his gold-rimmed glasses.

Clarence is so old-fashioned that even the traditionalists think he’s over the top. He’s been glued to the editor’s chair since before I was born, hailed as the best in local news. That’s why I chose to work here.

But instead of finding a mentor, I found my archnemesis.

“Are you seriously expecting me to cover this?” I struggle to keep my voice steady.

“I don’t see the issue,” Clarence retorts, sinking back into his chair.

“It’s a wet T-shirt contest!” I can’t hold back my outrage any longer.

“Fully aware,” Clarence replies, a smirk playing on his lips. “I thought it would be fitting for a woman to cover this.”

I’m shaking with anger, feeling like a cartoon character with steam pouring out of my ears. When I studied journalism, I envisioned political scandals, undercover operations, dangerous missions, exposing corrupt officials, and contributing to society.

I knew I’d have to temper my idealism eventually, but reporting on wet T-shirts clinging to fake breasts was never part of my childhood dreams.

“We’re KWSC, Clarence. Maybe we shouldn’t cover this at all?” I snap.

“Chiara, we may be part of a national network, but we’re still a local news outlet. A few…”

“…boobs,” I interject sarcastically.

“Exactly,” Clarence replies, unfazed. “It boosts our ratings and clicks.”

“Nice to see you upholding the noble cause of journalism, Clarence. Your lofty ideals will be immortalized in the annals of our profession.”

“Idealism is a luxury after a full stomach,” Clarence smirks.

“No need to go all Charles Dickens on me, Clarence. This is bullshit.”

“This is your assignment, and I need it by tonight’s news.” Clarence slams his hand on his desk.

“Oh, you’ll get it. Three minutes of how degrading this is, with a focus on the esteemed local politicians in attendance,” I spit out. “A close-up of a representative drooling over D cups. Quality journalism.”

With that, I storm out of the office, the stares of my colleagues following me. No one talks to Clarence like that and gets away with it.

But I’m a Stanford valedictorian and the only one here who knows how to use Twitter. I’m the only damn reporter in this place, and Clarence treats me like I’m just a pretty face.

“Okay, you’re pissed,” Jason observes as I approach the van.

“You’re so perceptive, J. Maybe you should be in front of the camera instead of behind it,” I retort, circling the van.

“For this story? Absolutely,” he quips, sliding into the driver’s seat.

I roll my eyes at him, and he knows to back off. We were paired on my first day. Both of us were on probation, and they hoped our inexperience would be our downfall.

But it had the opposite effect. Jason is a skilled professional with a keen eye, fearless, with an artistic flair that makes him perfect for this job.

As for me…I may not be good at many things, but I’m a damn good reporter.

“So, we’re off to the beach?” Jason asks, starting the van.

“First the beach, then I’m going to bash Clarence’s head against a wall and splatter his chauvinistic brains everywhere!”

“Maybe dial it down a bit? He is our boss, after all.”

“J, you might be perfectly fine covering wet T-shirt contests, pie-eating contests, and whatever other stupid contest we’ve been covering for the last year, but I’m not.”

“Why not? Boobs, pies, and hot dogs—the holy trinity of happiness,” Jason grins.

I shake my head at him. He’s the epitome of a beach boy, with sun-bleached hair, a permanent tan, a toned body, and a dazzling smile.

He’s cute, and he openly flirted with me when we first started. But I just don’t… I need to stay focused on work.

Plus, I’ve never been into boys. I prefer men, and I’ve yet to meet one who catches my eye. The fact that my father abandoned my mother when I was two is completely irrelevant.

“Argh!” I groan in frustration.

“Are you okay?” Jason asks.

“I’m just peachy.”

I pull out my smartphone, already calculating how many characters “KWSC Editor-in-Chief is a misogynistic asshole” has and how many hashtags I can add.

Jason looks at me seriously. “Chiara, you’ve never appreciated how attractive you are.”

“Maybe because it’s caused me more problems than it’s worth. I want to be taken seriously, but I have to fight ten times harder for it.” I throw my hands in the air.

“It’s there, Chiara. Why not use it?”

“I can’t believe you’re even suggesting that!”

“A little seduction can get you a long way, C,” Jason adds with a smile.

I shake my head vehemently. Not my style. I watched my mother do it all the time, using the good looks I inherited from her to navigate the male-dominated wine industry.

From investors to inspectors, she had a smile for everyone and a pair of jean shorts that did little to hide her long, vineyard-toned legs. I refuse to go down that path.

“Just drive,” I tell Jason, returning to my phone.