JULES

“Crétine!”

I winced before she could even get to the next word.

“This is horrible! Where is the story? She won an Oscar, je m'en bats les couilles! I want gossip. That is why I hired you. But now, tu me fais chier!”

I don’t give a-

Dumbshit.

A pain in my-

I caught only the fragments of the things she said.

“You had one job, Jules. To photograph her after she fainted. You are not Kevin Callaway, why did you freeze there? Huh?” There were papers flying all around me.

“Madam, I-” I squeaked as she stood up dramatically, pushing her chair away.

“No! I want gossip. I want to know why Evelyn James collapsed on stage. Every media outlet is doing better than us. We’re supposed to be magnifique!”

I looked away, noting down her outfit. Taupe halter neck with pink and yellow patterns, black leather pants, gold jewellery that wasn’t real. I could tell from the blue circles marked on her fingers where her rings sat. She always wore that same burgundy on her lips no matter what, the same shade that highlighted the mole under her nose. That’s what I noticed as she walked around her desk and towards me.

No. No. No. No. No.

I closed my eyes and flinched.

“Why are you standing there? Go!”

I opened my eyes cautiously, “Madam?”

“Go!”

“Where?”

“To the hospital, tu-” I nodded frantically. 

Turning around, I grabbed my bag and picked up half of the papers on the floor before heading to the door. I heard papers and folders being pushed off Madam’s desk belligerently. As soon as I heard the click of the door, I bolted for the exit. The doors opened past me and the sign above me read: ‘The RSVP - Los Angeles’. The company I worked for. 

My eyes shut tight. I was spiralling again. How on Earth was I supposed to gather a story about something as major as this? This is about Evelyn James experiencing an episode of syncope, and, if half of what people said was true, Kevin Callaway wouldn’t let the paparazzi get a glimpse of a scandal. Not if it involved him. He had a meticulous reputation and would never let anyone be his downfall. Not even Evelyn.

Stop. 

I began making a surgical knot with invisible thread, pulling the loose ends of my thoughts together.

I felt a loud honk irritate my eardrums. Glancing upwards, I saw the big blue bus in front of me.

“You gettin’ in lady? I ain't got all day,” the driver said with a hint of a snarl he bit back.

I nodded, stepping onto the stairs of the bus, barely balancing myself as the driver carelessly accelerated forward. My grip on the pole tightened as I swallowed, the first two rows staring at me. Stupid Jules. Why did you zone out on the street?

I made my way through the tiny aisle and claimed a seat in the fourth row, next to the window. I rummaged through my bag and pulled out my diary to begin writing down notes.

“Hey there, pretty,” a voice spoke next to me, his breath grazing my shoulder, “Mind if I join?”

I turned to face a man already sitting next to me. Black hair with streaks of grey. I catalogued it the way I catalogued everything and everyone around me.

"What’s got you so worked up, sweetheart? Such nice eyes you’ve got, you shouldn’t be so stressed out,” the man tucked a strand of my hair behind my ear before I could pull away, “A girl like you shouldn’t be alone.”

Something about the way he looked at me made my stomach turn. It didn’t feel right. I looked down at my hands, slightly shaking. The man’s only flirting. Just say no.

“I-I’m alright. No, thank you.”

“You sure baby? I know a lot of girls your age, lost in this big city, tryna’ figure out their purpose in life. Trust me, I can help you out,” he placed his hand on mine. I pulled away, starting to feel my breath grow sharper each time. I was scared. 

“No, I’m fine, really…” I felt goosebumps crawl up my hands, all the way towards my neck. No. I needed to calm down.

“Come on, I’m just being nice,” the man smiled at me, a smile I knew the meaning of all too well.

Twelve. Twelve cranial nerves. I could think of twelve cranial nerves and their functions but not a single sentence to get me out of this situation.

“Is there a problem, darling?”

I looked up towards a man, another man, talking to me. Tall. Six feet. Hazel eyes, eumelanin and pheomelanin. Central heterochromia too.

“I- uh,” I couldn’t have a panic attack. Not like this. 12 cranial nerves, repeat after me, 12 cranial nerves, rostral to caudal, lateral to medial. Olfactory nerve - smell; Optic nerve - visual information-

“Just making friends, no harm in that, right?” the creep replied.

Oculomotor nerve- eye movement.

 “Well let me tell you something, sir,” the man leaned towards the creep, “When she says no, it’s a no.” The man kept his gaze on the creep.

Trochlear nerve - eye muscles.

“Look man, I d-”

Trigeminal nerve - facial sensation.

“She. Said. No.”

I looked down towards my journal, staring hard at the words. Cortisol. I shut my eyelids, and prayed that the argument wouldn't progress and turn physical.

“Now, you, sir. Are you going to move, or do I have to make you?” The creep stood up and left, and the tall man slid in the seat next to me. “I am very sorry about him. As a man, I can proudly say he’s not one of us,” he joked, trying to lift my spirits, “Some people just don’t know the definition of the word ‘no’.”

I nodded, looking back at my diary, the grip on my pen loosening slightly. I was not ready for any form of human interaction after this episode. Breathe, Jules. Just Breathe.

“Speaking of definitions…”The man smiled at me, warmly, yet I sensed a hint of conceit underneath his sweet words.

“You really are laconic. Guess your boss put you up to the James scandal, huh?” he mentioned casually, as though talking about the weather over fine coffee, pulling out a handy laptop from his briefcase. It was then that I noticed the ID card around his neck, the dull colour clashing with his striped blue shirt and cream trousers.

“Who are you?” I questioned simply, the man was clearly smart enough to help out a woman on the bus and read someone like me as though I was an open book. I was not.

“Call me Adrian,” he said, typing away at his keyboard.

“That’s not your name.”

The man froze, his expression still. “And how do you know that?”

“You don’t seem like you’d tell me so easily.”

“Olive eyes, smart, with a diary in hand,” He mused, “You’re not what I expected when I heard your name. I’m not telling you mine, can’t trust my rival with that sort of sensitive information.”

“Where do you work?”

“Keep it a secret?” He held out his pinky like a child. I raised an eyebrow at him and took it, hesitantly. He told me the name.

“You’re also working on the Evelyn case,” I stated, pausing before I continued, “Are…are you also heading to the hospital?”

‘Adrian’ didn’t bother looking up. “Depends. Are you hoping to please your boss? Because I certainly am looking forward to pleasing mine.”

My head tilted slightly, “What do you mean?"

“I mean, the hospital was the least interesting part of last night, sweetheart,”

He finally stared me in the eye.

“You really want to find a story there?”