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  KISS ME

  JOSEPH JAMES HUNT

  Copyright © 2017 Joseph Hunt

  All Rights Reserved

  No part of this book may be reproduced, transmitted, copied, or stored in any form or by any means without permission of the author. Your respect and support of the author is appreciated.

  All characters, events, brands, companies, and locations in this story are used fictionally and without intent of slander. Any resemblance to actual people are purely coincidental.

  Other Books by Joseph James Hunt

  A Gay Coming Out / Romance

  Rumour Has It

  A High School Romance

  Prom Queen of Disaster

  Once you’ve read the book, feed the author and leave a review.

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  A Letter from Joseph

  More Books by Joseph

  About the Author

  ONE

  Business as usual

  Blake Harris pounded a fist on his office desk, swiping a hand at his coffee and unopened mail, pushing them over the edge. He scrunched his toes inside his shoes and kicked the floor. His nostrils flared while he looked at the text on his phone.

  “Screw this!” his voice cracked.

  Ava Jones, Blake’s assistant, rushed into his office with a hand to her chest. She stood five feet and seven inches tall in her heels, and wore her brown into blonde ombre hair in plaited pigtails, one over each shoulder. “Everything okay?” Her eyes darted to the mess on the floor. “What happened?”

  Blake combed a hand through his brown hair. “I can’t.” He blotted his forehead with his sleeve. “Look at this.” He slid his phone across his desk.

  “What is it?” Ava took the phone. “Oh.” She sucked her lips against her teeth.

  He slammed a hand on his desk. “I broke up with him!”

  Ava read the text aloud. “I need you to collect your clothes. I have a new boyfriend, he’s moving in, and if you don’t collect your clothes I’ll—” Ava gulped hard.

  Blake kicked the letters on the floor. “We broke up two weeks ago!”

  She slid his phone back to him. “He was a dick to you. Anything I can do to help?” She played with a pigtail, wrapping the ends around a finger.

  He dipped his chin to his chest, avoiding eye contact with his phone. “Get me a date.”

  She smiled to herself. “I have a friend who’s gay.”

  “I’m kidding.” He lifted his head to see the spilled coffee on the floor. “I do need another coffee though.”

  “Gloria’s gone for coffee. And you should probably clean that.” She pointed to the mess by his desk. “Anything else?”

  “Just coffee.” He bent over from his office chair, picking the coffee soaked letters.

  “Great. I’ll be back in ten with your coffee.” She turned on her heel and walked off.

  Blake worked at Vague, an entertainment and lifestyle magazine, landing the job as a 24-year-old who gave advice to people online through videos and blogs. It had been two years since then, and now he wrote a column titled, ‘Dear Blake’ where readers wrote in with their questions, mostly parents with gay children, or teens struggling to come out. He was the token homosexual of the magazine.

  The job came with a few perks, including a large office with a long glass window pane looking out into the city, and an assistant he shared with Ruby John; the other lifestyle writer.

  Ava entered Blake’s office, shaking a large styrofoam cup. “I have coffee.” She approached his desk with coffee in one hand and the other behind her back. “And I nabbed a croissant,” she said, producing the pastry in a paper bag in her other hand.

  “Mmhmm. Thank you. Feel like I’m losing my mind.”

  “And as an amazing assistant and great friend, I got you these.” She pulled sugar packets from her jacket pocket. “In case you need it.”

  “Anything harder?”

  Ava glanced at her watch, rolling it around on her wrist. “It’s twelve. No vodka until after five.”

  “I need something to get through this.” He nodded to his computer screen where an open word document taunted him with its blank page.

  “Is this the piece on body image?”

  He hummed. “I don’t do dating apps.” He pressed his fingers to his temples. “I don’t even know why I let Nicole brainwash me into taking this piece on.”

  Ava stood behind Blake and gently massaged his shoulders and neck. “Because she knows you’re capable. Is it for print or online?”

  “Print, luckily.”

  “So, no clickbait then?”

  Blake turned to her, showing her his light green eyes as they rolled. “No.”

  They both stared out of the window, looking out onto the cityscape. “You’re lucky you have this.”

  “I told you to submit something, they’re always looking for freelance writers.”

  Ava sighed. “Five rules to—no, five ways to take the perfect—no.” She spat her tongue out. “Ugh. I have a bachelor’s degree in creative writing, I should be able to think of something funny.”

  “Clickbait is a death of creativity, besides, let the copyeditors think of that shit.” He turned in his swivelling office chair and grabbed his coffee. “Five types of men you don’t want to become, and you’re one of them?”

  She groaned, slinking herself across the back of Blake’s chair. “You’re a natural.”

  “Far from it. I just read that one on Facebook.”

  “What?” She stood upright and jabbed him in the arm.

  Blake sipped his coffee. “Even I can’t be stopped from clicking, and I know what they’re doing.” He took the sugar packets and tore the tops off. “Definitely submit something.”

  She sighed. “It would only be freelance though.”

  “Some experience is better than none.”

  “You’re right. Maybe next week.” She stepped over the small coffee stain. “Give me that guy’s address and I’ll go get your stuff.”

  “Aw. You’d do that?”

  “Yeah, plus, you have your meeting later.”

  He grumbled, pouring sugar into his coffee. “I hate it when they announce random meetings like this.”

  “I don’t want to worry you, but I heard they’re handing out P45s.”

  “What?”

  “Firing people.”

  “I know. But, since when?” Blake shivered as a shudder ran through his back. He stood, stretching out in his lean physique. “Guess I should be nervous then.”

  She laughed. “No, but like, they might ask you who should go next. Besides, you get so many letters for your column. Almost as many as Ruby, and she’s been here for years.”

  Ruby John, the other lifestyle writer. She was about to hit thirty and give birth, two milestones, and the area for most of her content. She was the key demographic; new mothers and women in their thirties, often housewives. The magazine went out on a limb with Blake, hitting a new demographic instead of pandering to the one they already had.

  “I doubt they’ll be firing her anytime soon. She’s about to burst.”

  “Not quite, she’s got at least a few months left.” Ava tilted her head at him.

  “Yeah, yeah.” Blake scribbled a note of the ex’s address before handing it over. “It’s better he doesn’t see me anyway.”

  “Gotcha!” She gav
e him a two-finger salute. “And tell me how the meeting goes.”

  “Sure, and can you close my door.”

  Ava nodded and left, closing the door behind her.

  Blake took another sip of coffee, relaxing into the sweetness of it. He fanned the letters for a moment, touching gently to find the envelopes were sticky and the ink running into the liquid. He knew one in every twenty letters he received would be posted in the magazine or on the website. The weird and wonderful ones were saved for print.

  An email popped open on his monitor.

  From: Nicole Pail, Associate Editor

  To: Blake Harris, Lifestyle Columnist

  Subject: DEADLINE!

  Blake, you haven’t sent me anything yet about the article. If you want to make it into the magazine, I need it by the end of the week. I have Franco and Vanessa breathing down my neck. I promised them a two-page spread.

  Don’t forget. Meeting at 2.

  Nic x

  It was Tuesday, and by the end of the week, Nicole meant Thursday. The magazine ran weekly, on Tuesdays. Everything had to be finished by Friday at the latest and signed off by editors on Monday morning, but larger pieces needed to be finished sooner.

  Christian ‘Chris’ Mendoza sat in his office, surrounded by framed vintage film posters covering every inch of his wall; a habitat for a film columnist. As someone from a largely Spanish-speaking family, it was hard to adjust to speaking in English. His mother was British, while his father was from Spain. His main English lessons were in the form of TV and film, but in the sixteen years he’d lived in England, he’d perfected the language.

  He looked like the typical Spaniard with his thick head of slicked jet-black hair and intense hazel eyes. He wore a white V-neck t-shirt, a harsh contrast to his tanned skin and accentuated his muscular frame.

  A knock pattered on Chris’ door. Danny entered, wearing his baseball cap backwards. “Sandwich order is in.” He pulled a large baguette from beneath his arm. “Want me to grab you extra sriracha.”

  Chris looked from his computer screen. “No need, I bought a bottle.” He opened his top desk drawer and pulled it out.

  Danny was the assistant to the film writers. There were four assistants in total, one for each area; lifestyle, music, film, and gossip. Danny continued inside the office. “Large beef, with a salad of lettuce, onion, and tomato.” He titled to his head and read from the sticky label on the plastic wrap.

  Chris’ stomach bubbled, clearing a space for the sandwich on his desk. “Bet they didn’t put any sauce on it.” He unwrapped it and tapped a finger on his forehead. “Nope.”

  Danny held his hands in the air. “I wrote salsa.”

  “Lucky for us, I’m prepared.” He grinned, opening his baguette. “Plus, they never put enough on.” He uncapped the bottle and squirted it through the sandwich filling. “Why aren’t you eating?”

  “Assistants have leftovers.”

  He waved a hand. “No.” He opened his drawer and pulled out a bread knife. “Have some.” He closed the sandwich and cut it in two, handing half to Danny. “Close the door and sit.”

  Danny closed the door and sat opposite Chris across his desk. He took a bite and sucked in sharp through his teeth. “That’s spicy.”

  Chris hacked his teeth into the side of his sandwich, groaning in pleasure.

  “You heard they’re cutting pieces from the magazine?” Danny asked, washing the sandwich down with water.

  He nodded. “They should cut the fluff, like Sienna’s top ten dressed, or Alice’s BS film column, talking about Mean Girls, and we don’t need another sponsored article to sell clothes with film quotes on.”

  Danny hummed in agreement, taking another bite of his sandwich. “They make a lot of money though.”

  “Maybe cutting the advice columns; amateurs giving advice, believing they’re psychologists,” he scoffed.

  “Hope they’re not cutting you.” Danny sighed. “I’d hate it if you left, then I’d be Alice’s personal assistant.”

  Chris swallowed hard on the food in his mouth. “I’ve worked here almost six years. I’ve worked my way up, and if they think they can cut me, or give me my two weeks’ notice, that’s their loss. Maybe Empire or someone will find my articles better suited.”

  Danny’s phone bleeped. “It’s Alice. I have to pick up some film tickets.”

  “What?” Chris wiped at his mouth with a napkin he kept in his drawer. “What does she have tickets for?”

  Danny stood and waved a hand at him. “A midnight showing of Miss Peregrine’s Home for Peculiar Children, you went to the premiere anyway.”

  Chris squinted his eyes and gazed at Danny. “The one I read the book for, right?”

  “Yep.”

  “Ah. Great book, film wasn’t the worst.”

  Danny laughed. “That’s the one people sent you hate mail for. You said it reminded you of a film without a compass and no direction, and you said—”

  Chris grinned to himself. “I said, if they filmed the sequel, it would be like keeping someone alive on life support even though they weren’t capable of living.” He pursed his lips and nodded. “I was having a bad day when I wrote that. Some reality TV rejects were hogging all the free weights in the gym.”

  “Okay. Don’t forget about the meeting.” Danny left Chris’ office.

  Chris continued eating his sandwich, looking over a current article open in a word document. It was aptly titled it, The Industry is Dying; his ideas were planted in how all films coming out were remakes, or cashing in on popular books, even if they’re going to make terrible films.

  Blake went from looking at his reflection in his desk mirror, to looking at the time on his computer screen. 1:50 P.M. Hearing about people being fired, Blake blotted his neck with a tissue. He wore a white shirt with a grey bowtie and a pair of black skinny jeans. Preparing for the meeting, he clipped his suspenders into the back of his jeans and pulled them over his shoulders, attaching at the front, and to finish, he pinned his rainbow flag.

  It didn’t take long for Chris to prepare. He lightly greased his hands with hair oil and combed them through his hair, coiffuring a pompadour. He grabbed his red and black flannel shirt from the coat stand in his office and wore it over his white t-shirt. He rolled up the sleeves and flexed his forearms, admiring the veins at surface of his skin.

  Meetings took place on the floor above, it was on the same floor as the photography studios, and above those were the editors offices. The meeting was set to take place in meeting room three, an intimate room of six chair and a large round desk.

  One side of the round desk was manned by Franco Samuel, the managing editor, and at either side of him was one associate editor, Nicole and Monica. There was a third editor, Sean McAlister, but he dealt exclusively with freelance content. The three of them sat waiting with sheets of paper pinned to clipboards.

  Blake arrived first. “Am I late?” He took a seat.

  Franco looked at his watch. “Nope, not at all.”

  “Is this for us?” Blake asked, gesturing to the pastries laid out in the centre of the table alongside the assortment of liquids on offer.

  Chris walked in moment later, he took a seat away from Blake, leaving a chair between them. “Afternoon.” He helped himself to coffee. “Nice spread of food.” He grabbed a plate and a blueberry muffin.

  Franco, an older man with a thick moustache on his upper lip, cleared his voice. “Okay.” He nodded. “That’s everyone, would you mind closing the door, Blake?”

  Blake choked on his water. “Everyone?” He glanced across the table to a Chris. They made eye contact, but everyone stared at Blake.

  TWO

  Cutting shreds

  Franco stood and snapped his fingers, grabbing everyone’s attention. “I’m sure you’re both aware, there’s change happening around here.”

  Chris nodded and smiled. “I heard.”

  He took his seat and stared across at Chris and Blake. He picked his clipboard fr
om the table and thumbed through paper.

  Blake tapped his fingers around the glass. “Are we being fired?”

  “Oh, no.” Blake’s editor, Nicole raised from her seat. “Nobody is being fired.”

  Franco looked across the top of his clipboard at them. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. You’re not being fired, but there are changes.”

  “Go on,” Chris said.

  “I spoke with Vanessa, our beloved editor-in-chief, and this is direct from her. The magazine is trimming pages, the goal is for a fifty-page print publication, that’s including content and ads.” He took a sip of water and cleared his throat. “Meaning we’re cutting some popular people and articles.”

  Blake stood, pushing his chair out. “I’m not being cut. I get fan mail, I get hits.”

  Chris scoffed. “I might not get as much mail him, but my content is viral. Anyone can do his job.” He laughed. “In fact, you have three other writers who practically do what he does.”

  Blake turned to Chris and scrunched his face at him. “I could be hateful and go viral.”

  Monica snapped her fingers in the air twice. “Okay, okay.”

  Franco pushed his glasses on his face and folded his arms. “You two finished?”

  “Yeah.” Blake sucked in a deep and took his seat.

  “This doesn’t mean we’re firing anyone. Some people have been fired, you are both excellent writers, however, we need to cut one of your pages. Your editors have fought endlessly, but now we need to make you both aware.”

  Blake raised his hand and waited for a pause. “And what does that mean?”

  “It comes with a pay cut, stripped back to your basic salary, you’ll keep an office, the use of the assistants, however, you’ll be uploading to the website. These changes will be implemented the first week in December.”

  Blake shook his head. “A pay cut?”

  “What?” Chris added. “So, we’ll be bloggers, essentially?”

  Franco tilted his head to the side. “You’ll also have the opportunity to submit feature pieces, but without extra pay. Of course, we encourage all our writers to continue submitting through their editors, but it won’t be a regular feature.”