two

His book, what everyone was considering a manifesto with clear threat to incite riots, was like nothing I had expected and I really understood why so many people were excited by it. Not only was it well-written and with a certain underlying flare that not many authors could accomplish, especially one as young as I'd heard he was, it was a cohesive flow of opinion based claims that begged for peace instead of the war that our government seemed to opt for constantly. He wasn't dangerous. He was just different enough to rile people up.

It was hard for me to see the person who wrote this as a quiet, stay in the house type and I could see how that had confused everyone else. His sentences were structured with such passionately strong stances that all I could imagine was someone marching down the street with a picket sign. I would've wanted to talk to someone like this anyways, seeing it as a great headline opportunity plus an interesting take since I was such a quiet neutral type of person, but the fact that he seemed to be such a paradox only made me want to talk to him more.

My coworker's words kept playing over and over in my head as I shoved the book into my bag before scurrying off to work the next morning, the words he had used to beg Styles with.

I had to talk to him, had to at the very least just know his first name even though there was absolutely no guarantee he would give it to me. I decided as soon as I finished the book that I was going to try to get an interview because I couldn't just let this story pass me by like all the other ones. I was more professional than Pollock and an overall better employee. I deserved this.

I was tired, not getting much sleep since I had been reading Styles's essays instead of getting to bed on time, but I still had to go in to the office to finish the rest of my column about the different ice boxes going on the market that summer and which ones were the safest while providing the biggest bang for your buck, another boring story that I had no interest in but was still being forced to complete.

The day went by slowly, the constant clicking of typewriter keys and the chatter of deep voices droning on about things I wasn't allowed to be involved in distracting me from my work every few moments. When people say a watched pot never boils, they're kind of telling the truth. The more I stared at the clock, the slower the hands seemed to move, the second hand starting to edge along almost as slowly as the minutes hand.

"How's that intense thriller of a story you got going?" another one of the guys, Bill Quinn, said, leaning against my desk on the palms of his hands with a shit eating grin spread lazily across his face. He was my least favorite out of everyone I worked with. He was a bigoted idiot who thought he was the best of the best even though he couldn't use commas to save his life. He was constantly trying to make me feel small by patronizing me and the easy workload that I got by with, most likely because he knew how much it bothered me.

"Really well, actually," I said, refusing to entertain his insulting sarcasm. He just winked, before scooping up some of the papers on my desk and reading them, pretending to be impressed with little disingenuous smirks and eyebrow wiggles. I let him read them anyways because I knew deep down that he was aware of how good they were even if they were simple.

"Not too shabby. Might end up like one of us before you retire," he winked before dropping the sheets back on my desk for them to scatter all over the place, turning on his heels back toward his seat without even offering to help reorganize them.

I thought about those things more often than not, things like how much I could move up in the office and if I would ever become one of the main reporters like the guys were, but I realized that it was probably purposeless and definitely too saddening to get hung up on the what if's. I was only twenty-six anyways. Slumps don't last forever and I was bound to make someone higher up realize that I was skilled enough to promote eventually. I knew that most days.

Everyone filed out a little earlier than normal since it was Friday, trying to get a head start on the weekend, so I decided to make the call to Styles from the office once there was no one there to hear me. I practiced steady breathing practices, in through the nose out through the mouth, before dialing the number carefully as to make sure I didn't get any of the numbers wrong.

It took him a few beats but he answered with a slow, deep rumble of a hello that almost intimidated me enough to shove the receiver back on its holder and forget it ever happened. Almost.

"Yes, am I speaking with Mr. Styles?" I asked after a few nervous coughs and sputters. I usually wasn't one to back down or shy away from anything, usually feeling rather well-footed in the things that I did, but something about not knowing what to expect felt eerie to me, especially since I wasn't used to chasing cases like this.

"Depends on who's asking," the voice replied. I managed to laugh lightly to ease the tension settling in my shoulders before glimpsing over the notes I'd written the night prior, notes about the book and just general question about his character, enough inspiration to motivate me to continue trying to tackle this seemingly impossible story.

"I'm Penelope Chambers from the New York Times. I hate to be bothering you especially since you just spoke with one of my colleagues yesterday, but I felt as though his behavior was a bit unprofessional and just wanted to do a follow-up to apologize. I hope that he hasn't ruined our chances of working together in the future."

It was honest, even if there was no guideline in any of our employee manuals that said we had to do any sort of follow-up or phone call to cover the other one's ass. In my mind, if I had had to deal with someone like Pollock, I probably would've wanted someone levelheaded to apologize for it. My intuition and common decency was all I had to go on, so that's what I was doing.

"Thank you. I imagine he's just a delight to work with," he said, sarcastically, a huffed laugh sounding through the receiver. I laughed too, just glad that someone finally agreed with how annoying it was to deal with some of those thick headed men. I didn't often voice my opinions on them, realizing that it sounded ungrateful of me to complain when I was handed a seat at The Times, something a lot of people dream of for their whole lives without getting. Other people wouldn't understand the hardships that I faced, things that almost made the job not even worth it.

"I can't speak down on my fellow journalist, but I won't correct you either."

"Wait, you're a journalist? For The Times?" he asked, surprise in his voice as if he would've never guessed it. I crossed my fingers, hoping that he wasn't upset enough about a woman columnist to consult my boss, which people had done in the past but due to new lawsuits sweeping the nation, I wasn't allowed to be fired because of my sex, no matter how much it disrupted some of the general public.

"Yes sir. I've been writing for them for nearly two years now," I replied, my tone careful and not at all pointed.

"Wow. That's impressive," he remarked, the first time in a long time that I could hear genuine amazement in a man's voice that wasn't underlined with condescension or sarcasm. I couldn't even remember the last time someone was really proud of my line of work, someone that wasn't a woman or my father. It was refreshing.

"Impressive enough to let me do an interview?" I asked, not even bothering to beat around the bush because I thought someone like him deserved a straightforward request without false praise or impatient begging, just a straight away question. If I were him, I would have wanted someone to be honest with me.

"Are you available tomorrow night?" he asked, probably not even realizing that he had just sent my heart soaring out of my chest with excitement. I wanted to squeal and thank the Lord that Saturdays were my days off right then, but I referred back to my breathing routine that I had practiced earlier before answering him with a practiced, steady tone.

"Yes. All day."

"Eager. I like it. If you don't mind, I'd like to send a town car to pick you up for dinner," he offered, his monotonous voice urging me to pinch myself to make sure this whole set-up was real. I would've settled for rejection and the most I had expected was a telephone interview, but he had decided to do a whole lot more than that. My skin tingled and there was a soft pink mark on my arm where my fingernails had been. It very much wasn't a dream.

"I live on Manhattan Avenue, a big brick apartment building. Can't miss it," I replied, not even bothering to accept the invitation because I felt that it was very obvious to the both of us that there was no way in hell I was turning him down.

"How does six sound?"

"Six sounds lovely."

Without another word, he hung up the phone leaving me in a silent room filled with nothing but the memory of our conversation, the deep rasp of his voice and the way I could hear his smile through the phone without ever having to see him. I sat there for a while, no telling how long, trying to compose myself and contain my excitement, but I realized eventually that I just couldn't do either one.

I hurriedly gathered my things and rushed home so that I could get ready for bed as soon as possible because the faster I went to sleep, the more quickly the next day would come.

"We are all people and it's as simple as that. We are brothers and sisters born to the Mother Earth." -Styles, 1959

{dedicated to @createharry because she's the absolute greatest and such a supportive queen.
hope everyone is liking the story so far! the first few chapters are so slow ugh but we'll get through it together.
all my love.}

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