My Fix

Chapter Three

The conference room is bigger than I expected—too big, almost, with a wide glass table that reflects the cloudy sky outside. I feel like I'm a kid sitting at the grown-ups' table, my notebook and pen looking small and ridiculous next to the sleek laptops and stacks of paper in front of the two businessmen.

The two men greet me: the first man is all warm smiles and casual charm, while the second man is radiating the energy of someone who's been in this industry long enough to lose all patience for fluff. Their dynamic is obvious from the start—Good Cop, Bad Cop, but with an extra dash of corporate polish. I don't know their names and they haven't even bothered to introduce themselves. Great. We're skipping introductions. Guess I'll just call them Suit One and Suit Two. Like a corporate version of Thing One and Thing Two, but with fewer jokes and way more existential dread. Like Thing One and Thing Two except my future rests in their, very well manicured nails? Whatever their jobs are they must pay well because wow, their nails look really nice, like so healthy and perfectly trimmed and shiny and–Jesus Charli, eyes on the prize.

Suit One offers me an easy smile that feels slightly too practiced, the kind of smile people use when they're trying to put you at ease while keeping you on edge just enough to remind you who's in charge.

"Charli! Great to meet you! We've heard good things."

I blink, startled. Good things? About me? From where? As far as I know, Rolling Stone has never so much as glanced in my direction. Before I can ask what exactly they've heard, Suit Two cuts in, blunt as a hammer.

"Cute stuff, right? Those influencer pieces?"

The words land like a slap disguised as a compliment. Cute. As if my years of hustling through late nights and endless coffee runs amount to nothing more than adorable filler content. My jaw tightens, and I force a smile that feels more like biting down on a lemon. I knew what I had been writing hadn't been Pulitzer prize winning material but everyone starts somewhere. Smile through it, Charli. This is Rolling Stone.

They waste no time getting down to business, which should comfort me but doesn't. As they talk, I scribble furiously in my notebook, not because I think I'll forget what they're saying but because it gives me something to focus on besides the rising anxiety pressing against my ribs.

"Alright, here's the deal. Two months. Full access. No filters. We're talking about total immersion," Suit One says. I glance up, feeling the first flicker of real unease. Two months? That's a long time. Longer than any assignment I've ever taken. Journalists don't usually camp out with their subjects for weeks on end unless it's an undercover expose or a true crime investigation. "We want authenticity. A raw, unfiltered look at the subject. Someone who can really go deep," he continues.

Suit Two leans forward with his hands folded, "You'll be embedded. Think of it like immersion journalism—only with fewer boundaries." I can feel his eyes scanning my face, waiting for my reaction, waiting for me to crack and refuse the offer.

Embedded. The word makes my stomach twist. This isn't just an article—it's a full-blown infiltration. They're not asking me to interview someone a few times and call it a day—they're asking me to live with this person. Two months of following someone around, seeing everything—the good, the bad, the weird, the boring. Two months is long enough for Stockholm Syndrome to kick in. Do I get hazard pay if my subject and I become best friends or mortal enemies?

I shift in my seat, feeling the cold leather press against my back. Immersion journalism sounds romantic when you read about it in magazines, but the reality is grittier. It's invasive and uncomfortable, and it can blur the lines between the writer and the subject in ways that are hard to control.

"Can you tell me who the subject is?" I try to sound casual, like this isn't making me panic inside, but my voice comes out a little too high-pitched. The two editors exchange one of those quick glances, the kind that makes it clear they know something I don't. Suit Two smirks, as if the question amuses him.

"We'll give you the full details once you've signed the contract. Until then, let's just say... it's someone in the music industry."

Okay, music industry. That narrows it down to... literally anyone with a guitar and a publicist. That vague answer only sharpens my anxiety. I grip the edge of my notebook, pen tapping restlessly against the paper. Someone in music? Who? A washed-up rock star clinging to relevance? An indie darling trying to stay edgy? The possibilities swirl in my mind, each one more unsettling than the last. What if it's someone notoriously difficult, like a diva pop star who cancels interviews on a whim? Or worse—what if it's someone whose career is falling apart, and I have to document the whole ugly downfall? All I can picture is myself trapped for two months in some remote location with a volatile celebrity who hates me on sight.

The editors give me nothing to work with. Their faces are blank, unreadable, as if they've perfected the art of dangling just enough information to hook me while holding the real story just out of reach.

The knot in my stomach tightens. This assignment feels like a trap, but it's also the kind of opportunity I've been dreaming about for years. If I say no, someone else will take it. And they'll probably write a boring, sanitized piece that misses the heart of the story. If I say no, I'll regret it forever. But if I say yes... The thought trails off, too terrifying to finish.

The silence in the room grows heavier, and I realize they're waiting for me to respond. My throat feels dry, and I resist the urge to ask for water or crawl under the table to hide. This is what you wanted, Charli. Act like you belong here. My internal monologue feels like I have a devil on one shoulder and an angel on the other. The only issue is, I don't know which is which.

I clear my throat, trying to sound confident instead of terrified, "So... two months. Total access?"

Suit One nods, smiling in a way that's meant to be reassuring but only makes me feel like I'm signing up for something dangerous.

"That's right. We need someone with persistence. Someone adaptable. Someone patient."

I almost laugh in his face. Persistent? Absolutely. Adaptable? I make do. Patient? For-fuckin-get about it. Just as I'm trying not to outwardly laugh in both their faces at the thought of me having anything that slightly resembles patience, Suit Two leans in, his voice low and serious.

"This isn't an easy gig, Mars. Most of our other writers passed. But Betsy recommended you."

There it is again—that phrase that's been haunting me since yesterday: "No one else was desperate enough to take it." What am I walking into? And why do I have a horrible feeling that I'm going to find out too late?

The editors close their laptops with soft clicks, the meeting wrapping up as efficiently as it began. Suit One hands me a thick manila envelope containing the contract, which feels heavier than it should—like it's weighted with something more than just paper.

"Take a couple of days to look it over. But we'll need your answer soon. Clock's ticking."

I nod, tucking the envelope under my arm. My legs feel like jelly, and I'm half convinced I'll trip over my own feet on the way out.

"Two months. Full access. No escape."

AUTHORS NOTE: 

Okay hi three chapters in one day whew. okay I kNOWW this is the exact fluff ms. charli hates writing but a girls gotta set the scene yk? maybe in the next chapter she meets whoever this mystery person is... i wonder who it is