Jason's Story
Copyright© 2025 by writer 406
Chapter 9
Barbara Caine was in a crappy mood. Her research on Abigail Scott Duniway, a prominent pioneer suffragist and women’s rights advocate, was not going well. Her thesis advisor had punctured her dreams of getting her PhD this year with a few sharp questions about the direction she wanted to go, so it was back to the fucking drawing board.
She hated her job. Editing was soul-killing. It paid the bills, but she had long ago lost the taste for nurturing writers to realize their dreams. To her, “paying your dues” wasn’t a quaint rite of passage; it was the only thing that separated a writer from a delusionist with a laptop.
Her office, a sanctum of organized chaos, was a reflection of her mind piles of legal pads with scribbled notes white board covered with post it notes and book piled everywhere. A Starbucks cup with the dregs of an Americano sat beside her perpetually glowing laptop screen.
The bell chimed, announcing her 2:00 PM appointment. A tall, good-looking guy with gorgeous brown eyes filled the doorway. He was about her age, his confident smile seeming to take up all the available light.
An asshole bro was her first, second, and third thought. He looked like the kind of guy who’d been told his entire life that he was special. His worn levis and crisp white shirt only served to reinforce the message.
“Ms. Barbara Caine?” he asked, his voice smooth and rumbly.
“Last I checked.”
He chuckled, a sound that probably worked wonders at cocktail parties.
“My name is Jason Stone. I have a manuscript that needs editing.” He held up a flash drive.
“Let me guess,” she drawled, leaning back in her chair. “It’s the next great American novel. A groundbreaking tale of a lone hero, a chosen one, a journey of self-discovery, probably with some vague spiritual metaphors.”
His smile faltered. “No, it’s a YA historical set in 1895 Seattle.”
Barbara held up a hand. “Listen, handsome, let’s be clear on one thing. I don’t coddle egos. My job, which I fuckin’ hate, is to tell you your book is trash, so you can go back and do the work. I don’t give gold stars for effort. Are we clear?”
Those brown eyes now were cool. “Crystal,” he said. He turned and walked out.
What the fuck?
He didn’t argue, he didn’t whine, and he didn’t try to tell her that her “attitude” was unprofessional. He just ... left.
This wasn’t how the script went. The script ended with them either cowering or storming out in a huff, validating her belief that they weren’t serious.
She got up and followed him down the hall and heard him ask Amy, their work study receptionist. “Is there anyone else who does editing here?”
She peeked around the corner. Fuck, the guy was tall. An odd mix of personal pique and curiosity bubbled up inside her.
“Wait. Hold on,” she said, “I apologize for my attitude. It’s been a bad day. Show me your shit and we’ll see.”
He turned and held her gaze with steady appraisal. Without a word, he pulled the flash drive from his pocket and held it out.
“My contact information is on the first page. I would appreciate it if you would let me know as soon as you can if you can work with this.”
He turned and walked away.
Back in her office, she slid the drive into her laptop, half hoping it was shit.
Finn had paid his sixty cents to the circulation manager at dawn. He had sold sixty of his original one hundred papers. Six precious dimes were now secreted away in his worn boot, safe from pickpockets and temptation of his rumbling belly. No matter how fierce his hunger grew, that money was sacred—his stake for tomorrow’s papers. The remaining forty copies represented food and shelter. If he failed to sell them, he would go hungry.
As he stood beneath the dripping awning of Brennan’s Haberdashery, a magnificent coach drew up to the curb with a flourish. The conveyance was a sight to behold—lacquered black with brass fittings that gleamed despite the gray afternoon, drawn by a perfectly matched pair of Missouri mules whose coats shone like burnished ebony.
“You there, boy! Come here at once!” The voice that rang out from the carriage’s velvet interior brooked no argument—the tone of one accustomed to immediate obedience.
Silas hastened to the carriage door, his newspapers clutched tight against his threadbare coat. Experience had taught him that wealthy nobs sometimes proved generous, occasionally bestowing a whole dime for a penny paper.
A leather gloved hand appeared, gesturing impatiently for him to enter the carriage. A girl of perhaps eighteen years wrinkled her aristocratic nose at the smell of his damp moth-eaten wool sweater, the last thing he had that his ma had made for him.
The girl had lustrous chestnut hair arranged in the latest Gibson Girl fashion, and cornflower-blue eyes that now looked irritated. Her dress and her confident manner spoke of a life of luxury.
“I shall give you five dollars,” she announced, “if you can instruct me in the art of conducting oneself as a boy.”
Finn’s jaw dropped. Five dollars! Why, that was more money than he made in a month of hawking papers. Then his hard-earned street cynicism kicked in.
Too much money. It was a trick.
“Beggin’ your pardon, miss, but I got papers to sell,” he stammered, reaching for the door handle with one grimy hand.
“Oh, for pity’s sake!” she exclaimed with obvious exasperation. “Here is one dollar—Is that enough to buy the rest of your papers?”
Silas immediately thrust out his palm, “Done and done, miss!”
Then, with the blunt honesty of youth, he gestured toward her unmistakably feminine figure. “But miss ... you’re a girl.”
Her blue eyes flashed. “Are you a complete nincompoop? Of course, I know I’m a girl! But I have every intention of traveling to the Klondike Territory to report upon the gold rush for the Seattle PI and that odious clod Mr. Beriah Brown Jr. has refused to engage my services purely on account of my sex.”
Silas snorted. “Well, ‘course he won’t hire no girl! Who hires a girl in such rough business as newspaper reporting?”
He was later to smile at his presumption, but it wasn’t the first or the last time that a male underestimated Miss Mary Penrose.
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