Loving Layne by V L Locey

Author:V L Locey
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Published: 2020-04-07T04:00:00+00:00

Chapter Seven

Four days passed. Four terribly rotten sucky days.

My concentration on schoolwork was slacking as I poured everything I had into the Layne/Dillon/Roman triangle of pain and confusion. The only communication with Layne had been a few texts, most of them on the fly as he dodged paparazzi outside his home then went on a road trip with the team to Canada for a week. Probably for the best to get out of the country. In a week, the press would have some new celebrity scandal to salivate over. I hoped. I rather missed the man, on more than just a physical level.

Professor Willis, the faculty advisor for The Snapper, and I had had a long sit down about the Layne/Dillon situation the day after things broke nationwide. Since I was right in the middle of things being Dillon’s roommate and friend—he had no clue that I’d slept with and was infatuated by the man Dillon claimed was his father—he’d assumed that I’d be handing that story off to someone else. His concern being that my close proximity to those involved might taint my journalistic impartiality. A justified concern. I assured him that I was not going to be swayed by Dillon or the fact that we were friends. I got a look from the man who was an assistant professor of investigative journalism here. Daniel Willis was a young man, late thirties, who had a mop of brown curls and a nose for news. He was that “hip” professor we all love and remember long after we leave college.

“And you see no conflict of interest here?” Professor Willis asked, leaning back in his creaky wheelchair. I shook my head. He tapped his lower lip with a pencil, his dark brown eyes resting on me. “What’s the angle you’re hoping to bring to the paper with this story? I hope it’s not a raging defense of either of the litigants. If so, I’m going to assign Nina Cabot to cover it, and I’ll find you something less…personal.”

“I can assure you that my story will show no personal bias of any kind.”

He nodded, a shank of dark hair falling over his brow. No wonder everyone in his Advanced Investigative Techniques for Journalists classes were all gaga over him. He was gorgeous, personable, easy-going, and possessed incredible credentials. He had written for Harper’s, The Times, and Granta, where he’d been named a contributing editor. He’d traveled the world in his twenties and early thirties, reporting on political corruption in India, prison violence and subsequent uprisings in Brazil, and European ethno-nationalism. That last story had won him numerous awards including a finalist placing in the National Magazine Journalism award.

Then at thirty-four he’d been shot in the back during a riot in South Africa. The bullet severed his spine, and he was paralyzed from the waist down. He’d decided to take some time off to teach and write until he hit forty then he planned to find a small island where he and some special man would settle down and watch the tide roll in and out.

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