Don't Get It Twisted, page 1
Don't Get It Twisted
Wren Taylor
Copyright © 2024 by Wren Taylor/Epicea Press
All rights reserved.
No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.
Ebook ISBN: 979-8-9873760-6-5
Paperback ISBN: 979-8-9873760-7-2
This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or events is purely coincidental. The characters and incidents portrayed in this book are the products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and unintentional. The author does not intend to infringe upon the rights of any individuals, and any such resemblance is unintentional.
Contents
Author's Note
Dedication
1. Chapter One
2. Chapter Two
3. Chapter Three
4. Chapter Four
5. Chapter Five
6. Chapter Six
7. Chapter Seven
8. Chapter Eight
9. Chapter Nine
10. Chapter Ten
11. Chapter Eleven
12. Chapter Twelve
13. Chapter Thirteen
14. Chapter Fourteen
15. Chapter Fifteen
16. Chapter Sixteen
17. Chapter Seventeen
18. Chapter Eighteen
19. Chapter Nineteen
20. Chapter Twenty
21. Chapter Twenty-One
22. Chapter Twenty-Two
23. Chapter Twenty-Three
24. Chapter Twenty-Four
25. Chapter Twenty-Five
26. Chapter Twenty-Six
27. Chapter Twenty-Seven
28. Chapter Twenty-Eight
29. Chapter Twenty-Nine
30. Chapter Thirty
31. Chapter Thirty-One
32. Chapter Thirty-Two
33. Chapter Thirty-Three
34. Chapter Thirty-Four
35. Chapter Thirty-Five
36. Chapter Thirty-Six
37. Chapter Thirty-Seven
38. Chapter Thirty-Eight
39. Chapter Thirty-Nine
40. Chapter Forty
41. Chapter Forty-One
42. Epilogue
About Author
Also by Wren Taylor
Author's Note
Thank you for reading Don't Get It Twisted. Bringing Claire and Haley's story to life has been a deeply personal journey for me, and I'm so pleased to finally share it. Growing up in Ohio in an era when sapphic novels weren't easy to come by makes stories set in red states (like this one) all the more important to me, and I hope it helps bring light to the queer joy that exists everywhere and cannot be extinguished.
There are a few sensitive topics in this book that I'll outline below. If you'd like to avoid any potential spoilers, please go on to the next page now.
Don't Get It Twisted centers on natural disasters and includes a variety of sensitive and potentially triggering topics, including: discussions about stalking and sexual assault, biphobia, homophobia, descriptions of a car accidents, descriptions of tornadoes and destruction caused by tornadoes, anxiety and panic disorders. Please read with care.
This book is dedicated to the estimated 35% of LGBTQ+ Americans living in red states. You are seen, and your stories matter.
Chapter One
What did Claire Dawson even know about Sacramento, anyway? It was hot, at least it had been hot when she had driven through it on a road trip with her family fifteen years before—the only vacation they’d ever been able to afford thanks to a lucky scratch-off in her stocking one Christmas. It was the capital of California, a state she’d dreamed of living in ever since that trip. Even though it may have lacked the on-paper prestige of Los Angeles, San Diego, or San Francisco, it would be a foot in the door. And Sacramento had a pretty reputable paper.
Claire scanned the email again, just to make sure it was real and not some caffeine-fueled delusion brought on by too many hours staring at the same block of baseball stats that she was supposed to tease a story out of before the day’s end. But it was much more fun to daydream about her new life on the West Coast.
… and we would be delighted to invite you to our office for an extended interview with our team of investigative reporters…
She took a deep breath to temper her excitement. It wasn’t a done deal. She still had to get through the last interview and impress them, but interviews were always her forte. The innate desire to talk to people, to uncover their stories, was what had driven Claire into a journalism major to begin with. She chuckled softly to herself. Oh, how deluded she had been.
It’s not like she thought she was going to get handed big assignments covering global peace treaties on day one, but after years of busting her ass covering local interest stories about socialites that were— frankly— not that interesting, her big promotion had finally come.
To the sports desk.
She sighed and squinted at the data again. Boston was leading the division, but the Yankees were on a six game winning streak and closing the gap fast. Claire rolled her eyes. It was easy pickings. The same trite story about the century-long rivalry had been done before, but it was early in the season and those kinds of stories always attracted clicks, which seemed to be what the paper was most interested in, anyway.
Her stomach grumbled, reminding her she was three hours overdue to take her lunch break. She took a sip of tepid cold brew instead and continued staring at the data on her screen, looking for her angle. Finally, she spotted it. She lapsed into a flow state, her fingers flying across the keyboard as words appeared on the screen and the thrum of the busy newsroom faded into the background.
“Ahem.”
The sound of someone clearing their throat beside her broke Claire out of her trance. It was Whitney Jeffries– her boss’ boss, the Pulitzer-prize-winning, editor-in-chief of the Boston Daily Times. Claire’s coworkers had no shortage of descriptors for their leader, ranging from brilliant to bitch depending who was asked. She struck an imposing figure— a former Division I basketball star whose already impressive height was added to by a crown of intricately woven braids. Deep purple paper bag pants added to her air of regality, while the gauzy blouse tucked neatly in at the waist lent an impression of softness— an impression that would quickly be shattered once anyone spent five minutes in the same room with her.
Even though working for Whitney Jeffries was the whole reason Claire had come to Boston, the editor-in-chief was still the last person she wanted to see beside her desk with forty minutes left before her piece had to be submitted for publication.
“It’s almost done,” Claire mumbled meekly, though it seemed improbable that the editor-in-chief was there to nag her about deadlines. “Just a few final touches.”
“Send it over now; Jim can polish it up and push it out. I need to speak with you. My office, five minutes.” There was no room for argument in Whitney’s tone, and Claire’s heart sank into her stomach.
No one got called into Whitney’s office unless it was really good, or really bad. And Claire hadn’t seen her name submitted for any awards, she hadn’t published any stories recently that added to the prestige of the paper. But she didn’t think she had done anything egregiously awful, either. She just came to work and did her job, trying not to make waves that would pull her under while she fought to prove herself in a sea of other wannabes.
Oh well. If she was about to get fired, at least she sort of almost had another job lined up. Her month-to-month lease was easy enough to get out of, in fact, the landlord would probably be happy to see her go so he could slap up a new coat of paint and raise the rent thirty percent. Getting fired wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world. It might even feel liberating. After all, wasn’t she always saying she felt stuck there?
Claire sent the unfinished article over to Jim. He would probably miss her perspective entirely and butcher it, but she was beyond caring because she had already convinced herself that by the end of the day it wouldn’t be her problem anymore. Then she closed her laptop, scooted her chair back, and walked across the newsroom making sure to keep her head held high.
She could feel her colleagues' eyes on her as she passed them. Some of the looks were concerned, sympathetic, but others held the sharp sting of schadenfreude. They were hoping for her to stumble, so someone else could swoop in and claim the domain she had fought so hard for. The domain she didn’t even want.
Claire paused in front of the broad, glass windows that encased the editor’s throne room. Whitney waved her in, motioning for her to shut the door behind her.
“Have a seat,” she offered, gesturing to one of two Herman Miller lounge chairs positioned in front of a low table on the other side of the opulent office. The glassy Boston skyline glittered gold on the other side of the river, illuminated by the slowly setting sun. Was it really already that late? “Want a coffee?”
“No, thanks,” Claire said, sitting gingerly in the chair that cost more than twice what she made in a month.
Whitney shrugged and inserted an espresso pod into the machine, taking her time as the machine hissed and sputtered to life. Claire fidgeted uncomfortably in the deep seat. She knew that silence was one of the easiest ways to draw information out of someone, but two could play that game. And she still had no idea why she was there. She waited for Whitney to s
Seconds felt like hours as Whitney stirred in a hearty portion of vanilla-scented creamer, then finally settled into the chair across from Claire. She took a long sip and sighed in appreciation, crossing her purple-clad legs as she leaned back and assessed Claire, her face unreadable. Finally, when Claire was about to break and ask what she was in for, Whitney spoke.
“I have an assignment for you.”
“Really?” Claire asked, trying not to sound too eager as her heart began to race. Out of everything she had imagined Whitney might say to her, that possibility had never crossed her mind. “I mean, I’d have to clear it with Jim, but if my workload allows—”
“It’s already cleared with Jim, not that it’s his call.” Of course it wasn’t. Whitney arched one perfectly manicured eyebrow, a subtle reminder of who the boss actually was. “You’ve been wanting to break into investigative, right?”
Claire nodded. It was all she had ever wanted since she walked across the stage at the E.W. Scripps School of Journalism four years ago. To tell real stories, that really mattered. And it seemed like Whitney was finally noticing all the work she had put in.
“I thought so. You know we’re running a series on climate change, right?”
Claire nodded again, trying to tamp down the excited butterflies turning her stomach on end. Everyone in the newsroom knew about it, and was fighting for a byline. The climate change series was a huge deal, an ambitious push by Whitney to put the Daily Times back on the awards map. The paper was sparing no expense to cover all angles, from agricultural flooding in Tanzania to youth protests in Sweden. Writing for the series could change her life. Good thing Claire had recently renewed her passport.
“Good. We’re sending you to Oklahoma to work on a segment about social media and the commodification of severe weather. Carl already did the legwork, got an exclusive interview lined up with some big time storm chasing influencer down there. He’s already got the interview questions prepped, and a general outline of what we need to cover. You’ll meet with him tomorrow to go over the story, and then you fly out on Wednesday.”
“So we’re working together on it?” Of course there was a catch. Of all the reporters in the newsroom, Carl was the last person she would have picked to team up with for an assignment. His eyes always lingered a little too long when they crossed paths in the breakroom, and some of the interns had given him the nickname Creepy Carl. But Claire would just have to deal with that for a few days. The opportunity was more than worth a little awkwardness.
Whitney’s temple twitched in annoyance as she sighed. “Carl will not be accompanying you to Oklahoma. You’re going alone. Is that okay?”
“Yes, that’s fine,” Claire said quickly, trying to keep up. “I’m just a little confused. I know how much this project means to him, and how hard he’s been working on this.” He had been boasting about it to anyone who would listen for weeks.
“Yes, well, things change.” Whitney sighed again. Her eyes darted to the windows overlooking the office, then back to Claire. “This stays off record. If I catch wind of any gossip about this around the room, your ass is on the line. Got it?”
Claire nodded her agreement.
“The storm chaser caught wind of some… uh, problematic social media posts he made quite a few years back and now she’s threatening to pull the plug on the whole thing unless we send someone else.” Whitney uncrossed and recrossed her long legs, the epitome of glamor as she sipped her coffee and waved off the juicy tidbit of gossip as some passing annoyance. “We don’t have time to start over on this; it’s been in the works for months.”
“Why me?” Claire was flattered to have been chosen, but the wings of anxiety were already starting to flutter uncomfortably in her stomach as doubt crept in.
Whitney shrugged. “Ask her, she requested you.” She downed the rest of her coffee in one gulp and set the empty mug on the table. “I’ll forward you all the correspondence so far, so you can see for yourself. Go over it tonight– you can do it at home if you don’t want to stay late– and get together with Carl tomorrow for the rest.” She stood, so Claire did as well, sensing the meeting was coming to a close.
“Thank you,” Claire stammered, still trying to make sense of it all. “For the opportunity, I mean.”
“I’ll be keeping close tabs on this,” Whitney said, her eyes meeting Claire’s in one last piercing stare. “Don’t fuck it up.”
Chapter Two
“Tornado down!” Noah whooped from the passenger seat. “Big debris! If you’re in the path of this thing, you need to take cover! Now!” He grinned at Haley. “Got it.”
Haley ignored him. She was too busy texting the report and photos in to the local weather office. The screeching alert came over the radio just as the sirens started to wail outside.
“The National Weather Service has issued a tornado warning for the following counties: Preble, Auglaize, Montgomery. A large, dangerous tornado has been confirmed by weather spotters on the ground. Seek shelter immediately.” The sirens blared again through the speakers, and the alert repeated.
Haley fiddled with the camera in the center of her dash, making sure the tornado was centered on the screen. The audience counter at the bottom of the frame ticked up, going from fifteen to twenty-five thousand in a matter of seconds, and the chat box scrolled by too quickly for her to read.
“If you’re just now tuning in, we have a big tornado down right outside of Brookville, Ohio. If you’re in Brookville, Ohio, you need to get to a safe place immediately,” she said calmly, flipping her display over to the latest radar scan. “There is a large funnel on the ground—”
“Big debris!” Noah yelled again, cutting her off. “Looks like a barn! If y’all are in the area, you need to take cover.”
Haley was once again reminded why she preferred to chase alone. Noah was like a brother to her, and there was no one she’d rather sit next to in a storm chase, but he could be a bit much at times. And it seemed her chat agreed.
Can this guy just shut up?
Holy shit, that things a monster
Love Haley, but this dude is too loud
Omg just let us watch the tornado
Can someone look at the radar for Omaha?
This looks like an EF3 at least
This is why I don’t watch Noah’s stream
Wish Haley would kick him out of the car
No pre-rating tornadoes
They would just have to deal. It was a temporary, one-time thing while his truck was in the shop somewhere in the middle of Indiana after hail punched out his windshield the night before. Noah had saved her ass more than once, so when he asked if he could ride along on the chase that day, the least she could do was say yes. She did owe her entire career to him, after all, even if his hysterics meant her donations were down for the day.
“We need to move,” she said tensely, pressing on the brake and releasing the car from park. “RFD is coming.”
The strong winds from the rear flank downdraft picked up right on cue, buffeting the car as she steered out of the pull-off and onto a single-lane dirt road somewhere in the middle of the Ohio countryside heading north. The tornado was just in front of them, moving at a steady crawl as it chewed up fields of freshly planted corn and soybeans and lofting mud and twigs into the air. Haley accelerated over the crest of a hill, then slammed on the brakes as the full funnel came into view again. It danced lazily across the road in front of them, almost as if it was posing for the perfect shot, before meandering off again on its north-easterly path through the fields.
“Looks like it’s occluding,” Noah said, a frown of concentration etched on his face as he studied the radar scan. “That line from the west is about to eat it up.”
“Better hurry,” Haley said with a worried glance east. “This thing is headed right for the town. If you’re in Brookville, Ohio, you need to get underground. There’s a strong tornado less than a mile away,” she reiterated to her audience. “Please lift,” she whispered to the tornado. “Please, please, please.”
“Look at the scud!” Noah yelled, making Haley cringe. He was so loud. “It’s starting to fall apart. You can feel the cold front coming in.”
