by Hannah Ford
“Adriana!” Kiersten barked. “Are you coming?”
“Yes, yes,” I said, and ran to catch up.
* * *
We took a cab to our lunch with Dean at some restaurant named Carmine’s. Kiersten was on her phone the whole time, barking orders at people and attempting to calm agents who were all upset how much publicity their clients’ books were (weren’t) getting.
Listening to her talk made me start I started to feel the first tiniest bit of anxiety over the career path I’d chosen. Of course I’d known publishing wasn’t all unicorns and rainbows, everyone smiling and dancing as they worked together to bring a book into the world.
I’d heard all the horror stories -- publishers passing on books that had gone on to become bestsellers, how publishers didn’t pay their authors nearly enough, how contracts would be cancelled if the publisher decided they didn’t like the book anymore, even after the author had gone through revision after revision in an effort to make their editor happy.
But then there were the other stories, the great, exciting ones -- the author who’d written their book on the bus ride to and from a job they hated because they couldn’t afford a car, and then got a six figure advance and catapulted to the top of the bestseller lists, the author who dreamed of being a writer forever and then wrote three books for medium advances before hitting it out of the park and hitting and making millions with their fourth book.
It all seemed so romantic.
But now I was starting to see the reality of it, starting to understand how much pressure the publishers were under to deliver on their big books, how the books with the big advances were the ones who got the big publicity budgets.
I wondered if Callum was right, if publishing really was a dying industry.
And if he was right, then what did that mean for my future?
Don’t worry about it, Adriana, I told myself. You’ll be lucky if you last the next six weeks in publishing with the way you’re going, never mind the next ten years.
I did my best to push out the sound of Kiersten’s sharp voice, and picked up my phone to google Dean Bellingham, the guy we were meeting for lunch.
There was a picture of him splashed across the top of his Wikipedia page. In it he was smiling at the camera and holding his Grammy for Producer of the Year. He had strong features and dark blond hair that flopped over his forehead, his teeth dazzling white and perfectly straight.
He was only twenty-six, and had burst onto the scene about a year ago with his own indie music label. He was like the Macklemore of producers – from what I could gather, Dean would go out in search of talented indie acts, then take them into the studio, record them digitally, then upload their music to itunes, foregoing everything except a quick publicity push, youtube videos, and free concerts.
He didn’t work with any record labels. He and the artists kept all rights to the music, and he’d become one of the most successful producers in music because of it.
When I got to the bottom of his Wikipedia page, I read something that made me frown. The last line said, “Dean Bellingham is the author of MORE THAN THE MUSIC, forthcoming from Royal House Publishing.”
Why would we be taking a meeting with Dean Bellingham if he already had a book deal with Royal House? It didn’t make any sense.
The car rolled to a stop in front of the restaurant, and Kiersten opened the door and stepped out onto the curb.
I scooted out after her.
“Don’t talk,” she said as she began walking toward the restaurant, striding easily in her stilettos. She’d taken her hair out of its loose bun, and it bounced around her shoulders, her curls loose and perfectly shaped. Everything about her was effortless, and I wondered if I’d ever have that kind of confidence. I felt like it was something you were just born with, not something you could ever learn or acquire. “You are here to take notes, and that is it. Do you understand?”
“Yes.” I nodded. “I understand.”
Kiersten gave her name to the maitre’d, and he began taking us to a table in the back, leading us through the simple round tables with the elegant white tablecloths that were filled with businesspeople in suits, their conversations blending together into a comforting lull.
We were almost to our table when I saw him.
Callum.
He was sitting at the corner table (of course he would be at the best table in the place, I thought with annoyance that soon turned to panic), with two other men in suits, a lemon water and the Wall Street Journal in front of him.
His eyes flicked up and locked on mine, his features darkening. He was mad I hadn’t texted him back, it was obvious. He stood up from his chair, squaring his shoulders and buttoning his suit coat, getting ready to cross the room to talk to me. Then he saw Kiersten and he frowned slightly before looking back at me.
I gave him a quick shake of my head.
Do not come over here.
“There you are!” Kiersten said, and I was so disoriented that for one awful moment I thought she was talking about Callum, thought she was going to invite him over to our table.
But then my brain tumbled itself back together, the two pieces – one my nightmare scenario and the other my reality – clicking together, reality winning out over the nightmare.
I cleared my thoughts enough to focus, and realized Kiersten was kissing a man on both his cheeks, the way they did in Europe. “Dean, it’s so nice to see you,” she said. I noticed her hand stayed on his for a beat longer than necessary. Not that I could blame her.
Even in my panicked state I could appreciate the fact that Dean was good looking – tall and broad-shoulders, he was more manly than he appeared in his picture, and his easy smile oozed charm.
“And who’s this?” he asked. His voice was smooth and sweet, soft, like he had a confidence about him that didn’t need to be shouted from the rooftops.
“This is Adriana,” Kiersten told him. “She’s my publicity assistant.”
“It’s so nice to meet you,” I said, surprised at how normal my voice sounded, how I was able to sound like I really did think it was nice to meet him, that I wasn’t completely freaking out because Callum was sitting just yards away. I could feel Callum’s eyes on me, feel his stare boring into my back. Could feel his hands on my hips, guiding me, the whip of his belt, the sting of his hand. My face felt flushed and I glanced around wildly for water.
“Nice to meet you, too,” Dean said. He held his hand out and I took it. His handshake was strong and firm.
We were at a round table with three chairs, and Dean and Kiersten ended up sitting across from each other, with me in between them. The maitre’d pulled Kiersten’s chair out for her, and Dean pulled mine out for me.
We all sat down and a waitress appeared and poured water into our glasses, and I reached out and took a long, grateful sip.
Callum was to my right, and I could feel his presence as if he were right next to me, as if he were right there, his lips grazing my neck. Goosebumps broke out on my arms.
“Thanks so much for meeting us,” Kiersten said, opening her menu. “I’m so glad the schedules worked out.”
“Me too,” Dean said. “It’s always nice to get a face-to-face if you can.”
“Oh, definitely,” Kiersten said. “I always prefer in person meetings to the phone or email. Much more personal.” She reached into her bag and pulled out a notebook and her cell phone, then set them both down on the table carefully.
I did the same, taking out a black leather notebook I’d bought at a stationery shop in Morningside Heights near my apartment. I’d gotten it as a present for myself, a celebration for moving to the city, along with a matching planner. I knew I could have taken notes in my phone, and that most likely whatever company I was going to be working at would have a digital system for keeping everyone’s calendars synced.
But I liked the romanticism of having a paper journal and a paper planner. It seemed fitting for a girl who was looking for a job in publishing.
/> I set my phone down next to it, and a text immediately appeared on the screen.
Callum.
I don’t like him touching you.
I quickly swiped it away.
I don’t like him touching you? What was he even talking about? Callum was to my right, and I glanced over at him, then glanced away quickly as his stare penetrated my skin. So far, Kiersten hadn’t noticed him, and I was praying she wouldn’t.
“That’s a gorgeous notebook,” Dean said, reaching over and picking it up. “Where did you get that?”
“Oh, just some little shop by my apartment,” I said, feeling myself blush. It wasn’t because I was attracted to him, even though he was definitely gorgeous, there was no denying that. It was because I knew he couldn’t have been impressed by my notebook – it had cost me 14.95, which at the time had felt like a huge splurge. But someone with Dean’s money and influence could afford things much more expensive and luxurious than some cheap mock leather notebook I’d found in a store in Morningside Heights.
He was doing it to be nice, to make me feel included and not just like some afterthought. I was both appreciative and embarrassed by the gesture.
“Well, I’m sure it will be full in no time,” Dean said, setting the notebook back down. “I’m sure Kiersten is working you very hard.”
“Yes, she is,” I said, giving him a smile.
Kiersten smiled too, but it didn’t reach her eyes. Either she wasn’t happy with the attention Dean was giving me, or she was one of those people who’d started getting Botox very young and called it “preventative.”
“Everyone at Archway works very hard,” she said. “Which is why I want to assure you that if you decide to bring your book to us, we will do everything we can to make sure you’re happy.”
The waitress reappeared then, and I had to turn slightly to look at her. Callum was still sitting in the corner, and now he wasn’t even trying to disguise the fact that he was looking at me, his body turned in his chair. His eyes were blazing as he took a sip of his water and completely ignored the two men he was having lunch with.
“Can I get you anything else to drink besides water?” the waitress asked.
“Yes, actually,” Dean cut in. “We’ll all have vodka sodas. And we’re kind of in a hurry, so can you just bring us three of whatever the chef recommends? Different dishes, though.” He reached over and took my menu from in front of me, then slid it to the waitress. His eyes never left mine as he said, “We’ll share.”
“That sounds great,” Kiersten said. Which didn’t necessarily even mean she thought it sounded great. She would have said anything sounded great in order to impress Dean. Did she really want his book that bad? What was the big deal about this guy? I realized I didn’t keep up with music that much, so maybe I was missing something.
“So,” Kiersten said once the waiter was gone. “What is it going to take, Dean, for us to get your book over to Archway?”
Dean sighed and leaned back in his chair. “I don’t know,” he said. “If I’m being honest, Kiersten, publicity talk is exhausting. It’s just all so corporate, you know?”
Kiersten nodded. “Yes, I totally get it.” She began to chatter on and on about publicity plans anyway, though, and I scribbled some notes in my notebook, trying to keep up with her. She hadn’t told me anything about what I was supposed to be focused on, so I just did my best.
My phone buzzed again.
Meet me in the hallway by the restrooms.
I swiped it away and then quickly set my phone back down, a little more off to the side of the table. I thought about turning the phone over, or, even better, putting it in my bag, but I didn’t want to seem suspicious.
Another text came immediately.
NOW.
My fury burned bright, and this time I did take my phone and slide it into my bag. I could still Callum sitting there, out of the corner of my eye, his phone in his hand as the people around him talked. Unlike me, he was making no effort to disguise the fact that he was on his phone.
That was the difference when you were a powerful person – you could do whatever the hell you wanted, and no one could give you crap about it. You’d earned your place through hard work and talent. Callum didn’t have to worry about being fired or impressing anyone. He’d already arrived.
Although the thought of Callum ever being worried about what anyone thought of him, ever, was laughable.
I turned my head slightly and caught his eye, giving him another tiny, almost imperceptible shake of my head.
No.
He narrowed his eyes in anger, and I swore that even from over here I could see his grip on his phone tighten.
And then he began to get up from his chair and walk toward me.
“I’m sorry,” I said quickly. “Um, I need to excuse myself for a moment. I’ll be right back.”
“Of course,” Dean said, and he half stood for me, in that way men were supposed to do to be chivalrous, but which, until now, I’d only seen in movies.
I moved quickly through the tables toward the back of the restaurant where the restrooms were. I started down the hallway, my heart pounding so hard in my chest I was sure someone was going to be able to hear it.
The short corridor was quiet, too quiet, and I realized my heart was beating so hard in my chest that I couldn’t hear anything else over it.
Callum appeared a second later, tall and strong, his shoulders broad under the elegant lines of his suit, his eyes hooded with anger.
My chest constricted, leaving me breathless.
He was just so god damn beautiful, so sexy, so masculine, so… Callum.
Every single nerve inside of me, every urge, every cell, tried to propel me toward him, wanted him to wrap his arms around me and kiss me, take me back to his apartment, tie me up, fuck me and cuff me as he whispered dirty words in my ear.
The desire to be close to him was so overwhelming that I took a step toward him before I was able to stop myself.
“You need to stop texting me,” I said, surprised at how loud my voice sounded, how strong. I didn’t feel strong -- my heart was thumping against my rib cage, my stomach was turning, and I still felt like I couldn’t catch my breath.
“Yeah, well, you need to stop letting douche bags touch you.” His voice was dark and commanding.
“He didn’t touch me.”
“He touched your hand. And he ordered your food and a fucking drink, Adriana. I didn’t like it.”
Callum made a move toward me, and the image of what was about to happen burned against my brain. He would kiss me, he would take control of my body. He’d break my defenses down until I was powerless to resist him.
It was taking everything I had to resist him now, and he was still feet away from me. If he got any closer, I would be powerless.
“Don’t,” I said, holding my hand up, my palm facing toward him. “Do not even try to make me feel bad for being here with a work colleague when you had another woman at your apartment this morning. Not to mention the way you treated me at the hospital.”
“It wasn’t my intention to make you feel bad, Adriana,” he said, his voice smooth. He gave me a chesire cat grin, the kind of grin that made me think of wicked things. “I want to make you feel good, always. Let me take you back to my apartment and explain.” He was so close now I could smell his cologne, could see that his complexion was deepening, could see the lust in his eyes as he looked at me, his gaze traveling up my body as if he were making a mental list of the ways he could make me scream with pleasure.
“No,” I said, swallowing hard. “Callum, if you care about me at all...No, actually, forget about that, if you even care about doing the right thing, ever, in life, you will stay away from me.”
A tiny bit of the cockiness that was ever present on his face dissipated, and regret clouded his strong features. But just like that, something snapped in his expression, and he grabbed me by the shoulders and pushed me through a doorway that led off the hallway.
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br /> “What the hell are you doing?” I demanded. We were in some kind of coat closet now, a long narrow room with doors on either side. From the other side of the room, through the other door, I could hear the voice of the coat check attendant.
“Taking you,” he growled, and then his lips were on mine, kissing me, his tongue moving past my lips and claiming my mouth. “You are mine. You belong to me.”
“Callum,” I protested, trying to squirm away from him. His hands were on my waist now, his grip like a vice. “Someone could come in.”
“Don’t defy me, Adriana,” he said, and then he was taking off his tie, his fingers deftly removing it before looping one end around my wrists and pulling my arms up over my head. He tied me to the long metal pole that ran vertically from wall to wall.
He pulled me toward him and kissed me again, his tongue tangling with mine as my knees weakened.
He grabbed my shirt and unbuttoned it, pulling it apart and yanking my bra down until my tits popped free. He sucked one into his mouth and then let it go before pulling back and slapping my tit with his hand.
“These are mine,” he said, his eyes blazing. “Do you understand?”
“Callum,” I said, still fighting the losing battle of trying to resist him.
His hand pushed my skirt up and his fingers entered my pussy in one hard thrust, without any warning. “Your pussy is mine. Do you understand?”
He wasn’t expecting a response. Instead, he began finger fucking me, and even though my mind was screaming not to let him, my body was responding to being trussed up and taken so roughly, and a moment later, I came, my pussy clenching and convulsing on his fingers.
He pulled them out of me and slid them into my mouth, making me taste myself on him. “Good girl,” he growled, his index finger tracing my bottom lip.
My knees were weak as he reached up and undid his tie from around the pole, freeing me.
He reached down and began to help me button my shirt, but I pushed his hands off of me. “No,” I said. “Don’t. Don’t you fucking dare.”
