ARCHIVED ITEMS: MORE THAN ONE MONTH OLD
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
You know, you're probably right. But I dunno. The thing is, I know he's not a bad person. As much as I want to poison his coffee sometimes, he still makes me laugh every damn day, and that's more than I can say for a lot of the guys I've dated.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
I'll answer you properly later, I'm swamped at work. But I have to ask before I forget again: why "megatron?" And who would dare put you on a leash? ;)
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Haha, it seemed like a good idea at the time. I've had this email forever. I guess I thought it sounded cool and sci-fi. As for the leash, I don't know, but I'd like to find out. You think there's a real-life Dirk out there somewhere for me?
SAVED DRAFTS: UNSENT
Account: [email protected]
Step into my office, Meghan. We need to have a talk about your productivity.
***
By Chapter Three, Dirk's got Amanda chained to a pole in the middle of the room. I don't remember the pole being there before, and I'm also not sure exactly why or how that's the thing I'm fixated on. He's clamped either end of a delicate little chain to her nipples, with the pole in the middle, so in theory she can move, but…
I've never had my nipples clamped. It sounds horrible. But Natalie - Mr. Risinger - just has this way of writing about things that makes them sound so goddamn hot. I used to love that about her (HIM!) but now it makes me throw up in my mouth a little bit.
I'm trying to skim the steamiest parts, but my body's betraying me anyway. It's like Na - Mr. Risinger has this direct line to my libido, and knows exactly what to say to rev my engine.
One bottle of wine down, and I'm actually laughing about it. How big would his ego get if he ever found out that he turns me on better than any of the guys who've actually touched me? He could work me into a frenzy from a million miles away, just with a few choice words.
Thank God for the wine. It's dulling my embarrassment just enough to appreciate how terribly, terribly funny this whole situation is.
I'm seriously considering calling in sick tomorrow, or possibly fleeing the country. But it's not like me to run from a crisis. I will retain my dignity in this situation, even if it kills me.
Amanda writhed on the floor, pressing her thighs together, her body instinctively seeking the stimulation it so desperately needed. How long would he leave her like this? Her head was swimming with arousal, and she could no longer be sure if she'd been here for seconds, or minutes, or hours.
I toss the manuscript down on the bed and storm into the bathroom. Switching on the shower, I let it run. Cold. Colder than cold. Arctic cold.
Then I jump in, pajamas and all.
I shriek as soon as the frigid water hits my skin. I'm hyperventilating instantly, and I jump back out again, splattering water all over the bathroom with my sopping clothes.
I'm finding it hard to believe this is a thing that anyone ever actually did. Maybe "take a cold shower" has always just been a euphemism. A euphemism for the one thing I am determined not to do right now, considering what I now know about Dirk and Amanda.
Of course I could try diverting my attention to something else and just getting it out of the way, hopefully clearing my head for the rest of my task. But I know that's not going to work. For one thing, when it comes to these books, my libido is a renewable resource. For another, I'm pretty sure I will never be able to have an orgasm again without thinking about Mr. Risinger.
That's it. I'm finished. I am officially a completely ruined human being with nothing left to live for.
Teeth chattering, I pick up the manuscript and start to read again.
***
"It's nine-oh-five, Ms. Burns."
Those are the first words Mr. Risinger says to me, when I walk into his office with a cup of coffee.
Bite me.
Even though I only think it, the insult instantly backfires in my mind, as I picture him sinking his teeth into my shoulder, scraping them along my neck, nibbling on my earlobe. God damn it, what happened to me? How have I managed to transfer all of those feelings about Mr. Risinger's books to the man himself, less than a day after learning the truth?
Of course he's incredibly sexy, if you can ignore the scowl, but the fact that he seems to have some kind of psychic connection to my ladyparts is no reason to go nuts.
"Nine. Oh. Five," he repeats, his lips forming carefully around each word. I stare at them, and I hope it looks like I'm paying attention. He missed a spot shaving this morning, and that's highly unusual for him. It's a distracting little strip of stubble along his jaw, creating the illusion of a shadow that makes his face a little more angular.
"Sorry, Mr. Risinger. My clock must be running slow," I mumble, setting his important mail down in front of him.
"That's all you've got? Really?" He takes a sip of his coffee, and makes a face. "No well-timed jabs? Are you running a fever?"
I sigh. "Is there something wrong with your coffee, Sir?"
He licks his lips, frowning. "Is this the Sumatran roast?"
This fucking guy and his fucking coffee. "Yes," I say, slowly, even though I know I can't be sure. I let one of the interns do the coffee order again, in a desperate bid to keep my sanity. The rinky-dink company that Mr. Risinger insists we patronize only takes them by fax, and their lines are usually tied up or completely down for hours at a time. I just can't afford to spend my day dealing with it, so I outsource whenever possible.
And then, this happens.
"This is not," he says, my mouth drawing into a thin line, "the Sumatran roast. Who put in the order?"
There's no winning in this situation.
"I did." I fold my arms across my chest. "They must have sent the wrong one."
"Right." He sets the mug down. "This isn't A Tale of Two Fucking Cities. Don't put yourself on the chopping block for some intern who will be gone in a month anyway. Why do you always lie?"
"I'm not lying. But even if I was, I think you know why." I can feel my heart start to beat faster, the adrenaline of confronting him twisting with something new and unfamiliar in my chest. "I know how to deal with you. Those poor kids still have some joy and hope left in their lives."
"If you don't tell me who it was, I'll just yell at all of them," he says, mouth twisting into a humorless smile. "So you might as well spill."
Taking a deep breath, I stare him down, unwavering. "I just told you: I did it. So you can go ahead and rant at the interns all you like, but you're just going to look like a crazy person."
"I have to save my voice for the board meeting anyway," he says. "I'll give you the rest of the day to come clean. And get me another coffee."
I blink at him. "We're all out."
He gives me a so what? look.
"No," I blurt out, before I have a chance to stop myself. "Mr. Risinger, I can't. Not today. I didn't even have time to place the order in the first place."
"Ah ha." His eyes glitter, and he sits up in his chair. "I knew you were lying."
Fuck. Me.
I have to take a cab across town to the "only coffee shop that actually makes something worth drinking," and it's going to be at least half an hour, and I do not have time for this.
Plus, now he's not going to stop hounding me until I tell him which intern screwed up the order.
Plus, I've barely slept, and I have whatever the female equivalent of blue balls is.
I'm either going to end up killing him, or humping his leg. Either way, I might as well clean out my desk now.
***
There's an accident on the way to the coffee shop, and it takes me almost an hour to get back. I'm considering decking myself out in riot gear before I walk into his office, but he looks a lot calm
er than I was expecting. When I set his cup down, he doesn't even seem to notice me at first. But then he looks up from his drafting paper and sort of nods in acknowledgement.
"So." He makes a shut the door gesture, and I do. "What did you think?"
I sit down, folding my hands across my lap, watching him evenly. "About what?"
"The books, Meghan." He gives me a pointed look. "Did you get enough sleep last night? I hope they didn't keep you up."
I don't know how I'm keeping my composure, but I'm gonna be pissed if I don't at least get a Golden Globes nomination for this. "Dunno. I feel like I might've missed something. I should probably read the other ones so I can follow the plot."
Pretty convincing. I'm feeling fairly smug.
Mr. Risinger frowns. "What do you mean, the other ones? Didn't you start with the first book?"
Shitfuckdamn.
"No," I say, slowly. "I just, uh, I thought they were standalone."
He's drumming his fingers on the desk, the way he does when his patience is frayed down to the very last thread. "Did the volume numbers not provide an adequate clue?"
I roll my eyes, trying to remember how normal-Meg - or whatever passes for her nowadays - would have reacted in this situation. "I don't know, Mr. Risinger. I didn't examine them closely. I just pulled one out of my bag on the way home and I started reading. I didn't know it was a continuing storyline, or I would've paid more attention."
My boss looks like he's holding something back. Usually, when he's biting his tongue, it's to keep from hurling insults at the senior partners. But this isn't that. No, not quite. I can't figure out why he'd feel the need to hold anything back from me; God knows he never does. Except basic human courtesy.
"Well, let me catch you up," he says. "They fight, they fuck, they fall in love. Lather, rinse, and repeat. Not always in that order."
"They fall in love more than once?" Don't blush. Don't blush. Don't you dare fucking blush.
"Of course. I have to keep things interesting somehow," he says. "Fall in love, fall out of love, fall back in - my readers have been locked in the same secure, level-headed, boring relationships for decades. They don't want to read about Dirk and Amanda unloading the fucking dishwasher."
I actually wouldn't mind, but he's not really asking for my feedback. Not intentionally, anyway. I still can't resist getting a barb in. "You know your readers awfully well, for somebody who's never actually met an average middle-American housewife."
"I know how they spend their money," he says, dryly. "And that's all that matters."
I've known Mr. Risinger for a long time, so I shouldn't be particularly grossed-out. But even I was taken in. I actually thought Natalie McBride was a kindred spirit, and that she cared about her characters and her writing, and the way she connected with readers. Mr. Risinger just wants to pad his already obscenely swollen pockets, and that's legitimately horrifying.
"Why do you do this?" I ask him.
It comes out unbidden. I don't mean it as a genuine question, but now that it's hit the air, I realize it kind of sounds like one. And it's thrown my boss for a loop, more than I would have expected. He frowns a little, his brows knitting together slightly, and I wonder if he has the same permanent headache there that I do. I tried taking a yoga class once for coping strategies, but I left in shame when my phone went off during the silent meditation portion. It was Mr. Risinger, of course. And my fault for not turning it off. I never went back, but I do remember they talked a lot about holding tension in your third eye center.
If Mr. Risinger has a third eye, he definitely uses it for nefarious purposes only.
"I told you already," he says. "I had an idea and I wanted to make it happen, especially when people told me I couldn't."
"So, spite, then." I cross my legs at the knee, delicately. I'm tugging my skirt down while I do it, and I notice his eyes following my hemline. "That's not a very good answer to give the readers, when I meet them."
He pauses, halfway through reaching into his bourbon drawer. "When? I'm surprised at you, Meghan. I expected more of a fight."
I shrug. "The whole thing threw me off for a minute, but it's not like I can afford to turn down an extra paycheck."
It's genetically impossible for this man to feel guilt, although he does offer me a glass of bourbon again, which I decline this time.
"I just brought you coffee," I point out, as he puts ice in his glass. I don't even know where the hell he keeps ice in his fucking desk.
He stirs the bourbon with his finger (what?) and then sucks it into his mouth, licking off the alcohol. My heart stops beating for about five seconds, and then kicks in, trying to make up for lost time.
"Hmm," he agrees. "I think I've lost the taste for it, by now. It's nearly lunchtime."
I'm going to kill him. I'm going to do it. I am going to murder him with the shards of his own decanter, and not a court in the land would convict me.
"I've got actual work to do today," I point out. "The expense reports have to be reformatted, and accounting says if you send them back one more time…well, I don't know, something about the tyranny of evil men, and striking down with great vengeance and furious anger. I'll have to refer to my notes if you want specifics."
He rolls his eyes at me. "So send them back."
"That's easy for you to say. You don't have to listen to them piss and moan."
"Christ." Mr. Risinger pinches the bridge of his nose. "You can't do everyone's job for them, Meghan. Why do women always do that?"
"Because shit gets done." I re-fold my arms across my chest, tighter. "It's easier to just take care of it than listen to people complain."
"Then don't listen!" He makes an abstract, frustrated gesture with his hands. "Tell them it's not your problem. Walk away."
"Right." I laugh. "That ought to go over well."
He gets up and paces over to the window. "Who cares how it goes over? You work for me, not them."
"Yes, and I'm your human touch." I sigh heavily, leaning back in my chair. "I have to be soft and approachable because you're not. Half of this office would've quit by now if they actually had to talk to you on a regular basis."
Mr. Risinger glances over his shoulder at me, and the look on his face tells me that this man has no idea what I actually do all day. The amount of time I spend apologizing for him. All the time and effort I put into persuading the people he thinks he's managing. I haven't literally talked someone off of a ledge yet, but I feel like it's only a matter of time.
"So stay tonight and do the reports," he says. "If you're so insistent on doing Accounting's job for them, it'll have to wait until you're finished with everything I need."
Maybe it's just a defense mechanism to keep my brain from processing what he's actually just suggested, but there's something about the way he says everything I need that makes my stomach flutter.
I take a deep breath. "I've got plans."
"No you don't." He smirks at me. "Relax. I'll pay you time and a half."
Lord grant me the serenity to not stab him in the face with his letter-opener.
"I'm salaried, Mr. Risinger," I say, through carefully clenched teeth.
"A bonus, then." He waves his hand at nothing. "Whatever. You know, I don't have to offer you anything. If you don't send them back, technically you're being insubordinate."
"I'm insubordinate every day of my life," I point out, unable to hold back a little laugh at the absurdity of this conversation. "It's never been a problem before."
He turns to me, smiling, and for some reason that smile makes my breath quicken a little. "You can be mean to them. I promise, no harm will come to you."
"Except to my reputation." I raise an eyebrow at him. "You act like that, you're being authoritative. I act like that, and I'm being a cold bitch."
Mr. Risinger shakes his head. "You of all people should know, the only proper way to deal with double standards is a roundhouse kick, right to the face." He makes a demonstrative gesture.
"Yes, good. Solving every problem with violence. Did you learn that in your Women's Studies workshop, too?"
He sprawls back down in his chair. "Have it your way. You think Miss Emma Peel worried about the glass ceiling? Not on your life. Kicked right through it."
"Yeah, I'm going to avoid taking my life advice from people who fight crime in S&M outfits and four-inch heels." I stand up. "Good talk, though."
He tuts softly. "So judgmental. I'm sending you to that workshop, Ms. Burns. You could learn a thing or two."
***
It's after hours, and I'm in the zone. As much as I hated the idea of staying late to work on it, a mindless spreadsheet is exactly what I need right now. As I tab my way along the rows, with Nicki Minaj blasting in my earbuds, I'm actually starting to relax a little bit.
Until someone reaches over my shoulder, and like a completely normal and mature adult human, yanks the plug of my headphones out.
MY ANACONDA DON'T - MY ANACONDA DON'T -
I slam the screen shut, silencing the music.
"I thought you went home." I'm playing it cool, even though I already visibly jumped out of my skin. Mr. Risinger leans up against my desk, casual as you please, so his hip is about three millimeters from my shoulder. I'm trying not to look at him, but there's nothing on my desk to stare at, except my name plate. If I open my computer again it'll be to the dulcet tones of Sir Mix-a-Lot. I'm already fucked, the next thing out of Mr. Risinger's mouth is almost certainly going to include the phrase baby got back, but I have to at least try controlling the damage.
"I would've taken you for more of a Taylor Swift girl," he says, grabbing into the edges of my desk and smiling down at me. "It's nice to know you can still surprise me."
"I have layers," I tell him, still staring at nothing. "Not everyone is as one-dimensional as you."
His Secretary: Undone Page 3
