Worse, I’m worried I’ll write something worthless and forgettable.
Lacey leans over my shoulder and sighs. “Stuck here again, Bri?”
I close my laptop quickly, turning to give her the evil eye. “Can you please not read over my shoulder? It freaks me out.”
She grins. “Reading over your shoulder freaks me out too.” Lacey leans close to my ear, whispering, “It’s going to creep me out all week, you sexy, dirty girl.”
I laugh. “This is exactly why I don’t want you reading my stuff. You just make fun of it.”
“I’m just teasing, Bri. I know your stuff is good, and I know it’s important to you. I just don’t get why you keep getting stuck at the same spot. I’ve been watching you all semester. You start from the beginning, you read through every page, make some changes, and then you get here. Rinse and repeat. The sex scenes should be the easy part, right? Just dim the lights, kick on the music, bow chicka bow wow. Scene finished.”
“If only,” I say, sighing. “I’m just having trouble getting inside their heads. It’s like I hit a wall, you know?”
Lacey hoists her bookbag and shrugs, turning toward the door. “Just write about the last time you had sex or something,” she says over her shoulder as she leaves for class. “I mean, because you totally had sex with that foreign exchange student in high school. Right?” she asks with more than a touch of sarcasm.
I lean back and sigh, talking to myself. “And Brianne Hartley sat back, dejected, because no one knew she was just a sad, pathetic, twenty-year-old virgin. Except maybe her roommate. Addendum: her roommate has definitely seen through Brianne’s thin veil of lies. Now Brianne has to think of a way to dispose of her before the truth gets out.”
Well, at least if the writing thing doesn’t pan out I can just start narrating my own life out loud. That way I can at least protect my virginity indefinitely.
I seriously need to do something about this, though. I always felt like I had plenty of time to find the right guy. He’d show up and the certainty of it would strike me directly in the chest, like electricity. Like one of the characters in the Harlequins I read as a kid. That’s what I thought, at least. Now I’m not so sure. I’m not even sure there is a right guy out there.
I grab my notebook for class and get up lethargically, looking at my reflection in the full length mirror by the door. I see a woman--no, a girl--as unremarkable as the book she’s writing. My dirty blonde hair is damaged from lack of care. My skin is a little too pale from all the time I spend indoors on my laptop, writing a book that will never be. Basically, if I was writing my story, it would be a very boring and depressing tale. A tale of love not lost, but never found. Of passion not dimmed, but never ignited. Yeah. That’s me.
I take one last, angry look at my laptop and head across campus for creative writing class with Professor Barlow. It’s a workshop style class, each student has to write two pieces per semester, and then the class is assigned to read and critique them on a rotating schedule. This week, a chapter from my story is up for critiques. To say I’m on edge would be an understatement.
We have to read an excerpt from our piece, and then sit quietly while the class has a round table discussion about our work. If someone says they didn’t get why the hero gave up so easily, it doesn’t matter that you could tell them to be a better reader because you totally explained that. If they say you never explained what happened to the mom, you can’t point them to page fourteen where it clearly says she went into remission. Nope. You still have to sit and listen respectfully because, as Professor Barlow says, once we’ve published our stories, we won’t be there to explain ourselves to readers. The writing has to speak for itself.
I’m a little late, and take my seat near the back while Professor Barlow discusses plotting and how to build tension in a scene. I barely listen, because I know soon he’ll be asking everyone to take out their copy of my chapter and share their thoughts.
“Okay,” says Professor Barlow, “let’s go ahead and get to our critiques for today. Brianne Hartley, if you would, start us off with an excerpt from your work so we can hear it in your voice.”
“Okay,” I say sheepishly, holding up my copy and finding the highlighted section I spent forever picking out. My hands tremble, making the words on the page jump and jitter. My throat is tight with the knowledge that the passage isn’t ready. Sometimes it feels like it’ll never be ready.
“She’s like no woman he has ever seen. Her hair is gold spun thread, every strand a precious treasure. Her eyes are sapphires, bright, full of promise and hope. And her hands… of all her features, none grip at his attention more than her soft, delicate hands. In his world of hard lines and edges sharp enough to cut, her hands are like a beacon. A promise. An escape.”
I clear my throat, setting down the pages and carefully avoiding everyone’s eyes. My cheeks are burning hot with embarrassment.
“I liked it,” says James. “It moved a little slow, maybe, but the chapter as a whole seems heartfelt.”
“Was it though?” asks Professor Barlow. “Would a man think like this? Just look at the excerpt Miss Hartley read for us. Does a man compare a woman’s hair to threads of gold? Does he compare her eyes to precious stones? I mean, let’s be realistic folks. If you’re writing dialogue, maybe. Maybe the character wants to impress the woman. But if we’re supposed to buy these as real thoughts, frankly, I don’t.”
I hastily write down as much of what is said as I can, trying to fight back tears of embarrassment. No one is saying it explicitly, but each comment that follows the Professor seems dangerously close to the point that I have no idea how guys think, which is painfully clear. I’ve been on exactly two dates in my life and had exactly one and a half boyfriends--it’s a long story.
When the critiques have finished thirty minutes later, I just want to go back to my room and take a sledgehammer to my laptop. They’re all right. Of course they are. My male character does sound like a woman, because I have almost no experience with guys, especially romantically. I don’t meet anyone’s eyes as they hand me their copies of my chapter before leaving, each one marked in red, black, or blue ink with corrections and comments.
“Have a good weekend, everyone,” Professor Barlow calls over the commotion as everyone gets up to leave. “Don’t forget I need to see your letters from Pierce Publishing by next week at the latest. And Donna, remember you need to make copies of your short for next week.”
His reminder is the last thing I need right now. I actually still have the letter from the publisher in my backpack, unopened, waiting. We were supposed to send in a chapter of our work and his fancy publisher friend was going to give us the kind of feedback we’d get if we had submitted it for real. I never would have gone through with it, but my grade depends on having the letter.
My grade, and my future. I’m running out of time to declare a major, and I can only use so many elective credits for creative writing before I can commit. I thought I’d be finished with a book by my freshman year. I thought at worst I’d still be waiting on acceptance letters from publishers by this time sophomore year. Instead, I’m still sixty pages into the book. I’ve lost count of how many times I re-wrote those first chapters, hoping maybe a different start would give me the momentum to tackle the rest. I just don’t have the personal experience. Forget the sex scenes, I don’t even know what it feels like to love a guy or be loved. I might as well be writing fantasy for all I know about love.
I have to read the letter from Pierce Publishing sooner or later, because we’re supposed to write a reflection on how we can use it to improve as an author. I only had to send in one chapter, so I was able to pick the chapter I was most confident in. It’s a small comfort though.
I plop down on a bench outside the building. The weather is nice enough for sitting outside, even though winter doesn’t seem ready to make way for spring, and I really don’t feel like going back to my dorm right now. I know my laptop is sitting there, on my desk, wait
ing for me. While my spirits are already low, I pluck the letter out of my backpack and look at the unassuming envelope. All around me students are leaving their classes, excitedly talking about their plans for the weekend or what parties they’re going to go to. Parties where there will probably be lots and lots of sex.
I mean, I’ve never exactly been the type of person who gets invited to them, but that’s what I imagine. I’ve seen the movies too. Every door you open at a party leads to a bedroom where people are humping like rabbits. Every stairwell is littered with naked couples going at it. Something like that, at least. I’m not saying I want to get humped like a rabbit or anything, I’m just tired of being on the outside looking in.
I’ve spent my whole life finding reasons not to talk to the guy, to go to the party, to accept the invitation. I’ve made an art of saying no, and I can hardly be surprised where it has left me. My only friend is Lacey, and I can’t help wondering if it’s too late. Too late for my writing, my social life, maybe even my career--whatever that ends up being.
The letter in my hands looks innocent and harmless. There’s a single, folded sheet of paper inside and when I hold it up to the light, I can see there is barely any ink printed on the page. What could the editor say about my sample in so few words?
Best thing I’ve ever read. Let’s sign a contract tomorrow!
Probably not.
Amazing! I can tell you are an individual with extensive life experience, especially in the romantic sense.
Definitely not.
I decide to stop being a baby. I run my thumb under the crease and crack open the envelope, carefully pulling the paper free. I unfold it and let it rest on my thighs as I read the contents.
Author,
Your work was prudish and unmemorable. Consider another career.
Chief and Executive Officer of Pierce Publishing,
Jackson Pierce
46
Jackson
I open the drawer of my desk and pull the delicate necklace free. I run my thumb over the sapphire pendant slowly, watching the light catch and bounce from the seemingly endless edges of the stone. Touching it re-ignites the icy pit in my stomach. It’s an old ache, and I never let it grow numb. I keep the pain fresh because I deserve the fucking pain, every ounce of it.
The old question rises up. The familiar, maddening question. What if I hadn’t left her? Maybe none of it would have happened to her. Maybe she would’ve been okay. Maybe. But I’ll never know now, because I was a selfish asshole, and I put my needs before hers, like so many before her.
I take one look at the pile of manuscripts stacked on my desk and sigh. Only the upper crust makes it to my desk, that, and the occasional pile of garbage I agree to look at for Barlow. My editors know not to waste my time with shit, so by the time it reaches me, it had better be worth my time, or there will be hell to pay.
I skim the first few lines of the top manuscript, still grasping the necklace in my hand, idly rubbing the stone with my thumb and savoring the way touching it burns right through me like black ice.
I grimace. I’m not in the mood for this. I drag my forearm across my desk and push all the manuscripts into the wastebasket. Fuck them. My publishing company is the biggest in the United States. We contract tens of thousands of authors, and while other publishing companies are hemorrhaging money during the rise of e-books, we’re flourishing because we don’t use the same, tired old approach to publishing. We’re primarily an electronic publisher. That cuts the costs of printing and distribution to nearly nothing, which dramatically increases our profit margins. The author sells a book for four dollars, they get a buck, we get three, end of story.
So if I don’t feel like reading the latest pile of shit that lands on my desk, I can afford the luxury. I place the necklace back in the drawer and sigh, massaging my temples to push back some of the headache that has been growing behind my eyes all day.
I get up to draw the blinds to my office so I have complete privacy.
In the past, when I would get stressed, it was easy to release the tension through domination--my less-than-secret guilty pleasure. I pull up DomsList.com on my computer and look through the most recent postings. Even though I’ve been absent from the scene since Karen, I find a small amount of comfort in checking the listings. I used to use the site to find willing submissives whenever I needed them. I found the site through a connection I had at a BDSM club I used to go to.
The club scene wasn’t really for me, though. I prefer a more private relationship, and DomsList offered the opportunity to get exactly that. At first glance, the site looks like a dating service. It’s not though. The submissives on the site put themselves up for auction. A meeting is arranged, and if the submissive agrees to the dominant’s terms, he pays an initial sum, and then when the contract has been fulfilled makes the final payment finishing the transaction.
I haven’t done more than browse the listings since I broke things off with Karen nearly a year ago. I still have needs. My body craves the power of taking complete control over a woman, of bringing her to the absolute brink of her limits and letting her ride the wave back down with me. But I’ve fought back the urge. I don’t feel like I deserve the release, so I’ve forced myself to abstain all this time.
Karen was like all the women before her, but that was exactly why her death struck me so powerfully. I had tossed aside women countless times before, as if they were used up playthings. Once my interest faded, I removed them from my life and never looked back. I won’t do that again. Not ever again. I swore I wouldn’t step back into the scene until I thought I could be better. I’m still not sure if I’m ready to rise above my old habits, but I know the old hunger is getting so strong I can barely hold it back any longer.
I don’t know why I put myself through the misery of looking at the site anymore. It just lights up the fire and makes me crave things I don’t trust myself to give in to. I read the listings, look at the profile pictures, and remind myself why it’s still too soon to place a bid and get back into the life.
After a few minutes, I sigh, turning off the computer and standing. I need to get out of this office. It feels like I’m being suffocated by memories, desires, and old ghosts.
I open the door to my office and find Dina waiting for me. Her hair is pulled back in a severe bun and she’s eyeing me from behind thick rimmed glasses. “Mr. Pierce, do you have a moment?”
“No, actually,” I say, moving to pass her.
“It’s just that I wanted to know what you thought of the piece by Jerry-Anne Lee. It was one of the most incredible submissions I’ve ever seen. I wanted to--”
“I threw it in the trash. Really, Dina. I have to go.”
She stops short, a look of shock on her face as I leave her standing outside my office. I don’t enjoy being a prick, but I have too much on my mind right now to sugar coat anything. Maybe throwing the manuscripts away was a rash move, but it’s my fucking business. If she wants to question how I run it, she’s barking up the wrong tree.
“Mr. Pierce!” says Taylor, my assistant. “I have the report you wanted.”
I snatch the papers from Taylor, not slowing my pace and forcing him to nearly jog to keep up as I head for the elevator. “Thanks,” I say dryly before tossing the papers onto a nearby desk.
Taylor slows as I step into the elevator and hit the button for the garage.
Once the doors close and I’m alone I rake a hand through my hair. “Fuck,” I growl. This isn’t me. Yeah, maybe I can be a little bit of an ass when provoked, but I’m not the kind of guy who treats his employees like this. I just can’t get my fucking mind right lately. Maybe it’s just been too long since I’ve had a woman the way I need. Too long since I’ve let the force of my will shape and mold a woman’s desires, since I’ve brought them to their knees with the slightest touch. Since I’ve dominated.
I clench my fist, slamming it against the metal of the elevator as the conviction strikes me.
I’m tir
ed of running from who I am. I’m not a coward. I’m finally be ready to try again. It will be different this time, though. That’s for damn sure.
I’ll never forgive myself for Karen. Never. But I can’t let what happened seep into my business too. I’ve spent long enough punishing myself for what happened. And the only way I can begin to move past it is to get back into the life. I’m going to place a bid. Soon. I’ll find myself a submissive, and I’ll work out the frustration and sexual tension I’ve been letting grow for close to a year now.
I lick my lips in anticipation. It has been so long. Maybe what I need is a first-timer. A BDSM virgin to train and mold into my perfect submissive. The thought makes me grin with predatory excitement.
Fuck. I’ve needed this so badly.
I’m about to leave the building when a man in a dark coat bumps into me, hard. I’ve always been solid though, and his attempt to knock me aside only sends him bouncing off me and into the wall.
“What the fuck?” I growl, advancing on him. I’m about to grip him by the coat when I see him casually flash a pistol tucked in the waistband of his pants.
I freeze, suddenly aware that this part of the lobby is largely deserted. But I’m not getting shot today. Fuck that.
I charge him and he moves to pull the gun free but I’m on him before he can, pinning his arms to his side against the wall.
“Who are you?” I yell into his face, squeezing his arms until his face contorts with pain.
Knocked Up by the Dom: A BDSM Secret Baby Romance (Babies for the Doms Book 1) Page 33
