Typist #4 - Billionaire Novelist

by Mimi Strong

  She announced that she was pregnant not by tucking baby booties into his suitcase, or any of the other romantic things wives do, but by moving to a guest room herself. She claimed his movements in their shared bed made her nauseated. The scent of his skin, or the food he'd eaten, was too strong, and she would not kiss him.

  Smith's mother assured him this was all quite normal, and that time and patience would sort everything out.

  Smith's father took him aside and warned this was a sign of things to come, and to get used to it, perhaps with a mistress on the side to keep him feeling “vigorous.” They had this conversation over dinner at the Wittingham family home, though it was just the three of them, Brynn staying home with her nausea.

  Mr. Wittingham said, grinning, “Just get yourself a spare, and you'll be fine. You have to make sure she's on birth control, though, or you'll be in a double mess.”

  “Father, how can you say such a thing? Mom's in the next room.”

  He waved his hand dismissively. “She doesn't care. And you should be more grateful you don't have a half-sibling to split everything with. How would you like that? A whole herd of bastards coming after the family fortune.” He laughed at his own joke.

  “I appreciate your advice,” Smith said. “Thank you, sir.”

  As Claude drove him home that night, he requested a detour.

  “To where, sir?”

  “Claude, take me to a strip club. I need something relatively wholesome to take the stench of my father off me.”

  Chuckling, Claude put on the turn signal and made a u-turn.

  In all his thirty-some years, Smith had been to very few strip clubs, as most of his business colleagues preferred golf.

  The strip club made him feel like a very sad god. He gave away everything in his wallet, and he drank until the bar apologized for running out of his drink of choice. The strippers fought over who would help him “get safely” to his vehicle, but he managed to stumble out on his own, and by some miracle, located the dark-colored town car.

  Claude drove him home in silence, the windows rolled down for fresh air.

  The driver also served as his legs, hauling him to the elevator and then up to the penthouse.

  Claude was steering Smith toward the master bedroom when he let out an undignified shriek.

  Brynn was standing in front of them, her arm raised, and a pistol in her hands.

  Smith dropped to his knees, followed by Claude.

  Her arms shaking, Brynn said, “I thought you were an intruder!”

  The adrenaline had a sobering effect on Smith, and he found himself able to speak, yelling, “Since when do you have a gun in the house? And since when does an intruder use keys on the front door!”

  She set the pistol on a hall table between them. “I was scared.”

  Claude helped him to his feet, keeping his eyes averted the whole time. “See you tomorrow, sir,” he said with a curt nod, and he was off, leaving the two of them alone.

  Smith said, “What's going on with you, Mrs. Wittingham?”

  “Ugh. Don't call me that. You make me think of your mother.”

  “My mother never brandished a pistol at anyone.”

  “Brandished? Really, Smith? For someone who writes about a big cock detective banging every hot babe in the city, you sure are a fucking pussy.”

  He turned around and started walking away. “Whatever, Brynn.”

  Something hard struck him on the back of the skull. He dropped to his knees, absolutely certain Brynn had shot him. After the longest three seconds of his life, he touched the back of his head, feeling nothing but his hair and a tender spot, wet with blood from a gash, not a hole. The gun lay at his feet, where it had landed.

  He picked up the gun and tucked it into his waistband without comment, and continued to the master bedroom, which now belonged solely to the master, as the mistress slept down the hall, where she couldn't be made nauseous.

  He hid the gun in the back of the closet, staunched the bleeding with some aftershave, and crawled into bed, eager to put the day behind him.

  The room was spinning, so he lay on his back with one leg over the side of the bed, his foot on the floor.

  Brynn came into the bedroom, stripped down to just a button-down shirt. The pregnancy was showing now, more than he'd realized, as she usually kept herself covered in layers.

  “Go away,” he said.

  “Where were you tonight?” She didn't move from the doorway, backlit by the hall light, her face in complete darkness so he couldn't read her mood.

  “I was at my parents'. For dinner. It's Sunday, remember?”

  She sniffed. Was she crying? He couldn't tell.

  “Come snuggle with me,” he said. “Come get in your bed. You can leave in a bit if you start to feel sick.”

  To his surprise, she came around and climbed in. Within seconds, she had her hands on his cock, squeezing and rubbing like there was no time to waste.

  “Mm, that feels good,” he said, reaching for the spot between her legs.

  She crossed her legs and rolled her lower body away. “No. I don't want you.”

  In response, he raised his voice, “Are you fucking kidding me?”

  She whimpered. “Davey.”

  “Don't call me that.” He grabbed her wrist and pulled her hand away from his crotch.

  “Davey, make love to me,” she whispered in the darkness. “Davey, my boss is suspicious of what's going on with us, what we're doing in the guest cottage after your lessons, or instead of your lessons.”

  He rolled over and pulled her in tight to him.

  She said, “Davey, I had to suck his cock so he wouldn't fire me.”

  “For fuck's sake Brynn. What is wrong with you?”

  She started to sob. “Davey, make love to me.”

  He put his hand between her legs and pinched at her flesh through her panties. She moaned with pleasure, even as she sobbed.

  “Brynn, do you even love me?”

  “Yes.” She twisted her hips to the side, locking his hand between her legs.

  He pulled himself up and on top of her, his face in her face.

  “The baby,” she said.

  He'd been holding his body up with his arms, but he rolled to the side immediately and apologized. “Dammit, Brynn, I just want to feel loved by you.”

  “Or what?”

  “Don't make me say it.”

  Her voice cold, she said, “You'll divorce me, and I'll get what's laid out for me in the pre-nup, and you'll never fuck me again.”

  Her back was to him, and he kissed her shoulder blades and the back of her neck. “Just make love to me, Brynn. That's all I ask.”

  She sat up, pulled off her panties, and shoved her ass at him.

  He reached up under her shirt and grabbed her breast, which had swollen with the pregnancy. She made a noise, and he couldn't tell if it was pleasure or pain, but he didn't care anymore. She unbuttoned her shirt slowly, and he thought he heard her sniffle. He didn't know what was happening or where they were headed.

  She pulled the blouse off and was completely naked against his body, giving herself to him.

  He slid into her, and he tried to forget.

  The next morning, she was all smiles and sunshine.

  The night before felt like a bad dream, with Claude as the only witness that any of it had happened, and Claude knew how to keep quiet.

  As the two of them enjoyed breakfast in the dining room, Smith turned over the evening's events in his head, wondering how he might work the drama into the novel he was currently outlining.

  He had peace, a beautiful wife, and inspiring material for his work.

  His happiness was shortlived, though.

  Three months later, their child was born dead, and the relationship died soon after.

  The day she moved out, Brynn screamed at him and demanded he return the gun so she could shoot herself. It was exactly the thing he'd been hoping to hear, and that suicide threat allowed him to
check her into a mental health facility, for her own protection.

  He returned to the penthouse alone, to face the nursery and the nanny quarters and all their shattered dreams.

  He called Claude up to the apartment and directed him to the pistol that was hidden at the back of the closet. “You'll dispose of it in a safe manner?” he asked.

  “Give me an hour,” Claude said.

  “Take the whole day,” Smith said, and he went to bed, even though the sun was still high in the sky.

  PART 5: REMEMBERING THROUGH STORYTELLING

  Tori

  I woke up sweating, in the middle of the night. Being in my old bedroom, at my mother's house, had brought back unwanted memories. I cried, and then I got a glass of water and resolved to tell my mother everything, come morning.

  The second part of my sleep was more peaceful, and I woke up to the scent of coffee brewing and bacon frying.

  I walked downstairs and into the kitchen.

  “Mom, I have to tell you some things.”

  “Good grief, there's more? Did we not cover everything last night?” She gave me a quick smile that made me feel brave.

  I helped her get the toast buttered and we sat at the little table tucked inside the kitchen.

  “Mom, the thing that happened with my old teacher, Mr. Colt, was not just the one time.”

  She started to cry. “I should have done more to protect you. You were always so sure of yourself, though, and you shut me out.”

  “I don't blame you! I'm sorry. You made this nice breakfast and now I'm ruining everything.”

  She sniffed and took a napkin to dab her nose. “Tell me what you need to tell me. We all need to say these things, to get them out, or they fester like splinters inside us.”

  “The thing is, when I tried to remember everything that happened, I'd start to feel like I was suffocating, and then everything would blur and it was too overwhelming. It was like a blackout, like a dream, how it made no sense. Just feelings and things, but not in any order.”

  “And you remember now?”

  “I do. And the weird thing is, Smith was trying to tell me, but I was still in denial. We were writing part of the book—well, I was typing it and he was pacing around behind me—and we got to this one part about this girl, named Sheri. She's Detective Dunham's new girlfriend in the novel. There was a teacher in her school who showed a lot of interest in her. She was his special student.” I looked down at my hands, remembering everything now through the filter of writing about it. “When we were in that part of the story, Smith was only dictating parts of it, to keep me going, but I wrote it. I wrote it from memory, everything that happened. And now it's not a black hole anymore.”

  My mother got up from her chair and came to stand behind me, her arms around my shoulders. “You're so brave to talk about this. Not many women do.”

  I crossed my arms over hers. “I'm okay, Mom! I swear. I had a bad dream last night, when the rest of it came back to me, but I think I'm going to be fine. A shitty thing happened to me, but shitty things happen, and we keep going.”

  “So long as we have each other, yes. We keep going.”

  I turned and kissed her hand. “Good. Now eat your breakfast before it gets cold.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yes! I'm hungry. Let's eat.”

  She sat down and blew her nose, her tears stopped.

  I poked at my food, wondering what Smith was doing at that moment.

  My mother broke off a little chunk of bacon and put it in her mouth. “See, I can hardly taste this bacon,” she said. “That's emotional trauma for you. Shuts off your senses.” She chewed some more. “Ah, good, it's coming back.”

  “Don't be upset, Mom. This is a good thing, that I have a clear memory and a clear head.”

  Her mouth twisted up in a grin. “Oh, that?” She took another bite of bacon. “Obviously, I'm traumatized because Detective Dunham has some new girlfriend named Sheri, and I honestly thought he was going to settle down with that nice girl, Hannah, from the last novel.”

  She winked at me, and I had to laugh.

  PART 6: SWEEPING UP

  Smith Wittingham

  Montreal - Hotel Le St. James

  As he'd expected, Tori was gone from the hotel penthouse. Gone, and no note—not that the situation had required one.

  He looked at the broken lamp on the floor, and the mess he'd made, and he imagined himself ranting and raving like a lunatic—he saw himself through Tori's eyes, and he didn't like what he saw.

  He searched through the penthouse and found a dustpan, then set to work cleaning up the broken glass of the lamp. What would Detective Dunham do in this situation? He wouldn't go after the girl, that was for sure. The phone would ring, and he'd have a new case, a new mystery to solve. He'd find some new love interest to lose himself in.

  Smith Wittingham did not write romance novels. He did not enjoy that particular brand of revenge fantasy. Revenge fantasy? Yes, that was how he saw them:

  The man treats the woman like shit.

  But she loves him, and keeps on giving him chance after chance to redeem himself.

  He forgets to leave one night, and he wakes up in her arms and something clicks in his brain.

  Now he's in love with her, under her spell. The scent of her makes him lose his will to fight. She's got him right where she wants him, gelded, and the poor sap will be pussy-whipped for the rest of his days and nights. It'll be his comeuppance for being such a dick, and all the women in all the world will be so happy, and the man will never be happy or free again.

  Brynn's hair was curly again when she finally left the facility. Smith had renovated their penthouse again, removing any hint of a nursery by putting a custom-built pool table into that room. He didn't even play pool, but he liked the sound of the balls knocking around on the slate.

  They were legally separated, and she said she wanted to reconcile with him, but that she'd feel “safer” if she had her own space. They bought another apartment, this one with an even better view of Central Park, though the ancient plumbing was a nightmare, and Brynn moved in there.

  The two of them saw each other for date nights once or twice a week, but kept their lives mostly separate. She had found a guru of some type and had incense and soy-based candles everywhere at her place. She hadn't worked in years, but she treated her wellness like a new job, and Smith was happy for her.

  She would laugh now, which was probably the biggest change. He couldn't remember what her laugh used to sound like, or if she even had laughed before. How had he not noticed? What kind of monster was he?

  His second and third novels both hit the New York Times Bestseller list and reached Number One, without any paid manipulation. The world had spoken, and they loved Smith. Detective Smith.

  It wasn't enough, and so he decided he would propose all over again to Brynn, so they could start fresh, like the beginning of a novel. He bought a new ring, and he went to her apartment when she wasn't expecting him.

  He didn't have a key to her place, which in retrospect was probably the thing that saved him from pounding the guy's face in. As it was, Brynn and her guru answered the door with flushed faces and guilty expressions.

  Smith put together their last dozen dates, remembering all the mentions of her guru. He'd imagined a Yoda-like old man with white hair and sinewy arms, not some long-haired, bearded freak who looked like a perpetual couch surfer and smarmy wife-stealer.

  Detective Dunham would have popped the guy in the face and then held him down while he answered questions and spat out teeth.

  Smith Wittingham turned around and walked away, shaking his head.

  Brynn was sobbing, calling after him, but he was done. Done. The end.

  After Brynn, Smith went on a few dates, and he kinda-sorta fucked a few dumb girls who flirted with him at a book signing. Okay, he fucked a lot of them. But only for about a year, and then he curbed his dumb-girl habit, cold turkey. He switched over to a regular schedule of
clean living, which included tons of exercise, frequent showers, and once-daily masturbation, whether he was in the mood or not.

  Turning forty was raw and ugly, like a garbage bag full of dirty tin cans.

  Turning forty-one was a relief, by comparison. The worst was behind him, and he found himself enjoying the company of his parents, much to his surprise. After the cancer treatment, Smith's father had slowed down and taken a new attitude toward life. The mistresses had all been dispatched with, because he'd been disgusted by their lack of concern when he was in the hospital. Smith's mother looked like a woman in love, fussing over her husband like a newlywed. Smith wouldn't say it out loud, but he thought it: cancer had great timing, on occasion. The non-lethal kind, at least.

  Smith started training for a marathon, and he found himself spending more and more time online, talking to his fans. In his early days of publishing, Facebook had just come into existence, and so the emails from fans came without photos, unless he asked for them, but he preferred not to. He enjoyed talking to women about their hopes and dreams, and sometimes in forums, he posted under a woman's name. What struck him most was women's concerns for the well-being of others. Most of them talked nothing of themselves, but only about their children, and what good or bad decisions the children were making.

  He thought of the child he and Brynn had lost, and felt ashamed by the thin tendril of relief mixed in with his sadness. Parenthood would have been challenging for both of them, especially Brynn.

  It was time to move on.

  When his regular typist, the jovial lesbian who by now had three kids of her own, was unable to come out that summer to the cabin, he had to make a tough decision. “Let's try someone young,” he told the employment agency.

  The strangest coincidence happened next, with him getting a familiar name in the shortlist of potential typists. Because he worked in the world of fiction, where there was no such thing as coincidence, he felt this was a sign. He recognized one young woman's name, as the daughter of a fan he'd spoken to online. They'd connected through Facebook, and her photo was not unattractive.