Haha, really? I specifically created Dirk with the idea in mind that NO real man could measure up. I've got to meet this guy.
I shoot back a quick response.
Is he really that sexy? Well, let's put it this way: when he walks into a room, this song plays.
LINK: Youtube - Sex and Candy - Marcy Playground
She answers almost immediately.
Oh my God, I died laughing. I don't know what I was expecting. This, maybe.
LINK: Youtube - Moving in Stereo - The Cars
I laugh for five minutes straight.
For a couple more weeks, we're emailing back and forth at a rapid pace. Mostly outside of work hours, although I find myself chuckling at things that happen throughout the day that I know I'll enjoy telling her about later.
You're acting like you've got a crush on her.
The thought pops in, unwelcome, and I'm not sure from where. Obviously, I don't. I'm not into girls. I'm pretty sure she's married. And anyway, I've just forgotten what it's like to have a friend. That's all. Not that we're friends, exactly. But we could be.
"What's so funny?"
Rise above it, rise above it.
But then I see his face, and everything flares up inside me. He's still cultivating that ridiculous two day's growth on his firm jawline, and he's walking in that particular way, like maybe he went and lifted weights on his lunch break. He certainly has a body that hints at some kind of regular strength training.
I'm remembering the scene where Amanda secretly watches Dirk doing his bench presses and basically soaks through her panties, and now I'm blushing. Great.
"Nothing," I mutter, quickly.
"Good," Mr. Risinger says. "I need you in my office."
When he disappears through the door and I don't immediately follow, he pops his head out a moment later.
"Now," he clarifies, with no hint of humor on his face.
Here we fucking go.
Bracing myself, I walk in, and shut the door behind me.
"Sit down, Meghan," he says. His face is serious and his fingers are interlaced. Shit, this can't be good. He doesn't look angry, and he doesn't look mischievous - it's like I don't even know him anymore.
I do what he asks, folding my hands in my lap. Waiting.
"You might recall," he starts, "the non-disclosure agreement that you signed when you started working here."
"I do."
"Then I trust I don't need to remind you of the steps we're authorized to take, if it's discovered that you've violated any part of that agreement."
My heart's hammering. "Am I being accused of something, sir?"
His brow knits. "Of course not," he says. "This is preemptive. The conversation we're about to have is confidential. Do you understand everything that implies?"
"Yes, sir." I have a feeling, whatever he's about to tell me, I'm going to wish for some brain bleach. Or a time machine.
He leans forward slightly. "Are you much of a reader, Meghan?"
I'm fucking blushing again. "No," I say, as coolly as I can manage. "Never really have the time."
He nods, glancing down at his desk for a moment. "Well, you're about to be. I need you to read a series of books in the next few weeks. Get to know them intimately. It's not all that much - about three hundred thousand words in total. You should be able to get through them quickly. They're light reading."
If they're anything like Natalie's, it should be no problem at all. But of course, I could never be so lucky.
"Okay," I say.
Then, he reaches into his desk drawer.
He puts a stack of books on his desk, one by one.
And that's when the world briefly stops turning.
It has to be a coincidence. It has to be. But it can't be, can it?
HIS SECRETARY.
HIS SECRETARY: STRIPPED.
HIS SECRETARY: BOUND.
HIS SECRETARY…every single one of them, in beautiful matte paperback, laid out in front of me. Part of my brain shuts down, while another part of my brain blessedly snaps into action and finds the presence of mind to react the way Old Meg would have - the Meg who hadn't yet discovered the majesty of Natalie McBride.
"Do I have to call H.R. on you, Mr. Risinger?" I hear myself say, coolly.
He just smirks. He's got the H.R. manager, wrapped around his little finger. And he knows it.
"Now Meghan," he says, with that wolf smile, "as you remind me on a daily basis, you're not my secretary. You're my administrative assistant."
I take a deep breath.
"What do you need me to read them for?"
He leans back in his chair, hands resting in his lap. Mirroring me. People like Mr. Risinger only engage in that kind of behavior when they're trying to be persuasive. But the dynamic of our relationship doesn't really call for a lot of persuading from his side.
What the fuck is going on?
"I need you to be her." He taps the author name on the cover.
NATALIE MCBRIDE.
"I…" This time, my whole brain shuts down for a moment. "Be her?"
He nods, once. "It's simple enough. Get to know the books well enough that you could plausibly pretend like you've written them. Trust me, the readers won't be asking in-depth literary analysis questions."
"The…readers?" I echo, noticing that he hasn't really answered my question.
"Natalie McBride is going on tour," he says, with a smile that's strangely subdued, by his standards. "Signings. Conventions. You've even been invited to a panel discussion on Feminism in Romance Literature. Doesn't that sound like it's right up your alley?"
His eyes glint with amusement, but he's still holding something back. I can feel it.
"Why can't she do it herself?" I ask him.
This isn't even close to the first thing that needs to be addressed right now - panel discussions? - but it feels like something important to ask. My head's swimming, trying to remember if Mr. Risinger's company is somehow the parent conglomerate of the book group that publishes Natalie's books, but how can I be expected to keep track of these things? And even if it was, why the hell would someone on Mr. Risinger's level be involved?
"Because," he says, his grin breaking through again. "You're looking at her."
Chapter Two
The shock hits me first, like a bucket of cold water. Then my heart drops through my stomach.
Then, I start remembering the emails.
Oh God, oh shit. He must be toying with me. There's no way he wouldn't recognize me. Not with everything I told her.
Him. Told him.
Oh God.
I'm pretty sure I'm going to vomit, but I feel like that's not going to make my situation any better.
And that's when I look at the ashtray, and then at his head.
This fucker. He's wormed his way into every part of my life somehow, ruining everything - except this. This was all I had, until now.
It's improbable. It's nearly impossible that he'd somehow be involved with the one series of books that's been able to make me smile in the last decade of my life.
Make me smile. Make me come.
Oh Jesus God, I have masturbated to words that this man wrote.
I'm going to need something heavier than an ashtray.
"You look pale," Mr. Risinger muses, opening another desk drawer. "Bourbon?"
It's fucking eleven o'clock in the morning, but I nod.
I watch him, with the one part of my brain that doesn't feel like it's on fire. And he doesn't seem like he's fucking with me. He really, truly doesn't. Mr. Risinger relishes fucking with me, so unless this is some kind of long con, he genuinely doesn't realize that I've read the books. Could he really be that dense?
Or…someone else answers his emails. But who else knows? Who else could he possibly trust with this information?
"I don't get it," I say, finally. "You're a romance novelist?"
He shrugs, setting the glass of bourbon in front of me. "I had an idea one day. I told a few
authors I know, they all laughed it off. So naturally…I took that as a challenge." There's that predator smile again. Oddly, I feel more comfortable with it back in my life. "New York Times bestseller. Suck it."
I take a long swallow of bourbon, and relish the burn going down. "So…obviously, you can't show up as Natalie, looking like…that." One hundred and ten percent male, is the part that I don't say - I just leave it implied. Which, honestly, isn't all that much better.
"Obviously," he agrees. "But I've got you."
"But…why do the conventions at all?" I clear my throat. I'm trying, desperately, to project a normal level of curiosity until I can work my way around to asking who handles his correspondence.
"My publicist insists I've reached a tipping point," he says, looking bored with it. "And honestly, I wouldn't care that much, but it means a lot to her. She's invested a lot of time and energy in me, and the more successful I get, the more successful she can be."
That's…not the Adrian Risinger I know. Frowning at him, I swirl my glass. "This seems like an awful lot of hassle just to throw your publicist a bone."
He lets out a little snort of laughter. "Just to head this one off at the pass - no, I'm not fucking her. And no, I don't want to. Well - I mean, I wouldn't say no. But it's not urgent. It's not mandatory."
His eyes glint, and I briefly wonder what measures he would take if he considered it mandatory to fuck someone. I'm not sure I want to know. Except that I definitely do.
I'm picturing her already, the kind of girl that Mr. Risinger would want to fuck, but not urgently. Long blonde hair flowing down in waves, probably. Very willowy. Very put-together. The polar opposite of me.
"It just seems like the thing to do," he says. "Cultivating some goodwill in the world. God knows I've done enough strictly for me."
I take another sip. "You're being very candid, Mr. Risinger."
He leans forward a bit. "Please," he says. "We're going to be spending a lot of time together, Meghan. Call me Adrian."
I can feel my lips drawing into a thin line. "Doesn't it bother you, having to act like a woman all the time when you post on Facebook, or answer emails from your fans? Mr. Risinger?"
It's a pointed question, but I don't care anymore. I have to know.
And no, I am not going to start fucking calling him Adrian.
He frowns a little. "No, I don't even look at that shit." He's making a dismissive gesture. "My publicist handles all the fan interaction."
I exhale, slowly. So it's possible - likely, even - that he has no idea. Never even saw those emails, has no idea that I've read his books.
His books. Shit.
I am so not equipped to deal with this.
He's added one more thing to the pile of books, I realize - a printed manuscript, not bound, just held together with loose rings.
"That's the book you'll be promoting," he says. "I've just finished it. Please excuse any typos, my editors haven't had a chance to attack it yet."
"Of course," I say, faintly. I can't let on that I'm basically plotting his murder, because I can't give him the ammunition. He can't know how devastated I am.
It feels like I've lost a friend.
Deep down, I know how ridiculous this is. How ridiculous all of it is. I'm so lonely and pathetic that I let myself get unnaturally attached to fictional characters, and then I transferred that attachment onto the person I thought had written them. But it was a lie. All of it was a lie.
"Really - Meghan - are you feeling all right?" Mr. Risinger is staring at me. "You actually do look like one of the undead."
"I'm fine," I snap. "I just…I just need…" What's a good excuse? "I get stage fright. You know. Social anxiety." Yeah, that's it. It's even a little bit true. "I don't know if I can do this."
Normally I'd never show weakness with a shark in the water, but this is infinitely preferable to the truth.
"Oh, you'll be fine." Mr. Risinger waves a dismissive hand. "I'll coach you. You've just got to…"
"So help me, if you say the word 'bootstraps' I will tell everyone in the entire world that you write middle-aged-lady jackoff material," I snarl. "NDA be damned."
His eyebrows go up, a fraction of an inch. "That's a very colorful description," he says. "I trust you'll find they're a little more than jackoff material. Although, speaking from experience…" He's smiling.
"Ugh." I grab the stack of books before he can continue that train of thought. "Please. Fucking spare me. If any of these pages are sticky, by the way, I'm burning all of them."
The idea that Mr. Risinger and I have masturbated to the same thing, ever, is legitimately horrifying. Neither more or less horrifying than the fact that it was something he wrote. Just a different kind of horrifying.
"Sorry," he says, not looking sorry at all. "But no, I promise you, those are brand new, fresh copies. Just for you." He winks. He fucking winks at me.
"Jesus." I look down at the pile in my arms. "You know, I always suspected you were the kind of guy to jerk off to your own reflection, but this is a step too far."
And with that parting barb, I go to my doom.
***
I'm sitting in my living room with the fucking manuscript in my hand.
A day ago, no, hours ago, I would have been overjoyed to be holding the next installment of His Secretary. Thrilled beyond belief. But that was before I knew the truth.
Gnawing on my fingernails, I wonder if Mr. Risinger's publicist had ever mentioned me, even in passing. If she'd guessed that I might actually work for him. It was a hell of a coincidence.
Unless.
Heart twisting in my chest, I pull up Natalie McBride's author page. I don't want to look, but I have to.
I have to know.
I scroll down to the first book in the series, eyes searching for the publication date.
Instantly, my throat goes dry.
Hands shaking, I go to open up the resume document that I keep updated in my backups. I always have my dates of employment in there, one hundred percent accurate. After a few years of working for a madman, you'd be surprised how easy it is to forget little details like days and months and years.
I'm praying that I've misremembered, that I haven't really been with Mr. Risinger for as long as I think I have. Because if my memory is correct, then…
Two months.
Two months after I started working for him, he published His Secretary.
No. I can't. I can't handle the idea that my fucking insufferable boss used flowery literature as an outlet for his lust towards me. For one thing, it's the most ridiculous idea I've ever heard in my life. It just…it just can't be true.
But nothing he said contradicted it. All he told you is that he "had an idea."
No. I won't accept it. I can't.
Coincidences are all around us. We never want to accept it, we're always looking for an explanation, but that's foolish.
Still, I'm trying to remember if he describes Amanda in the book. You know, physically. I can't go back and look. I don't dare. In fact, in the fan communities online, I'm pretty sure I recall people posting such wildly variant examples of how they picture her - he must not have. Or, everyone is just stridently ignoring it.
Oh my God, are you seriously considering this? Are you really sitting here right now, trying to figure out if Adrian Fucking Risinger wants you so badly that he wrote a series of books about it?
Look at him, Meg. Look at him, and then look at you.
I don't want to.
I know what I look like, particularly when I'm sitting down. My hips seem like they're a mile wide, my belly a little roll that I always try to hide when I'm in public. All these years, Adrian Risinger has called me everything imaginable - a witch, a zombie, a bloodsucking parasite (oh, the irony!) but never once has he called me fat.
I've never stopped to wonder why that is, but I do now.
Nobody else has ever bothered to pull punches. In high school, in college, I heard the way people snickered about me
behind my back. People who were supposed to be my friends. Oh my God, I saw her eating a huge sandwich the other day. I wanted to tell her to vomit it up later.
There's nothing about me that's particularly glamorous. At my thinnest, I still have childish freckles and unruly red hair. Heroines in romance novels aren't described like me.
Dirk certainly isn't based on him - not physically, anyway. He's got the typical dark hair, dark eyes, blah blah blah thing going on - all the book boyfriends basically look the same, but Mr. Risinger is more of a dirty blond, and a little too tall. His clear blue gaze doesn't so much smolder, as it sears - like a laser, through six inch plated lead.
Shaking my head, I try to bring myself back to the present. I can't do this. I can't sit here and read this fucking book. I'm seriously thinking about quitting, because even if Mr. Risinger isn't serious about this being a condition of my job, I won't be able to handle working for the guy, knowing what I know now. I mean, how can I? Am I just supposed to pretend that I don't know?
And more importantly, without "Natalie's" books to keep me company, will I even be able to get through the day without trying to kill him?
The thing is, I don't have a choice. I'm sitting here, pretending to debate my options, when I already know what I'm going to do. What I have to do. Mr. Risinger might need me, because nobody else can stand to be around him, but the worse part is that I need him too. "Codependent" doesn't even begin to describe it. I wouldn't know how to work with someone who isn't a selfish, paranoid egomaniac.
I used to roll my eyes at the idea of getting post-traumatic stress from your job, and I guess I'm being cosmically bitch-slapped for that now, because it's my reality. But the thing is, as long as I stay in my fucked-up environment, my own fucked-up-ness isn't so obvious. By definition, it's not dysfunctional. As long as I stay here, I'm sane.
With that cheery thought, I pour myself a giant glass of wine and open the first page.
Chapter Three
His Secretary: Undone Page 2