I'm laughing in disbelief. "Seriously? Seriously? This is where you're suddenly going to grow a conscience? Just because your dick was involved?"
His jaw twitches. "Do you have some other problem you want to discuss, Meghan?"
Could he possibly be serious? Is he really that deluded? Does he think there was something healthy about our relationship before furtive handjobs became involved?
Holy shit, he's even more disconnected from reality than I thought.
"Yeah. No. Sorry." I fold my arms across my chest. There's no point in trying to explain it to him. "Thanks for your concern, but you didn't take advantage of me. I practically shoved your hand between my legs. I was in a weird mood."
That's one way to put it.
He's irritated now. So am I. I wish he hadn't brought it up. We could have done just fine, pretending it never happened. I'm certainly not giving in to those urges again. Not even if he looks absolutely sinful in that suit. Now that I know exactly what's underneath, it's no longer just a coy promise.
"You're going to meet my publicist, Kara," he says abruptly, after a long silence. "Obviously she'll be playing your agent now. Unlikely to matter much, just let her do the talking when the time comes."
I don't know what that means, but I certainly don't like the sound of it.
"Kara, huh?" I cross my arms. "Right. I forgot about Kara."
He gives me a warning look, but I ignore him. I have no idea why the idea of this woman practically makes me break out in hives. Maybe because it seems insane that Adrian would ever take someone's advice, or to defer to anyone else's wisdom, for any reason, ever. All the times I've talked to a brick wall, and all this Kara has to do is make a suggestion and suddenly he's running all over town and coming up with elaborate schemes.
I'm being ridiculous. Mostly because his hand is resting on his knee, and I can't stop thinking about how his fingers felt when he touched me.
***
I've been practicing my autograph (Natalie's autograph, rather), and my smile. But nothing - nothing - could have prepared me for what's waiting in that hotel conference room.
They're all clutching copies of the latest book, and I'm kind of curious how the hell he got them to press so quickly when I was just reading a draft copy last week, but of course he's got his ways. The whole building is practically quivering with hormones. And I can see a lot of them staring at Adrian and murmuring to each other, which makes me feel like I've swallowed an entire tub of thumbtacks. I don't particularly want to examine why.
'What if I stripped down to my bra and panties?' Fucking idiot. Of course he didn't want to talk to you, he's embarrassed for you. Throwing yourself at him. What the hell were you thinking?
It's a motley crew in here. A couple tables down, there's some guy in a fucking cape, for instance - I hope for his sake that he writes vampire romance, because otherwise there's no goddamn excuse for that. I'm not sure why Adrian was so obsessed with me getting nice clothes. I'm pretty sure one of the authors a couple seats down is wearing a Disneyland sweatshirt that says "1994" on it.
Well, he's trying to project a certain image. I don't know exactly how much money these books have made him, but it's enough that he's not concerned about appearing as my "editor" in a suit that most editors wouldn't be able to afford if they saved for ten years. I must be paying him one hell of a bonus.
A woman comes storming in through the side door. She's a bit tall, not as tall as I am, but she's slender and athletic. I imagine she's pushing forty, although she's doing a decent job at passing for thirty-something. Her business suit is sharp and angular, and pretty sleek, but next to Adrian's it looks like something from K-Mart.
"You came in here without me?" she hisses, directing her glare at the man himself.
Adrian shrugs. "You were late," he says. "Natalie here was just wondering where you were."
He gestures to me, meaningfully. I realize this is Kara, and she has obviously forgotten whose agent she's supposed to be.
"Right. Well." Kara lets out a humorless laugh. "I hope you're ready for this."
A few moments later, the floodgates open.
Thankfully, the organizers here are obsessed with keeping the line moving. There's no time for detailed questions that would actually require me to think, although at this point I'm pretty sure I know Adrian's work better than he does. I sign and sign, and smile, and shake hands, and smile some more.
"Your books saved my marriage…"
"My husband told you to say thank you, from him…"
"You made me love reading again…"
Adrian's head is going to swell so big it fills the whole room. I'm absolutely sure of it.
I demur as much as I can. "Oh, you know, just doing what I love…thank you, that means so much…thank you…"
I'm surprised it takes as long as it does for someone to ask me for a picture.
"Um…" I glance around the room. I'm not sure if this is allowed, and more than that, not sure if I want my face plastered all over the internet as Natalie McBride.
"No pictures," says Adrian's voice from behind me. "I'm sorry. We have to keep the line moving."
"Thank you," I whisper, though I'm not sure he hears me.
The appointed time flies by. There's still a line out the door, but it seems like a lot of people have crowded out into the lobby to gather around someone else who's drawing nearly as much attention as I am. The organizers enforce the cutoff time, to a chorus of groans.
As soon as the room clears, I let my head flop down on the table.
"How's your throwing arm?" Adrian touches my shoulder, and it absolutely does not feel like electric sparks on my skin.
"Mmmpph." I lift my head, looking around. "I could use a drink. Or ten."
He grabs my hand and pulls me to my feet. "Don't worry, Kara's gone." He's making a bit of a face. "I'm sure she didn't mean to be standoffish, she's mad at me, not you. This whole plan wasn't particularly her cup of tea. But I think it went pretty well."
"Sure. That's easy for you to say." I rotate my wrist a few times, experimentally, wincing. "Does it ever embarrass you, the way people gush?"
He shrugs. "Just glad to bring some more happiness to the world."
I search for a hint of sarcasm in his face. "Oh yeah, that definitely sounds like you."
"So how about that drink?"
Is he inviting me? I nod, before I have a chance to think the better of it. I don't know exactly what's happening between us, but at least he doesn't seem angry anymore.
Yet.
***
He takes me to a tiny, mostly-deserted dive that's just down the street. I don't recognize anyone there with badges, thank God, and we're the only two people who sit down at the bar.
He orders two of his usual, and I don't bother arguing, because I don't care what goes into my mouth as long as it's liquid and alcoholic.
"Cheers," Adrian says, lifting his glass.
The bourbon is a nice, warm burn down my throat. I can still feel my arm cramping up, but hopefully it'll pass.
"If I get carpal tunnel, you're paying for everything," I complain.
"Right. Good luck proving you didn't get it from fingering yourself to my books." He knocks back his drink in a single swallow.
I snort. I'm so beyond embarrassment with him at this point, I don't even get outraged. "You better lawyer up, asshole."
His eyes slide over to mine. "I notice you're not denying it."
It's in that moment that I remember he doesn't know. He remains blissfully unaware of my Natalie McBride addiction previous to our arrangement. My face colors bright red, in spite of my best efforts.
"I wasn't going to dignify it with a response," I tell him. Hopefully convincingly.
"I'm sorry about the pool thing," he says, abruptly. He's rotating his glass on the bar, slowly. "Not for the incident. For acting like a dick about it."
"You didn't," I tell him. "I mean, no more than usual. I don't think either one of us knew
how to handle it."
"You certainly knew how to handle it." He grins a little. "Sorry. You're right."
Sighing, I rest my elbows on the bar. "It was just unexpected."
He's nodding, gesturing for another drink. "I always thought…well, after five years, I guess I thought if it was going to happen, it would've already."
I glance at him sidelong, cautiously. "You thought about it?"
He scoffs quietly. "You didn't?"
"Not until recently," I tell him. I'm not even sure if that's true anymore.
Adrian's mouth twitches. "Why do you always lie?"
"Honestly, I didn't think…" I clear my throat. "Well it's not that you're not - attractive, obviously." My cheeks are reddening again. "I just never really got those vibes. And I guess I was too busy hating you."
"They're not mutually exclusive, you know." His knee nudges against mine under the bar, and I can't tell if it's intentional or not. "Is it really that bad, working for me?"
A burst of laughter escapes me. "Is that a serious question?"
"I know I'm difficult, but…" He frowns at his glass. "You seem like someone who appreciates a challenge."
"Apparently so." Oh, what the hell. I finish my drink and order another. He's still watching me, waiting for an actual answer. How the hell can I explain the situation to someone who's so clueless? "You call me names, you snap at me if I'm five minutes late with your coffee, and you steamroll over my personal life. You criticize everything. You never, ever say thank you, or even get me a damn Christmas card. But I know that's who you are, and I'm still here, so…I guess that's not really your fault. It's mine, for expecting any different."
He sits there quietly, staring at the bar. I wonder if any of this has gotten through to him, at all.
"I didn't think you cared about Christmas cards," he says, finally. Flatly.
"Is that really your takeaway, here?"
His voice is still quiet. "I'm not sure what you want me to say, Meghan."
"Nothing." I shrug. "You're the one who brought it up. If you want someone to blow smoke up your ass, you're looking in the wrong place."
Adrian runs his finger along the rim of his glass. "Hate's a strong word."
"I like strong words." Maybe it's just the bourbon, but I'm pretty sure he actually looks…dejected. I'd laugh if it wasn't so sad.
"Hey," I say, touching his shoulder. "Come on, man. You're a fucking asshole, but I don't really…" I swallow hard. "I don't really hate you."
The moment I say it, I realize how true it is.
"Why the hell not?" He glances at me with a ghost of a smile. "You just described the worst boss in the world. I would've murdered him by now."
"I've thought about it." My hand is still resting on his shoulder, but I don't move it. "But then, who would keep me humble?"
He laughs a little, almost silently, before sliding off the stool and pulling his wallet out of his pocket. "I've got a headache to sleep off. This should be enough for the drinks, and a cab ride home."
I nod, trying to swallow down the sick feeling inside.
Impossibly, I actually feel bad for him.
***
I decide to take the subway and walk the rest of the way home. It's still nice out, and I'd rather be alone with my thoughts. I leave a very generous tip for the bartender, and tuck the rest of the money in my pocket to give to Adrian later.
Why do I feel so guilty? I know I'm not wrong. He needed to hear everything I said. But it seemed to cut him deep, like he didn't realize - or at the very least, didn't want to.
Remembering that my pantry mostly consists of half a box of Triscuits, I stop by the grocery store on my way home. I don't know what I want, but I'm guessing I should chase the bourbon with something.
I'm pondering cheese selections, staring at the labels without really seeing them, when someone touches my arm.
"Meghan? Oh my God - it's been forever."
"Shelly?" I force a smile, turning to her. "Wow. Yeah, it's been a while, hasn't it?"
"I wondered were you'd been," she says. "Just busy at work?"
Nodding, I set down a block of Monterey Jack. "It just keeps getting crazier. I've got absolutely no life. But hey, you know, at least I'm not getting into trouble."
Ha.
"That's good, that's good." There's a certain exhaustion in her eyes, a hollowness, and I'm afraid to ask.
"How's the shelter?" I say, finally.
"Good, good." She doesn't sound convincing. "The animals are all doing great. I just recently brought in a kitten someone found in a box in the woods. If you can believe that. I don't know what possesses people."
My heart twists. "Jesus. At least Misty was in someone's yard."
Shelly nods. "She still got lucky, though. Being find." She smiles. "Finding you."
It's been almost a year, but I still don't want to talk about Misty.
"Is that everything?" I ask her. "You look like that's…not everything."
A shadow passes over her face. "It's bad, Meghan. Things have gotten pretty messy since you left. I've been trying to keep things organized, but…long story short, we've been served with an eviction notice. I don't know what I'm going to do. The animals…"
She pauses, and I gape at her. "What? How?"
"We've been pushing back on some out-of-date fire code violation for months now, because we don't have the money to fix it. It's not actually dangerous, the city's just trying to bleed more money for inspections, but I guess one of the volunteers lost some paperwork that should have gone in the mail, and now suddenly we're being kicked out on our ass." She shakes her head. "We just ran out the clock, that's all. Something so stupidly simple, and now…I can't take any more of them in. I'm skirting hoarding laws as it is. You know I take care of them, I'd never neglect an animal, but all the city looks at is numbers. There's no place for them to go. All the no-kill shelters are packed to the gills already. There's just not enough space in this damn city."
Her eyes are shining with tears, and she swipes them away with the back of her hand. "Anyway. I don't need to dump all my troubles on you. If we manage to pull through this somehow, there'll always be a spot for you." She manages a smile. "Everybody misses you."
"I miss them, too," I admit. "I miss all of it. I wish I had time to volunteer, but…"
"I understand." She touches my arm. "Please, don't feel like you need to make excuses. I'm still astounded that anyone's willing to work for free at all, let alone put in as many hours as you did. You've racked up enough positive energy to carry you through the next couple lifetimes."
Our conversation stays with me as I go through the checkout line with a random assortment of items, thinking of Shelly, thinking of all my friends there. Thinking of the animals.
Thinking of Misty.
I can't let this happen. I won't.
If it's a question of money to find a new location, or just to fix up the existing one…well, it so happens my boss is a billionaire. And he seems to be feeling a bit guilty at the moment.
But no, I can't. As much as I can't bear the thought of all those animals ending up in a kill-shelter, or worse - I have the distinct feeling that bringing this to Adrian as some kind of personal favor will just end in twenty minutes of cat-lady jokes. No matter how bad he feels, he won't be able to pass up that opportunity.
Of course, there is another way.
We get letters from charities all the time, and screening them is part of my job. I could draft something up, make it look convincing, and be sure to handle all the go-between stuff myself so Shelly won't realize what I've done. I don't want to deal with a bunch of awkward thank-yous and teary hugs; that's not really my scene. I just need to make sure the animals are okay.
Yeah, that'll work. Adrian won't be suspicious. He doesn't even know about Misty. When she got sick, and I had to miss work for an emergency vet appointment, I claimed I had stomach flu. I just knew he wouldn't understand. This, though, is easy. He just has to write a c
heck. There's no need to try and comprehend human emotions.
It's a good plan.
Chapter Six
ARCHIVED ITEMS: MORE THAN ONE MONTH OLD
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
I managed not to cry until I got home today.
Damn it. I really, really hate this guy. I hate how he gets under my skin. It's like he always knows all the right buttons to push. I'm sorry, I don't mean to dump on you. It's just that I'm getting to the end of my rope, you know? I don't know how much longer I can do this.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
I'm so sorry, Meg. I wish I knew something I could say to make it better.
I'm sure he didn't mean to make you cry. He'd probably feel terrible if he knew. Picture this: your big, bad boss cracking open a bottle of whiskey and drinking himself into a blackout because he saw how upset you were and he hates being the cause of it, but he doesn't know how else to act. I almost wrote a scene like that for Dirk, you know, but I thought it seemed too soft.
Hey, you know what's not a bad book title: Billionaires Don't Cry. Nope, on second thought, that's terrible.
You know, you could quit. I know you feel like you can't, but if it's as bad as you say, maybe you just need a fresh start. I'm sure he'd find somebody new to torment. I mean, nothing would be as satisfying as tormenting you, no doubt. But he'd do all right.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Heh. I don't know. I think about quitting every single day of my life, but I can never seem to make it happen. I'll think about it some more.
How did you know he drinks whiskey?
His Secretary: Undone Page 6