by Kailin Gow
“Last time I saw you in London, you were sandwiched between two supermodels. Literally, while I was right there in the room accepting your job offer. But now I see you're trying to pretend to be a sweet guy. We all know this is just a prank. I mean, hiring Sid Stone? That's a prank too, right?”
She laughs.
My face falls. I sit up straight, making sure that I push Philip away.
He stands up straight. An angry look crosses his face.
“You saw the staff list when I hired you,” he says. “You never said anything different.”
“I know I did,” Kendall says. “I want to work with you, Sidney.” She shoots me a sickening grin. “I can't wait to be your colleague, Sidney. We're sure going to have a lot of fun with you.”
Chapter 8
I'm in shock. I can't believe it. My mind is reeling with horror and shame. Everything I feared – all my worst nightmares – are coming true. In the hours that follow I go over my conversation with Kendall again in my mind.
Surely she can't be so bad now, I think. Surely she's grown up a little. Learned to treat other people with respect. Stopped her bullying ways. Surely she isn't going to try to make office life for me the same living hell she made high school. Surely...
What a fool I was. Kendall LaFleur hasn't changed: not an ounce. I may have grown up and out of the person I was in high school, but Kendall is just the same. A little taller, maybe. Thinner, too, with that distinctive coke-till-dawn slenderness that makes you look sick as well as skinny. Better-dressed, with the kind of perfectly tailored outfits fashionistas would kill for. But she's the same mean old witch, just lurking in the shadows for me to come closer enough for her to seize me with her claws.
I try not to cry. I sit in my hospital bed and stare at the ceiling, biting back the tears that come unbidden down my cheeks. Everything feels so overwhelmingly hopeless. Like all my work is for nothing. Like, no matter what, I'll just be on the bottom rung of the ladder. For a few days, a few precious days – hell, for a few hours, I'd had hope.
Hope that my life would finally turn itself around. That by working hard and keeping my head down and showing that I was a good student, a good listener, a good worker, a good journalist, I'd get somewhere in life. All those American Dream platitudes come rushing back into my head. Pull yourself up by your bootstraps. Work hard and prove yourself. Work your way up. You can do anything you put your mind to as long as you try hard enough. In America, anyone can become President. That's the American Dream.
But as I think of the way Kendall LaFleur looked at me, like I was a bit of dog dropping she'd found on the bottom of her immaculate Christian Louboutin shoe, I know that the American dream, like the Hollywood dream, is just a lie. Some people are just born to power and privilege. They wake up on third base, the top of the heap, the cream of the crop, to the manner born, the silver spoon in their mouth, whatever cliché you want to use about them, it's true. They're the kind of people who don't have a doubt in their minds that the world is there for the taking, along with everything in it. They're the kind of people who have everything handed to them. People like Kendall.
And people like Philip.
What a fool I was to give into my feelings to Philip, to start letting myself experience attraction to him the way I did. Didn't I know better? People like the LaFleurs chew people up and spit them out. Kendall had said it herself in the hospital. He's a player, a playboy. He wants to fuck me once or twice, take my virginity, then likely spread it around the office what I've done, humiliate me, fire me, when he's done with me. Maybe my obvious-virgin demeanor is a fun challenge for him. He thinks he can take me, take over me, make me submit to him, make me his. Well, he can't! I won't let him.
My body stirs involuntarily. Whatever my mind is thinking, my body becomes hoy to the touch at the idea. The idea of being taken by him, of being made submissive to him, of being humiliated by him – it fills me with a strange warmth, a strange surety of desire. Why does the idea of him treating me poorly turn me on? In the real world, I know, such a thing would be horrifying. But in the mysterious dark shadowlands of my fantasy, I can't think about him taking me, seizing me, using me, without becoming wet.
I can't help it. I'm overwhelmed by my feelings for Philip. I've never had sex before – not because I had any problem with the idea, but simply because I didn't want to. The idea never held much appeal for me. My body had never wanted it. I'd met people I thought were good-looking, sure, but somehow that assessment had never translated into a call for physical action.
Until now.
I know he's a bad idea. I know he's the worst idea that ever sauntered into my life. And still I can't stop thinking about how much I want it.
No, I tell myself. It's too dangerous. My whole life, my whole career, would be under threat if I let him get to me the way he's already started to get to me. I have to be stronger than that. I have to force myself to be stronger than that. If I'm not, my career will go down the drain. I'll be known as that reporter who slept with her boss. Kendall will make sure of that. And then nobody will ever want to hire me again.
Johnson keeps filling me in in the days that follow. Telling me about what's going on at FILTHY. All the changes. They're doing more serious pieces – pieces about Islamic fashion in Turkey to go alongside the puff stories on designer brands. Stories about Bollywood celebrities and their work in advocating for anti-rape causes. Someone gets sent to Berlin to cover an experimental art show; someone else goes to New York to survey local speakeasies.
It aches. This kind of job – it's the perfect gig. It would be my dream job to work at a magazine like this, working under Philip LaFleur...if only he weren't Philip LaFleur. If only he weren't so damn sexy.
The next morning, I decide I've had enough. I'm not going to deal with his BS any longer. I'm going to walk straight into Philip LaFleur's office, and either demand a serious assignment or resign. Say I can't work with Kendall and let that be that. Or at least say I can't work under him in the way that he wants. I take a deep breath. I change out of my hospital gown into a fresh set that Johnson's brought me from home. I walk all the way from the hospital to the office: a two-hour walk. Can't afford the bus fare, and don't want to risk cycling.
And then I enter the office.
It looks the same as last time. Glass walls, glass doors. Effortless elegance. But...somthing is different somehow. It feels different. Smells different. An unfamiliar musk exudes throughout the office. The aroma of maleness, of strength. Philip's smell. It makes me dizzy. I reel.
I approach the office door. PHILIP LAFLEUR is written where TEGAN SNOW used to be. As I come nearer the door opens. My heart skips a beat, but it's not Philip. Instead, it's a leggy blonde with a super-short skirt. She's adjusting her blouse and her hair, looking disheveled, a little sheepish.
Has Philip just been fucking someone in the office? The idea is scandalous. It must violate about a thousand workplace protocols and sexual harassment suits. But somehow the idea turns me on. I'm almost ashamed of how much it turns me on.
The other women in the office are looking up at the blonde. Judgmentally. Jealously. Like they wish that they were the ones getting pounded on his desk. How could I have been so stupid to believe I was special, that he really wanted me? He just wanted into my pants. And everyone else’s by the look of it.
Nevertheless, I tell myself I will not be deterred. I stride into the office. I swallow, hard.
I walk in to see Philip with his legs on his desk.
“Ah, Sidney, you're out of the hospital.” His voice is forceful, booming. So different from the soft, gentle voice he used when talking to me by my hospital bedside. “It's so nice to see you. And perfect timing. I've got an important story assigned to you today.”
My mouth falls open in shock. “I do?” I say. I wonder what it will be. Cocktails in New York? Experimental theater in Berlin? “What is it?”
He grins a wicked grin. “You'll find out soon enough,” he says. “Y
ou're right in time for the reporters' conference call meeting.”
He dials us in. There are about ten people on the call – located all over the world. Tokyo, Shanghai, Paris, Rome, Milan...places I've always wanted to visit. I feel excitement churning in my stomach. Maybe this won't be so bad after all...
“Ready, chief!” I hear Johnson's happy voice. He gets assigned the first story: an exposé about campus football and how athletes are recruited with sex on campus. A hard-hitting piece with a sexy edge. Exactly the sort of thing I'd love to write.
More stories get handed out. Philip gives them all in a dismissive, brusque tone, like he's throwing bread to birds. Someone gets sent to London to cover a hidden nightclub located in a canal boat. Someone else has to cover the fur trade in Russia: the latest fashions since Princess Anastasia was in the Winter Hermitage.
And then it comes to my turn.
“Sidney,” Philip says lightly, without even looking at me. “You're going to find out what dog food brand Amy Worth's dog prefers.”
My heart sinks.
“Amy Worth – the Real Trophy Wife of Santa Monica?”
“Is that a problem?” Philip looks at me with a dark, brooding stare.
“N-no...” I say. “I'm just surprised, that's all...”
“You think you're too good for this story?” He sounds almost cruel when he speaks. I feel my eyes sting with tears. Is this Kendall's doing, assigning me this piece of flush.
“N-no...”
“No what?”
“No...sir?”
My cheeks are hot. He smiles wryly.
“Very good,” he says. “Don't take any story lightly, Sidney. Even if it is about a dog. Not a single story in this magazine is fluff. Do you understand me?” He presses a button, bringing the conference call to a close.
Then he puts his hands on my shoulder. I feel his strong fingers kneading the muscles of my back. He'd gotten out of his chair to stand behind me, to massage me. It's dangerous but it feels good, so good. I close my eyes and let the sensation take over. He sweeps his fingers into my long loose blonde hair and starts to massage my scalp. My lips open to let me moan.
I can feel his breath on the back of my neck.
“You're coming to my place tonight, Sidney,” he says huskily.
“But we're not supposed...”
“I'm the boss here,” he says. “And I make the rules. You're going to be a guide. A damn good one.” His voice drops to a sneer. “And if you're late, you'll be punished, in several ways.” He takes in a deep breath. “Now go get your dog story and come by my place tonight. 6 pm sharp. Don't be late – or I'll make sure you feel it...”
And then he walks away.
I look over at him. He's by the window. Staring out at the beach view. His back straight and away from me. Dismissing me, just like that.
I walk out of the office. My bike is still there, locked up. I guess he put it there after the accident.
What a prick, I think. This is a sexual harassment case waiting to happen. But why does his hot cold act turn me on so much?
I don't even have his address, I sigh. What am I supposed to do now?
Then I hear my phone go off.
A text message from Philip.
Speak of the devil....
Chapter 9
I look down at my phone. My heart is beating fast. I can't believe this is happening to me. It doesn't even feel real. How is it that Philip LaFleur is so commanding, so authoritative, so cold and cool and businesslike one moment and so erotically thrilling the next? One second, he's berating me for thinking I'm “too good” for that humiliating dog food story he's assigned me.
The next, he's sending me to his house to show him around LA and telling me how attracted he is to me. Not to mention all that about “punishing me in several ways”. My breath quickens as I recall the tone of his voice, his words. As I recall how much he wants me. Is that some sort of sex thing with him – him wanting to punish me? To “make sure I feel it?”
I'm hardly sure what to think. On the one hand, I'm appalled. This guy is my boss. He has a responsibility to treat me like a professional, with respect. To keep his sex life out of the office – something he clearly has trouble doing if the leggy blonde adjusting her blouse and hair on her way out of his office is any indication. He has a responsibility to treat me, if not like an equal, then at least a colleague: someone whom he respects, somehow whom he treats as a professional peer, whom he trusts to do real stories. Not this dog food bullshit. Even Tegan never sent me on a story like that. “You've got chops,” she said to me, always. “And you should use them for stories worthy of your skill.”
And yet...the idea of being punished by a guy like Philip LaFleur – so powerful, so desperately commanding – is insanely and mind-numbingly sexy.
I've always been good at spotting the men who would treat me badly. Good at staying far away from anyone who might ever hurt me. My life with Kendall at the LaFleurs taught me that much. People are dangerous. You can't let them hurt you, even a little, or they'll seize the advantage. They'll destroy you. That's what I believe. And yet like a moth to a conflagration I'm drawn to the person who can hurt me most of all. And the idea of him hurting me – I like it. My feelings scare me, overwhelm me.
I look down at the text message from Philip. He gives me his address. No pleasantries, just details.
Then another message. A car will pull up in front of this building in five minutes. Get inside. It will take you home. At 5:45 pm precisely it will reappear to take you to my apartment. I hate waiting so don't be late. And wear your most seductive dress.
I feel sick. Wear your most seductive dress? He's no longer being coy with me. No, now it's clear. My boss expects to fuck me – and I don't even know if I'm allowed to say no. He is making me submit in every way imaginable.
I get in the car. I'm still hyperventilating, buzzing like a hummingbird. I don't make eye contact with the driver – Philip's driver. How many women has he chauffered like this before: delivering them like baked goods straight to his master's door? Offered up on a silver fucking platter, I think.
The driver asks my address and I tell him. I'm almost ashamed. I am pretty sure most of the girls Philip beds don't come from this part of town. But the driver says nothing, only grunts, and then we are on our way, driving home.
I haven't been home in days. I never thought I'd miss this shitty, mold-infested apartment, but somehow even the smell of mildew is comforting right now. It smells like home. Like all this with Philip and Tegan and Kendall and Pepper has just been a bad dream, a nightmare trip, and now everything is normal again.
My old clothes are here. My own bed. My own everything. Right now I just want to lie here on the floor as long as I can and not get up ever again. I wonder how many days I can wear the same pajamas before someone gets creeped out and I start to smell? Probably not a good idea to find out. Philip LaFleur wants me “seductive,” after all. Well, fucked if I know what “seductive” means. Probably means something that isn't sneakers.
“Hey, girl!”
It's my new roommate, Kiley. She's in her underwear, as she usually is around the apartment. It's like something out of a lesbian porno: a supermodel who hates wearing clothes indoor. But that's Kiley for you. Brash, sultry, and full of fun, with that Aussie laid-back charm that means you can forgive her for keeping you up until 3 a.m. when she stomps all the way back from her bartending job.
She looks at me. “You're all red. Are you okay?” She envelops me in a bear hug, which would be nice if she were actually wearing any clothes.
Well, Kiley probably has tips about how to be seductive, I think.
“I'm fine,” I say, looking down. I don't feel like explaining everything right now. “Just got this weird head rush from riding too fast. I've just gotten back on my feet for the first time since the accident.” I decide not to mention the car.
“Why the rush?” Kiley starts making a sandwich. “You have a breaking story to c
atch or something?” She leans in excitedly. I haven't known Kiley nearly as long as I've known Johnson, but already she's one of my closest friends. My biggest cheerleader, my truest supporter. Plus she loves to hear celeb gossip. Sometimes I even find myself preferring to spend time with her than with Johnson. Johnson's great, but sometimes his manner is a little...jealous? Possessive? Intense? With Kiley, I can really be myself.
“I wish,” I admit. “My new boss – he gave me a real dog of an assignment. And I mean that literally.”
“What do you mean?”
“My colleagues are going to Tokyo and Berlin? Me, I've got to figure out Amy Brand's dog's food preferences.”
Kiley's mouth falls open. “That's your story?”
“That's my story,” I sigh. “I know. I think they've got it out for me.”
“I mean, you could at least write about what she eats...”
“You'd think so. But he's on my case...” I don't want to give away too much. “He's pretty damn weird actually.”
“The new owner of FILTHY DIRTY LAUNDRY you mean?” Kiley asks. “I've been hearing rumors about him.” Kiley knows everything. I'm surprised she doesn't know what kind of food Amy's Shitz-Zhu eats. “I hear he's one cocky son of a bitch, huh?”
“Why do you say that?”
“Nothing,” says Kiley. “Just to assign you a story like that. What could you have done to be on his shit list?”
“I don't know,” I admit. “Especially after he put me in the hospital. Even the lower level staffers are getting...ordinary celeb stuff. Whose dating whom, etc, etc.”
“At least you got something...different?” Kiley tries to be helpful.
“I'm not going to let him break me,” I say. Saying it out loud makes me feel more determined. “I'm going to get the best damn dog food story out there.”
“What, you're going to stalk her at Trader Joe's? I hear she hangs out there.” Kiley's been an invaluable source more than a few times.
“Who knows when she'll be going next?” I ask. “Maybe I should try and get into her kitchen.”