by Jane Brooke
(CUT to more tears)
After his funeral, she had packed up his numerous novels, thousands of pieces of prose. Thus, was the reason she was sitting before him now.
Sniffling, all the VP really wants to do is fuck her.
Which, unknown to him, is an outside possibility for he does not know to what depths of depravity she will go to to get what she wants.
She finishes, he shrugs his shoulders and reluctantly tell her that as riveting as her story is, perhaps the time is just not right for bringing a totally unknown writer to the market.
Then, some what stunned, he watches as, with out asking, she places an unfiltered French cigarette between her peach, sexed up lips.
She flicks open a lighter like a Long Shore men, ignites the smoke and, then removes her shades.
He gulps, for a through a plume of smoke, she drills his head with the most dazzling blue eyes he has ever seen.
Prepared for such a rebuff, she casually reaches into her breast pocket, withdraws a thick white envelope, smokes, a little pout and, then pushes it across the polished teak desk top with the longest, white fingers he has ever seen.
He takes the envelope, stares at her, cracks it open and runs his fingers across the new one hundred thousand dollars in nice one hundred dollar bills, aligned with in it.
He stares at the money, looks at her, begins to speak. Her low voice crushes the words from his lips.
She tells him, that of course she understands a reading fee is required within such matters. Hopefully, this little token will rectify such a small problem.
She then whispers in her best whore voice, that she will be in New York for one day, and perhaps he might know of some elegant place that they might dine, perhaps chat about the matter more, later in the night.
She laughs slightly, telling him wouldn’t that be a wonderful way to celebrate his publishing houses new, great fortune.
F-4-BINGO. Chimes in his head.
He gulps, scrutinizes her, appreciating her obvious innuendo of sex was a generous gesture and above all her knowledge of the publishing industry stuns him.
Sex is sex though. Money is also money.
Happily married, or at least as one can be in such an outrageous state of life, he wonders how he can sneak away from his wife, so he can have that slender, white body mambo on his dick.
He has never been unfaithful, but he is now leaning in that direction.
In the end, he decides not for the money is simply enough.
The kids do need help with their college education and with the money he can finally get the pool set into the ground on his Long Island chateau.
He smiles, pockets the slag into a drawer and, then she pulls out a folded piece of paper, slides that across the desk to him.
He reads it, crinkles his brow, and looks curiously at her.
She smiles.
They talk business as she tells him he will not be disappointed in the slightest, and these are her conditions.
He shakes his head YES at her most generous offer, agrees and, that is if the minions in the tunnels, the firms readers like her dead poets work, which he is sure they will, they have a GO.
They stand, shake hands, she pearls in and hug’s him.
He wilts as she whispers into his ear that you will not be disappointed.
As she had made Arvan do, she crosses her heart and hopes to die, her last words.
She exchanges cell phone numbers with him, smiles and turns and with her men and with dollies at hand, walks from his door.
He, pretty much thunder struck from the entire surreal moment, strains for one last look at that body.
Feeling the partial erection in his trousers, from her simple touch and her breath on his ear, he dreams of.
What if?
He does not know yet, that several months down the line and for his fortuitous vision in taking on the unknown dead writer, he will be made President, for the artists will turn out one best seller after another from the grave.
Also, because of fate, and his business acumen and the conditions the woman has set forth, he was applauded for the deal, which had sent the Board back onto their heels for the publisher being seen as a philanthropist was never a bad thing, in the corrupt corporate world.
The agreement was set as follows:
Half of all royalties were to be paid to various environmental endeavors scattered around the world. Doctors with out Borders, Green Peace, were just two on the list of a half dozen.
The other monies, fifty percent, were to be wired into her Swiss Bank Account in Geneva.
She was no fool.
With no further words shared between them, she had dissolved into the elevator and was gone.
He never saw her again.
TO BE CONTINUED...
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