by Fiona Quinn
“Knapp writes video game adaptation. Surely you could adapt for this project.” And he winked like he was telling her a good joke.
“I definitely don’t know anything about that. How could I possibly edit something like that?”
He cocked his head. “But you know about romance?”
Avery worked not to grit her teeth.
“Fiction is fiction.” George shrugged. “Wheedle something out of him.” George picked up his pen and jabbed it toward Avery, punctuating his instructions. “An outline, a first chapter, anything you can get. I want something on my desk yesterday.”
Pen jabbing. Power move number nine. Disdain bubbled in Avery’s stomach. He’s turning himself into a caricature.
Her cell phone buzzed against Avery’s thigh. She pulled it from her pocket and tapped it off without checking the readout. “Me? But…” Avery moved behind the chair, using it as a shield against all the ramifications of this conversation. “Please, I’m really opposed to this whole project. Maybe the intern would like to get this on his resume?” Avery threw out the Hail Mary with little hope of success. George looked too smug right now to be generous.
“You. Knapp insists you’re the only person he’ll talk to.”
“But I’ve never met him.”
“He wants to work with a woman. You’re all we’ve got. So you’re it.”
George’s PA came over the speaker announcing George’s wife was on line one.
He reached for the receiver and pointed at the guest seat.
Avery dragged the chair away from the window and sat down to wait. She checked the number that had called. Lola. Shoot. Her best friend wouldn’t call her at work unless Avery’s mom was acting up again.
One crisis at a time. Being thrown into the Taylor Knapp three-ring circus certainly felt like a crisis. His last book was so inflammatory that Avery had received hundreds of nasty e-mails from strangers, telling her that she’d damned her soul to hell by her involvement with Knapp’s novel.
And she hadn’t been involved at all.
What would happen now that she was going to be in charge of this project? Avery needed to stay as anonymous as possible. She’d need to get a new phone number right away, an unlisted one.
George banged the receiver onto its cradle. He wasn’t wearing his Titan of the Literary World mask any more. Stress constricted the muscles around his eyes, making them seem small and too deeply set. He paused. “You should know that my wife found an old photo from back when we dated. Luckily, you were wearing that big floppy hat of yours. She asked if it was you. I said no. She thinks we met here at the office after I signed on with Windsor Shreveport. And she will never know anything different.” George paused and considered Avery. “If she shows up here with the picture and asks you about it, you will deny it’s you.”
“George, we had this discussion. We stopped dating when I graduated from grad school. That was years before you even knew her. I’m not sure why this is an issue.”
“Right, well, I want to be clear. You need to be very careful and stick to our story. If she brings up the conference in London last Christmas, when we—” he stopped and winked, “became reacquainted, that’s okay. But since then, I was married, and I became your boss. You are now my underling. And that’s it as far as she’s concerned.” He stood up, stretching to his full looming height of five feet seven inches. Move number thirteen, How to Get the Upper Hand and Win.
Avery would have liked to laugh at the absurdity of his affectations, but this wasn’t funny at all.
She didn’t like to be blackmailed and manipulated. What did she have to say to the man’s wife anyway? Okay, back in the day, George had looked like a blond Tom Cruise but that resemblance had faded over time along with his hair line. Now, he was just a pompous ass who could barely eek out a mildly satisfying orgasm. And that was before he was married and gained a twenty pound spare tire. Really, Mrs. George Pratt had nothing to worry about from Avery.
“Obviously, I want you to keep on working here,” he continued. “I don’t want anything to make that feel impossible.”
“It’s not a problem, I assure you.” Avery stood, so they were eye to eye. She wanted this meeting to be over already, but she sensed there was more bad news to come. “As far as I’m concerned, our history started here at Windsor Shreveport when they hired you on last April.” Avery’s voice sounded strong and a little bored. She couldn’t have pitched her tone any better if she’d practiced in a mirror beforehand.
“Good then.” George slid a piece of paper toward her. “As a reminder that projects are contractually protected, this is a copy of your NDA. That’s your signature.” He tapped it twice. “Immediate dismissal from the company, and a million dollar fine if you break this. You can also anticipate being blackballed industrywide. I’m reminding you that if you say anything about what goes on within Windsor Shreveport, beyond the name of the author you’re working with, it would be a detriment to your future. You are prohibited from speaking with anyone about the Taylor Knapp project—until the publicity department has made something public, that is.”
Avery swallowed. “I can’t imagine wanting to associate my name with Taylor Knapp’s in any way, shape, or form. I don’t want to be associated with this project. I don’t want my name on anything to do with this project. No putting my name on news releases, no ‘thank yous’ at the back of the book.”
George moved the top sheet and tapped the second one in the pile. “This is Taylor Knapp’s e-mail. I want you to get in touch with him. Immediately. Use your feminine wiles.” He waved his hand up and down to take in her body.
Avery stood there, wide eyed and disbelieving.
“Do whatever you have to do to manipulate that book out of his brain and onto a computer.”
She went to snatch up the paper, but George held it in place on the desktop with a firm hand. “Avery, you also need to clear your calendar for next week. I’ve had my PA send you the itinerary. I need you to fly to New York with me. It’ll be just the two of us from this office.”
Avery watched the smile slowly spread across George’s face. He would have seemed handsome except she knew his character too well. She now saw him through the filter of their shared history. Avery pulled the paper out from under his hand. “I’m going to take the Simpson manuscript home and read for the rest of the day.” She spun to move toward the door.
“Oh, and Avery?” George called.
Avery stilled, but didn’t turn toward his voice.
“Burn that damned hat.”
Chapter Four
Avery
Thursday Afternoon
Washington D.C.
Avery strode across the parking lot, trying to get as much distance between her and George as she could, as fast as possible. The sun blazed down on her head, and she yanked her suit jacket off, seeking relief from the humidity. It was fall, for heaven’s sake. The leaves should be changing colors. She should be looking forward to pumpkin spiced lattes and wrapping up in fleece.
Fall was usually her favorite time of year.
This extended heat, now becoming more the norm, was just upping Avery’s frustration.
When she went to check her phone for the weather, Avery remembered she hadn’t called Lola back from earlier. Funny how having your career threatened can move your brain cells from one crisis to another.
Avery opened her car door and let the heat swell out while she pressed number two on her quick dial.
“Holy Mary and Joseph, thank the Heavens you called. You’ve got to get home now. And I mean right now,” Lola said in a single breath.
Avery slid under the wheel, with the phone squeezed between her jaw and shoulder, as she tugged the door shut and pressed the ignition button.
The air conditioning belched out heat, and Avery’s long blonde hair caught in the sweat on her neck. “You’d better give me the bullet points, so I’m ready when I get there.”
The car’s Bluetooth picked up the call, a
nd Avery listened to Lola’s voice, spiced by her Latina heritage, through the car’s speaker system.
Lola always sounded like there was a private joke entwined in her words. “Let’s see. Father Pat is on his way. The police are climbing out of their car. Your newest caregiver, Sally-what’s-her-name, is sitting on your porch in tears. And one of your neighbors is starting a petition drive to get your mother removed from the house for Home Owners Association noise violations.”
“So Mom is doing well then.” Avery paused and strained to hear the background noises. “Are there chickens in the mix?” Avery pulled out of the parking spot and clicked on her right blinker.
“What? No. No chickens. Why?”
Avery pulled out onto the tree-lined street in Washington D.C., heading for the highway and Falls Church. “It sounds like someone’s trying to strangle the whole flock.”
“Nope, it’s your mom.” There was a long pause. “I think that’s supposed to be Ave Maria.” The screeching reached a crescendo. “Sally says your mom thinks the Devil stole her vocal chords. Now your mom’s in an all-out battle to show the old Devil he didn’t win.”
***
Avery inched her car past the police cruiser and the ambulance. Father Pat sat in his sedan with the engine still running, his head leaning against the headrest, his eyes closed. The uniformed men stood in the shade of her broad-limbed tulip tree.
Pulling into the empty drive, Avery realized Sally had left. She wondered if the newest adult sitter had already decided this assignment was too big.
Would Sally show up to work the next day?
One problem at a time.
Avery opened her car door slowly, not quite ready to throw herself into whatever brouhaha her mom had stirred up.
Lola sat on the porch, looking thoroughly amused. “Your mom won’t open the door, and I decided not to use the key until you got here. She’s pretty confused.”
Avery nodded. A tension headache thrummed behind her eyes. As she reached the top step, the door popped open.
“Avery Grace, thank goodness you’re home. What a day I’ve had.”
Avery watched the first responders gathering up their equipment to head inside.
“Mom, how are you feeling?”
“I’m fine. Why?”
Avery lifted her hand to wave at the paramedics. “I’ve got this. Thank you so much for coming,” she called as she watched them striding as a group toward her, their cases in hand.
They stopped, seeming uncertain, then nodded and moved to their vehicles, leaving one guy behind to approach and have Avery sign the requisite paperwork.
By now, Avery knew the drill.
“Mom, Lola came to help you. Why didn’t you let her in?” Avery turned her mother around and moved her into the house where the air conditioning provided some relief.
“Lola Santiago? She didn’t come here.”
Avery pointed over at Lola, who plopped onto the couch. “This is Lola, Mom.”
“No, it’s not,” Ginny Goodyear scolded. “You are not Lola Santiago. You are an imposter. Did you come with the bad men?”
“What bad men, Mom?”
“The ones who are watching the house.” She turned and pointed a menacing finger at Lola, whose eyes glittered with merriment. “You can’t fool me. You are not Lola. You don’t even look like her mother. Her mother is beautiful.”
“Mom.” Avery’s voice strained to sound patient. “Lola’s last name is Zelkova now. Did you get confused when Sally told you Mrs. Zelkova was at the door?”
The doorbell chimed, and Avery answered it to find Father Pat standing red-faced on her stoop. He had a gallon jug of holy water in his hand, still in its Giant Foods grocery bag.
“Your mom called me and said the Devil was here. Shall I look around and see if I can find him?”
Ginny jumped forward and grabbed the priest’s hand. “Would you? I think he went away, but if you could make sure.”
Father Pat smiled weakly and shuffled toward the back of the house.
Ginny’s face shifted from grateful parishioner to angry mother who wasn’t having the wool pulled over her eyes as she turned on Lola. “This floozy is an imposter, I tell you. She’s just wearing a Lola disguise but I see through you, you floozy! You can’t come and take my house from me.”
Lola’s designer dress; her long jet-black hair, cut into face-framing layers; and her manicured nails gave her the air of a society belle. There was nothing floozy about Lola Zelkova. “Mom, look at her. This is Lola. She has her own house. She doesn’t need yours. She lives there with her five kids.”
Ginny’s gaze narrowed on Lola. “Five children? Do you know who any of the fathers are?”
“Mom!”
Chapter Five
Rowan
Thursday Evening
Alexandria Virginia
Climbing stiffly from the back of the Lyft parked at the front of his Alexandria home, Rowan promised himself a scotch and time in front of the TV, just chillin’ with some ice packs.
The one piece of good news was that he was the only one bumped and bruised from the night at the gala.
Clara was fine.
She’d gotten away from the man who was chasing her.
The scream Rowan had heard in the parking garage when he was taken captive, as it turned out, wasn’t a woman’s at all. And now, Rowan knew what a man sounded like when he was stabbed in the dick.
Rowan was sincerely grateful that he and Clara were allies.
The Lyft driver had already popped the trunk and was hefting out his suitcases and duffle bag.
If only he knew the size of the arsenal I carry in there. He might not have let me in his car.
“Thanks, man.” Rowan reached for the suitcase handles and strap of his bag. “I left you a good review and a tip.”
With a wave, the guy headed on to his next fare.
Rowan stood at the end of his drive, where Jodie’s car blocked the sidewalk up to the house.
Her being here should make him smile. He should be glad he wasn’t coming home to an empty house.
But the truth was, Rowan wished she wasn’t there.
He stopped by the mailbox to give himself a little time to figure out why he felt so indifferent.
He and Jodie had been dating almost three years now. She checked all the boxes for life-companion—well, she had when they first went out. She was still smart and attractive, but over time, the charming and funny had kind of slid to the wayside, for both of them, like it was too much effort to maintain. The good-conversations part had turned more to grunts of acknowledgement. The caring and nurturing had become cancelled plans. Both of them had kind of given up, their relationship more about habit than anything else.
And now, things were just in a holding pattern until someone made an exit move.
He was going to make the move.
Not today. Today, he was going to smile and be pleasant. Sometime this weekend, he’d have the conversation, and wish her good things in her future.
And he’d mean it. He wanted her to be happy.
He wanted them both to be.
Just not happy together.
Happy apart.
God, I need a scotch.
The mailbox was empty. Jodie must have brought the letters in. With his duffel slung over his shoulder, and a pull handle in each hand, he hefted the luggage into the air to carry them across the lawn to the top of the sidewalk.
He wondered if he should feel some remorse, some guilt, for the taxi cab make out session with Clara and decided that there was nothing to feel guilty about. He had no affection for Clara, no desire to see her again. And Jodie was well aware that he had to pose as a couple on occasion. She’d said she was okay with that as long as he kept his pants zipped, which he had.
The door opened. “Home again, home again, jiggery jig.”
“I see you started drinking without me.”
“Captain Morgan’s been keeping me company while I waited for
you.” She lifted her half-full glass. Diet Coke and Captain, what she drank when she was going for the buzz and not the nuance.
She wasn’t slurring, that was good.
“Sorry, my flight was delayed.” He hitched the suitcases up higher and climbed the porch steps, trying not to wince.
Jodie moved back into the hallway, giving him room to maneuver. “So—how long do you think you’ll stick around this time?” she asked.
“I leave out again Tuesday.” He deposited his load at the bottom of the stairs; he’d take them up to his bedroom later. Rowan headed to the kitchen.
Jodie looked like she was revved up for a fight and walking away from her to take that hot shower he’d been promising himself would only escalate things.
When he ended their relationship, he didn’t want it to be with angry words that popped out of an exhausted brain. Jodie deserved better than that. There was no way he was going to turn a bad day on the job into a fight, punishing her when she wasn’t the reason Rowan was maxed out.
“Where’d you go?” Jodie asked, following him into the kitchen.
He noticed she didn’t mention his bruised face. She’d learned over time that he could never say anything other than “I’m fine” to her questions and concerns.
It had been a long time since she’d asked.
Not that he got beaten up every time he was in the field.
Rowan actually tried to avoid such encounters.
Reaching out for the bottle of single malt, Rowan thought twice about that choice and dropped his hand. Both of them drinking might be a bad combination. He could still taste the survival hormones in his saliva from getting dumped in the back of the car trunk, headed somewhere for an uncomfortable chat about who and what he knew. And there was also the flavor of the anticipated bullet of silence to the back of the head.
He opened the fridge. It was empty but for a bottle of hot sauce and some cocktail onions. “You know I can’t tell you where I go.” He opened the freezer. There was a lone freezer-burnt waffle laying at the bottom and three of the bags of peas he used therapeutically. He pulled them out and knocked them on the counter to release the clumps.