by Melody Banks
Dangerous Curves
Part One:
Naughty Little Secrets
By Melody Banks
Text Copyright © 2013 Girls Night In Books, LLC
All Rights Reserved
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www.melodybanks.com
Prologue
Are you in – or are you out?
The terms were simple. I had to go all-in, or the game was over.
I’d never played at anything like this before – did I have the nerve?
I wasn’t like the girls he normally dated. Nicholas Colby could have his pick of women – and he usually picked the ones who looked like they belonged on a catwalk, or in the pages of a Victoria’s Secret catalog. Not girls like me – ordinary girls who didn’t always have the best hair day or say the right thing. And I was reasonably sure I was the only woman he’d ever pursued who had a Weight Watchers membership.
He said he liked my curves. Wanted to trace every inch of them….
But should I let him? I had never done anything like this before. Never been with a man like him. And as much as I was thrilled, I was also terrified. Because Nick Colby was the kind of man who played for keeps – in the boardroom and the bedroom.
And this was the kind of game that could only have one winner.
Should I risk it all and go for broke? Or would the game be over before it even started?
And if I risked it all, would I be the one to lose?
Chapter One
(One week earlier)
“Sorry to make you work on your day off,” my boss, Mariah said, shutting the door to her office with a loud thud. “But two people called in sick and everyone else was busy. You know how it is.”
Boy, did I ever.
This was the third time she’d done this to me in two weeks. When I would I learn to stop answering the phone when work called? Never mind. It wasn’t like I had any exciting plans. Besides, I could use the extra money.
Working the night shift at Brown-Eyed Girl Magazine was easy, if incredibly dull. We were an online publication, our new content went up every night on our popular website between the hours of midnight and 2 a.m.
I’d been working here for three years, and I’d still yet to move up the ranks. I wasn’t a “guest columnist” like my best friend, Katie. Despite taking on several voluntary (read: unpaid) assignments, and turning in various test articles, Mariah had yet to give me a chance to write for the magazine.
It sucked, because I had a degree in journalism, a filing cabinet full of old clips, and here I was stuck managing the website. Point, click, copy, past. That was what my job came down to. If I was lucky, I got to play editor for the night and read an article or two for content. Usually, though, I was stuck uploading text files into little boxes, hitting spell check, making sure the fonts all looked correct, and then pressing “publish” with my mouse.
It was exciting work, if you could get it.
So why did I stay here?
It was a good question, one I asked myself often.
In truth, it all goes back to the statement I just made: not the “exciting work” part, the “if you could get it” thing. Believe it or not, a position at Brown-Eyed Girl Magazine was not easy to come by. We were one of the hottest webzines around – owned by a man who’d just been ranked the most influential businessmen on the planet, in addition to being named one of People magazines 50 Most Beautiful People for three years running – Nicholas Colby.
Not only was Brown-Eyed Girl a terrific stepping stone for budding journalists (our writers often went on to high profile gigs at places like Vogue and Vanity Fair after putting in a few years here), but the chance to work for any of Nicholas Colby’s business ventures was too good to pass up. The man was a living legend – a self-made billionaire before the age of 30 years old – and having an association with him anywhere on your resume could only lead to bigger and better things.
Not that you could even call what I had to be an “association.” Mr. Colby and I have only met once, when he gave the keynote speech at an event the magazine hosted two years ago. After captivating the room with a speech that was equal parts inspiring and funny, Nicholas had briefly worked the room introducing himself to everyone (as if he needed an introduction!) and before ducking out with a girl, I’m pretty sure, was one of the models on that season of Project Runway.
Nicholas is known for his playboy ways, and he is routinely spotted with a different woman on his arm. He’s even dated a few staffers from Brown-Eyed Girl in the past, although, trust me, I have no illusions that I’m ever going to wind up on that list. Mr. Colby tends to prefer models. And at a size 16/18, I’m hardly the model type. (Even for the plus-size scene. Last I checked most of those “larger” model girls were still way smaller than I was.)
It’s not that I’m not pretty. It’s just, I’ve always been the type of girl who tended to win a guy over with her personality. But since moving to New York a few years ago, I hadn’t been winning over anybody.
In fact, my social life has become downright pathetic as of late. If I’m not spending my nights here at the office, making sure our articles go up on the website in time, then I’m usually at home across the East River in my tiny Brooklyn walk-up watching Law & Order reruns. In my dream life, I would be out exploring The City. That’s what you do when you move to New York, right? Especially when you move to New York from a place like rural Missouri. That’s how I always imagined my life unfolding. But I’m 27 – I’ll be 28 in a month – and my life is less exciting now than it’s ever been.
The reality check kicked in pretty soon after I moved to the Big Apple. That’s when all the sad facts about life here really started to hit me. Such as: everything costs three times what you think it should; no matter how hard you try you never have the right outfit to wear and; what looks like a relatively short distance on a map will require a shocking amount of time, effort, and coordination navigate. By the time I’ve taken a train, a bus, and then another train to get home (with a few short walks in-between) I’m usually too tired to do anything but plop down on the couch and order take-out.
Oh, and blog. Did I forget to mention that I blog?
It’s kind of the highlight of my day, which I suppose tells you something. My blog is called Big Girl in Brooklyn. Creative title, eh? But, hey, at least I’m being honest. Every day I write a short (or long, depending if the mood strikes) vignette about a day in the life of a big girl in the City. I try to make them witty and interesting, so people will want to pop in and read them. Hopefully, I’m successful. I have a decent number of regular readers and commenters. And I enjoy it regardless – it gives me an outlet for my writing, since Mariah has yet to let me do any pieces for Brown-Eyed Girl.
Speaking of which….
“The Naughty Little Secrets column isn’t in yet,” my boss said, interrupting my reverie. “I called the freelancer and left a message, so she should be sending it in any time now. Never the less, if you don’t have it soon you might want to give her a call yourself. Okay, Violet?”
If you don’t have it soon? Mariah’s words played over in my mind. I looked at my watch. It was nearly 8 o’clock. All of our columns had to be in by 2 p.m. at the latest, so they could be read and approved – or sent back for changes – by the senior editors. Revised versions had to be in by 6 p.m. so they could go to copyediting (where they’d be proofed for grammar, spelling, and style). By the time I sat down to work, all the final articles were supposed to completed and saved to a folder on the network so whoever was doing layout could easily access them and upload them to the site. This was way behind schedule.
“What do you mean
it hasn’t come in yet?” I asked nervously. I had a sick feeling I knew where this was heading.
“The girl who’s writing it – a freelancer named Samantha – hasn’t been answering her phone today,” Mariah said, waving her hand in the air as if this was no big deal. “She’s probably working on it now. You’ll have it soon, I’m sure.”
But I wasn’t so sure. This had happened before, and Mariah never seemed to care, always leaving the responsibility of coming up with a last-minute article to whoever happened to be working that night.
“And if I don’t?” I countered.
“You’ll have it,” Mariah said. “If not, call her.”
“Oh, yeah, I’m sure she’ll pick up,” I muttered under my breath. “If she isn’t answering phone calls from the Editor-in-Chief, if that title’s not scaring her into picking up the phone, I’m sure she’ll rush into action when the webmaster calls.”
“What’s that?” Mariah asked, cocking her head.
“I just asked why we keep using these freelancers,” I lied. I wasn’t going to say any more, then a moment of boldness hit me and I decided to speak up. I chose my words carefully, “I don’t understand why you keep giving assignments to freelancers when so many of them seem to be unreliable.” And when we have so many writers on staff who would kill for the chance to do articles for Brown-Eyed Girl. And who, you know, would actually turn them in. Of course, I didn’t say this part, though.
“They’re not unreliable,” Mariah said, fixing me with a look that clearly said, Watch it! “And Samantha’s a friend of mine – friend of a friend,” Mariah amended. “She’s ultra talented. She’ll come through.” She broke into a smile. “But if for some reason she isn’t able to, you know how to handle it, Violet.”
I sure did. I knew because this exact same thing had happened two weeks ago. We’d been promised an article on “Vegan Cooking on a Dime” from some freelancer Mariah had met a bar – from the way she described it, it sounded like she was more interested in dating the guy than in having him write for us, and had only thrown him the assignment as a means of getting his number.
She did that kind of thing from time to time. Okay, all the time. Mariah was always out on the prowl, picking up different guys in bars, throwing her title around in an attempt to impress them with her money and power.
But Samantha was a girl, so unless Mariah had decided to start playing for the other team, I couldn’t figure out what the deal with this chick was. Why was she covering for her?
Either way, I had a bad feeling about this. If the article didn’t come in – and things weren’t looking so great – then I’d be screwed. Just like last time.
And it would be all Mariah’s fault – Mariah and her crappy decision-making.
You see, at most online publications if an article doesn’t get written in time, then you replace it with another article – a substitute, as it were. Simple, right? And these substitute articles come what’s called the magazine’s “articles’ bank.” The articles bank is basically just a folder with a stockpile of articles that aren’t time-sensitive that can be run at the last minute if you get in a bind.
Mariah does not believe in having an articles’ bank. As a result we’re basically flying by the seat of our pants – if an article doesn’t come in, we’re screwed. Because we have paid ads that run on our site, it’s not like we can let a column slide for a week – we have to produce new content on a regular basis or else we’ll have to refund our advertisers their money. This does not sit well with a man like Nicholas Colby. As busy as he is, he still makes it a point to check in on our magazine on a regular basis to make sure we’re not losing money.
“But if for some reason Samantha doesn’t come through, just fill in for her, okay?” Mariah said, dashing out the door.
Fill in for her.
As if I could just snap my fingers and produce an article out of thin air. But that was exactly what Mariah was asking me to do. It was what I’d been forced to do two weeks ago, when “Vegan Cooking on a Dime” hadn’t come through. I’d had to wing it, making phone calls well into the wee hours of the night begging chefs around town for last minute interviews. I’d managed to pull it off, producing an article on cheap vegan dishes that had won raves from both upper management and readers alike.
The ultimate kicker?
I’d received no credit for it. The credit had gone to “Staff Writer,” instead of Violet Lewis. All that hard work and I hadn’t even gotten my name on the piece.
Why did I work here again?
Other than the fact that I have the requisite brown eyes. (Har har.)
But, seriously, this place would be a dream – if Mariah wasn’t determined to make our work environment such a nightmare.
Tonight was proving to be no different. As predicted, the freelancer who’d been assigned the “My Naughty Little Secret” column never sent I her piece – nor did she call or e-mail to explain what had happened. I spent two hours trying to reach her to no avail. Finally, I called Mariah.
“Samantha’s missing in action,” I said flatly. “We’re down one article.”
“Okay,” Mariah said. “I have a freelancer list on my desk. Make a few calls and see if you can find somebody to cover at the last minute.”
Find somebody to cover? She didn’t want me to write it?
“You really think one of our freelancers will be ready to go at this short a notice?” I asked.
“They’ll have to be,” Mariah said. “We can’t go live without that column.”
“I could always pen something if you want,” I offered.
“No,” she cut me off. “That’s not really your thing, Violet. No offense.”
“No offense?” I repeated.
“Yeah….” her voice trailed off. “The vegan cooking piece you did was fine and all, it was definitely good enough for a last minute filler. But I don’t really think you’re up to writing this article.”
“This is last minute filler, too,” I pointed out.
“Yes, but it’s a different kind of last minute filler.” She paused. “Don’t take this the wrong way, Violet, but I don’t know that you’re cut out to write the ‘Naughty Little Secrets’ column.’”
Whoa. Was she saying what I think she was saying?
“Naughty Little Secrets requires much racier writing. It’s a much sexier column than, say, writing about vegan eat. Don’t take this the wrong way, Violet, but I’m not sure you have it in you.”
I wasn’t sure there was a right way to take that. Her words played back through my head.
Don’t take this the wrong way. No offense.
I hate it when people preface their insults with a disclaimer. It’s so condescending and annoying.
I knew better than to argue with her, though. I’d just get the damn freelancer to do the piece and move on with my night.
Trouble was, there were no freelancers who were available on such short notice. Forty-five minutes, and a dozen phone calls later, I was right back where I started: staring at a blank screen waiting for someone to send me an article to fill it. I tried calling Mariah, even sent her two text messages, and got only this response: You’re a professional. That’s why I put you in charge. You handle it.
By the time the clock struck 11 p.m., I was fed up with waiting. I knew what I had to do. It didn’t matter who wrote the article – they credit would go out to “Staff Writer” anyway. If I couldn’t find a freelancer to write it, I’d have to do it myself.
It took me a few minutes to come up with an idea. Our “Naughty Little Secrets” column – one of our most popular features – usually a true confession of, you guessed it, someone’s dark, Naughty little secret. Past topics have included such revelations as My Husband is Not the Father of Our New Baby, I Had Sex With My Brother-in-Law or the ever-popular I’m Seeping With My Boss.
I had to laugh at the thought of that last one. The idea of sleeping with Nicholas Colby was absurd. Not that he didn’t get around…he just didn�
��t get around to girls like me.
I blushed at the thought of someone like Nicholas reading this column, but then remember two things: Mr. Colby was likely far too busy to pursue our little online magazine and b.) even if he did read it by some off chance, he’d never know it was me – the byline was anonymous.
For once I was grateful for that. My mom and dad both perused Brown-Eyed Girl and, as much as it bugged me not having my name on the vegan eats article, I was pleased by the cloak of anonymity here.
I really could tell a ‘naughty little secret’ if I wanted to – and no one would ever know.
The thought was kind of electrifying. I rarely share the private details of my life with anyone – my best friend Katie included. Even my blog typically sticks to lighter, less-than-personal topics. If I wanted to cut loose, here my chance.
I thought about it for a moment, turning the idea over in my head. What did I want to write about? I could say anything. It took me a few minutes to come up with a topic, then I started typing.
My Naughty Little Secret
I had my first orgasm in the eighth grade.
It happened at the most inopportune moment, and was not at all like I’d imagined.
It did not happen during a steamy encounter I had the first week of school. Hiding behind the bleachers, the older boy trailing kisses down my neck while his fingers inched their way up my skirt.
And it did not happen during one of the hurried, desperate make-out sessions that my then-boyfriend and I would squeeze in every day after school. Him, almost painfully rock-hard, moaning as his fingers played beneath my panties, stealing as much time as he could between my legs before my parents came home.
Those two boys both tried, so diligently, to get me there, to make me come.
But my first orgasm didn’t belong to either of them – to any man, really. It happened, instead, while I was asleep.