MY PEN IS HUGE

by Mimi Jean Pamfiloff

  Yeah. I’m not going to last a day. Sadly, I need this job. Rent is due, and soon, my student loan payments will be too. The only way I’m going to avoid going bankrupt is to get a good-paying job. And for that, I need a reference and my name on a big story.

  CHAPTER TWO

  “So this is where you live?” We pull into a visitor’s spot at my apartment complex in Merrick’s red “Tony Stark” Audi. He drives like a madman, just like I expected. No fear. King of the road. Oddly, he barely said a word the entire drive. Either his mind was somewhere else, or he simply doesn’t feel like speaking to me.

  Whatever. I’m here to learn, not become besties.

  “Yes, this is my place. I’ll be right back.” I grab my satchel and carefully slide from the low-to-the-ground car, trying not to flash my panties to the world. My heel catches the door’s trim, and I fall face forward onto the asphalt. “Ooph!”

  “Dear God, woman.” Merrick shuts off the engine and scrambles out of the car. By the time he comes around, I’m already halfway up.

  My ego is another story. It’s somewhere way, waaay down there with the ants I just crushed with my bleeding kneecap. “Great.”

  “Had a bit too much gin for breakfast, did we?” He effortlessly lifts me off the ground and plunks me down squarely on my heels.

  Jeez. Someone’s strong. I try not to look at his arms, which are flexing beneath the light-pink dress shirt. His coat is hanging on a special hook behind the driver’s seat. Clearly, he’s anti-wrinkles.

  “Um…thank you.” My face is hot with humiliation. I dust off the nonexistent dirt from the front of my stained skirt in order to avoid eye contact.

  “No worries, love.” He wraps his arm around my waist. “Let me help you to your apartment, and we’ll get you all cleaned up.”

  For one teeny tiny second, my stomach does this wave thing. Okay, it’s more like a jerk of the wrist, not a full-on wave. Like the Queen of England. Just a little flick. Which I quickly smother when I realize that he’s not being chivalrous. He’s just being himself. Let the big strong man take care of your fragility, love, I say in my head, mocking his smooth baritone voice.

  I remove his hand and straighten my spine. “It’s just a scratch. I’ll be okay.”

  He steps back. “Only trying to help.”

  I offer a polite smile in gratitude. “I’ll be right back.” I turn and head down the walkway leading to the courtyard. My apartment’s entrance is at the far corner. I’ve lived here a couple years with my roomie, Camila, who graduated last winter with a degree in accounting. For the moment, she’s working as a temp but she keeps getting really good offers, so it’s only a matter of time before she accepts one and wants her own place. Also, this pea-green building is a shithole—broken window screens, cracked stucco, and weeds growing from just about every patch of available dirt. We live here because it’s cheap, within driving distance to campus, and safe-ish. The neighbors all look out for each other. The neighborhood itself is another story. Crime has exploded, and no one knows why. It’s the same shitty ten square blocks it’s always been.

  I hurry through the courtyard, thinking about alternatives to my current outfit. I only own a few nice skirts and slacks, which are all dirty.

  We’re going to meet a janitor. I doubt he’ll care if I’m wearing work attire. On the other hand, Mr. Immaculate seems pretty fashion conscious. I don’t care what he thinks, but I am here to learn how he gets his interviews. If part of his methodology is looking a certain way in order to foster a professional image, then I should too.

  I suddenly notice heavy footsteps behind me and look over my shoulder. What the? It’s Merrick. “Um…where are you going?”

  “To your apartment.”

  “But—”

  “I’m a journalist. Which means I like learning about people, and there’s no better way to get to know a person than seeing where they live.”

  My place is a complete mess. Also, I don’t know Merrick, and even if I did, he’s my boss. On the other hand, he is known for never taking no for an answer. He goes where he wants. When he wants. No matter how dangerous and unwelcome he might be. In other words, this is the way he does things, and I’m probably not going to win this battle.

  “Fine. But we haven’t cleaned since last weekend, and the dishwasher is broken, so the sink is full until the repairman comes.”

  “I observe, not judge.”

  Yeah, right. I slide the key in the lock and push open the door. My apartment is a small two-bedroom, one bath. We have a red couch I inherited from my parents, a few dried-out plants, and a farm-style kitchen table we bought at a flea market. One wall has an enormous bookshelf for my and my roommate’s shared library.

  “We don’t have much, but it’s home.” I kick this morning’s running shoes to the side of the room. There’s a bunch of unpaid bills and the remnants of my oatmeal breakfast sitting on the table.

  Merrick ignores me and heads straight for the bookshelf in the corner. I try not to get all weirded out about his intrusiveness. “I’ll be in my room changing.”

  “Take your time.” He grabs something off the shelf. I don’t see what, but between me and Camila, we have everything from books on economics to Gandhi and meditation.

  I go into my room, shut the door, and dig out a pair of black jeans from my closet. My knee’s stopped bleeding, but I’ll have to see if there are any Band-Aids in the bathroom. I ditch my heels and slide on a pair of socks and black boots. With my dark sweater, I look a little casual, but this is the nicest clean thing I’ve got.

  When I come out, Merrick is sitting on my couch, wearing a pair of smart black reading glasses—hot!—with a tantric yoga sex book in his hand.

  Of course he goes for the dirty book. He looks thoroughly engrossed, too, those chocolate eyes scanning the pages. I notice he has a dimple on both cheeks and one on his chin. Mr. Immaculate right down to his face. Everything matches.

  “That’s my roommate’s book,” I say in case he’s wondering. “She dated a yoga instructor for a while.” Those were some loud weekends.

  “I figured as much,” Merrick says, without lifting his eyes.

  Huh? I’m about to ask how he surmised this but decide it’s not a conversation that can go anywhere good or professional. So he thinks I’m a prude and too uptight for tantric yoga sex. So what? I go to the hall bathroom and the medicine cabinet to find my first-aid stuff. I’ll have him know that Ryan and I were extremely adventurous in the sack. One time, I let him go down on me.

  Wait. Why am I trying to justify myself to this man I don’t even know? I close the door, flip on the light, and take care of my knee business. When I open the bathroom door, I slam right into Merrick. “Ooph!” I bounce off his rock-hard chest and do an ass plant on my bathroom floor.

  “Are you on a mission to break yourself today, love?” He holds out a hand to help me up.

  I get to my feet on my own. “No. And why were you standing there?”

  “I was about to knock when you popped out like a jackrabbit. Carl texted and said something came up, so he’s got to leave soon. He’ll talk to me, but he doesn’t have much time.”

  “Then let’s go.” I flip off the light.

  “Dressed like that?” Merrick cocks one brow while his eyes travel up and down my body.

  “I’m sorry. I know you have a thing about work attire, but I don’t have anything nicer.”

  His displeased expression turns slightly less judgmental, like maybe he regrets the comment. Ah, so the monster does have a heart.

  “Perhaps you should stay and recover from your injuries, then?” he adds.

  Wow. He’s really hating on my clothes. It’s a little weird, to be honest. Not like I’m wearing a tube top suit and roller skates. Maybe he needs to loosen up the old necktie. I think it’s cutting off the circulation to his brain.

  “I’m fine,” I say. “Can we go now?” I grab my keys and satchel and head out. When Merrick catches up, I notice he’s s
mirking, walking, and typing on his phone.

  “Texting Carl?” I ask.

  He unlocks his car, and we both get inside. “No.”

  I wait, but he doesn’t add to that.

  “Maybe now would be a good time to establish exactly what my assistant role entails,” I suggest.

  “Intern,” he corrects as he backs out.

  “Whatever.”

  “I already told you. Your job is to listen and learn,” he says.

  “But I can’t just sit around and do nothing. Not when you’re paying me.”

  “How much?” he asks.

  “How much what?”

  “How much am I paying you?” He sounds genuinely curious.

  This has got to be the strangest situation ever. “You don’t know what I’m making?”

  We pull onto the main road. It’s late morning, so there isn’t much traffic, but the sky is starting to fill with clouds. The air feels unseasonably cold. Hopefully not a bad omen.

  “I wouldn’t ask if I knew, would I?” he says.

  “Thirteen an hour.”

  He rakes his fingertips over his angular jaw. His stubble looks surprisingly soft, not bristly. I kind of want to touch it.

  “You should’ve asked for more.”

  “I agree, and feel free to give me a raise.”

  “Sorry, love. Deal’s a deal. But why didn’t you negotiate a little harder?”

  I can’t bring myself to admit the truth—that I would have done it for free, just to learn from him. “I needed a job. Guess it’s your lucky day.”

  “Indeed.”

  The rest of the car ride to the hotel, he asks twenty questions about where I grew up (just outside Houston), what my parents do (lawyers), and a bunch of other small talk. He never asks why I want to be a journalist. I bet because his bloated ego assumes I want to be just like him when I grow up. Okay, fine. I kind of do when it comes to being an amazing interviewer.

  “So what’s this story you’re working on?” I ask.

  “I’ll tell you when I figure that out.”

  “You don’t know?” That’s peculiar.

  “I know pieces.”

  “Which are?” I push.

  “Ah, look. We’re here.”

  In other words, he’s not saying, which I find irritating. I haven’t given him a reason not to trust me.

  He pulls up to the fancy-looking hotel with white marble pillars and a fountain in front and leaves the car with the valet. As we stroll through the lobby, I want to study the amazing domed glass ceiling, but I’m too caught up in what’s happening with Merrick. Almost every woman is stopping in her tracks or doing a triple take when they see him. I’m not an ugly duckling—green eyes, long brown hair, nicely proportioned body, and generous lips—but not even on fancy night (what Camila and I call our dress-up nights when we actually shave our legs and put on makeup) do I turn heads like this guy does.

  Stunning looks aside, there’s something about him that strikes me as…off.

  I glance over at Merrick as we wait for the elevator. His square jaw is nice, but insanely tense, like he’s holding in a lot of stress. The muscular build is pleasant, for sure, though I find it odd he has time to travel the world, do research, write stories, and hit the gym.

  I bet he’s an insomniac. And yes, yes, his brown eyes and supple lips are incredibly sexy, but there’s a mischievousness to them, like he knows things that you don’t and he’s proud of it.

  “Unh-uh-uh…” He sings and jabs the elevator call button again. “You said you wanted to keep it professional, love.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means,” he glances down at me, “no drooling over the boss. It’s unprofessional.”

  I glare up at him. “I was just trying to figure out—you know what? Never mind. You’re so full of yourself.”

  The elevator arrives, and the doors slide open. “After you.” Merrick gestures for me to enter first.

  “Thanks,” I grumble petulantly. The sly little grin flickering across his lips gives me the urge to slap it right off him.

  He thinks I want him. He’s gloating even. “Stop it.”

  “What?”

  “You know what,” I reply.

  He pushes the button for the basement. “As you command, Gisselle.”

  He used my name, and now I’m the one smiling. It feels like I won a tiny piece of land in a war that I didn’t even know had started until this very moment.

  Leland Merrick versus Gisselle Walters. I have to wonder, though, what am I really fighting to win?

  CHAPTER THREE

  I follow Merrick down a lonely service hallway with concrete floors and industrial lighting. The air is cold down here, and everything smells like disinfectant. Merrick obviously knows where he’s going because he takes a right when the hallway forks.

  “So this Carl guy, how do you know him?” I shuffle behind Merrick, trying to keep up with his long legs and wide stride.

  “How do you think I get leads for my stories? Eyes and ears everywhere. Hotels like these are a hotbed for information—who’s here from out of town, who’s meeting with whom. Granted, most of my stories aren’t local, but every now and again, things pop up.”

  So Merrick has a network. “How do you get people to keep an eye out for you to begin with?”

  He keeps up his hurried pace. “Takes time. You get to know them. Do a few favors here and there.”

  Makes sense. “And how many sets of eyes do you have working at any given time?” I ask.

  Merrick stops in front of a closed door that says Janitorial Supplies. “Thousands.”

  “Oh. That sounds like a lot of travel and elbow rubbing.”

  He flashes a devilish smile. “I have great elbows—everyone wants a rub. That’s why I’m the best, love.”

  Why do I get the feeling that he’s now calling me “love” just to tease me? “Super duper, kumquat.”

  He halts mid-twist on the door handle. “From squash to fruit. You’ve given me a promotion.”

  Harhar. Not.

  “Remember: watch quietly.” He opens the door, and we enter what can only be described as a locker room slash storage closet stocked with cleaning supplies. In the corner are mops, brooms, and a few of those big duster things. A thin, middle-aged man with dark hair and a sweaty red face is standing just below an exposed light bulb. He’s wearing khaki overalls with a name tag that reads Carl. I stay back by the door so I don’t get in the way.

  “Carl, mate, good to see you.” Merrick shakes Carl’s hand. “This is my associate, Gisselle Walters.”

  Associate? Looks like I got a promotion, too. I’m guessing it’s because Merrick wants Carl to feel confident about talking in front of me—another professional. I’m also guessing that’s why he made a big deal about my clothes. He wanted me to look the part.

  “I thought you always worked alone,” Carl says with a twang and then looks at me. “No offense, ma’am.”

  “None taken,” I reply.

  “I needed some help with a special project,” Merrick replies. “But no worries, you can trust her.”

  So Carl can trust me, but Merrick can’t? Interesting. And what project is he referring to?

  Carl leans in close to Merrick and whispers, “Are you sure, because this isn’t like the other times, Leland. This is bad. Real bad.”

  With a comforting smile, Merrick claps Carl on the arm. “Senator Brownie Clown have one of his dirty little ass parties again?”

  What? Ewww…

  Carl shakes his head and tears form in his eyes. “Leland, he beat a woman to death in the stairwell last night at two in the morning. I called the police and then—”

  “Gisselle, love,” Merrick interrupts Carl, without looking at me, “would you please step outside?”

  Huh? “Uh…” I don’t know what to say or do. Is he worried that I can’t handle this? Because I can’t. This is shocking! And horrible!

  Wait. I mean, yes. I
can handle it. I want to be a journalist, and this is what they do. They expose the truth—ugly and beautiful alike. “I don’t need to leave. I’m fine—”

  “Out. Now.” Merrick finally turns those dazzling brown eyes on me, only now, they’re filled with another emotion: rage.

  Suddenly, I’m marrying up that earlier feeling in my stomach with the man standing in front of me who looks like he’s going to tear someone’s throat out. I’m getting the impression that Merrick is not at all the suave British man with a quippy mouth he pretends to be. I’ll be honest, it’s sort of exciting. I love a good people puzzle.

  “Gisselle,” Merrick growls, “you either leave this room or I’ll drag you out.”

  Okay, now that I can do without. I hold up my hands and give him the patented Gisselle Walters womanly-outrage look. I leave and shut the door, but there’s no way in hell I’m not going to press my ear to the door. Also, where does he get off speaking to me like that? I know he’s got a hang-up about women’s roles, but he’s got another think coming if—

  Oh. They’re talking. I hold my breath and listen to the muted voices on the other side of the door.

  “You’re sure it was him?” Merrick asks.

  “Yes. I stopped him from beating her, but it was too late. I called an ambulance anyway, and the police came, too. They all saw him, Leland.”

  “Then what happened?”

  “These men in suits showed up and pulled me aside. They told me if I said a word to anyone, my daughters would be raped and murdered, my wife would be hanged on our front lawn.”

  Oh, Jesus. I cover my mouth. This is horrible.

  Carl continues, “What do I do, Leland? My girls are only ten and twelve. My wife is pregnant with our third. I came to work because the men said I needed to act normal, but I can’t stay silent.” I hear sobbing. Lots of sobbing. “They made me clean up the blood.”

  I feel like I’m about to lose my steel-cut oatmeal breakfast right here on the floor.

  “Your daughters will be safe,” Merrick says. “I’ll make sure of it. No one will ever touch them. Go home, get your family, and go to this address. You wait there until you hear from me.”