Is Merrick sending the guy to a safe house? Why does a journalist even have a safe house?
“What happens next?” Carl asks, his voice trembling.
“You let me worry about that,” Merrick replies.
“You know he’ll come after us. He’s too powerful.” Carl sounds like he’s about to lose it.
“And powerful people have accidents all the time.”
What.
The.
Fuck.
No, seriously. What the big fat fuck does he mean by that? Of course, it can only mean one thing: That senator is going to die. I don’t think Merrick was being cute or speaking figuratively.
I step back from the door, way, waaay back, and try to stay calm. What have I gotten myself into? My brain feels like it’s spinning around the room, orbiting my body.
Mental inventory time:
Professor Augusto picked me. Me. Someone he knows doesn’t follow the herd.
Leland’s reaction when Professor Augusto told him I was his new employee. Like a boss laying down the law?
Leland’s weird behavior all morning, insisting on coming into my apartment. Intrusive. Validating I’m legit?
The mismatch between Leland’s refined exterior and this behavior. A costume.
Bringing me here to listen to this janitor’s story. A test. Or a mistake? Merrick wasn’t expecting this to be Carl’s conversation topic.
Finally, there’s Merrick’s journalistic accomplishments. A man who jumps into the middle of war zones, political uprisings, natural disasters, and tribal genocide wars, where women and children are being slaughtered by soldiers with machetes—a Pulitzer-winning story that launched not only his career, but also resulted in a series of international interventions that saved hundreds of thousands of innocent lives. Merrick’s career is jam-packed with examples of stories that shifted the political winds in dozens of countries.
So what the hell is going on? Because Leland Merrick sure as hell didn’t tell that Carl guy he was going to write a story and expose that Senator Brownie Clown. At the same time, I can’t bring myself to believe he means what I think.
Of course he didn’t! I’m being silly, letting my imagination run loose. “Accident” clearly means he’s sending some dudes to rough the senator up—maybe break a pinky or two?—and tell the guy to leave Carl alone. Merrick will probably threaten to expose the story if anything happens to that man or his family.
A few moments later, Merrick comes out. That intense look is still in his eyes, which triggers my apprehension, urging me not to jump right into demanding answers.
“Let’s go.” Merrick swoops past me like a man on a mission. Suddenly, I notice how his nice suit doesn’t suit him at all. Leland Merrick has a badass vibe. Wolf in sheep’s clothing.
We stop at the elevator, and he avoids making eye contact. Meanwhile, my gears are grinding away, trying to figure out how his people-puzzle pieces fit together. Piece number one, what did he really mean back there?
The elevator arrives, and we step inside.
“So, an accident, huh?” I blurt out before I’ve decided if it’s a good idea to say anything.
He shakes his head of perfectly combed dark hair. “I should’ve known you’d listen in. And be careful what you say.” He points up to the camera.
“Well, I did listen, and now I want answers.”
He pokes the button for the first floor. “You’re fresh out of school, and this is not the kind of thing you need to get mixed up with.”
“Too late. What kind of accident are we talking about, and who’s going to cause it?” I ask. “You?”
His head slowly turns in my direction. “The kind of people,” he says through gritted teeth, “who are good at accidents, among many other distasteful things. You still want to work for me, little intern?”
Make no mistake, I want to kick him hard for the “little intern” comment, but there is no way in hell I could ever walk away from something like this. Not that I understand what I just signed up for or why I suddenly feel tingles just from standing next to him.
I face Merrick. “I still want to work for you, but my loyalty and silence come with a price: I want to know everything. No secrets.”
“You don’t truly believe you’re in a position to make demands, do you? This isn’t a game, Miss Walters. If you work for me, the dangers are real.”
“I’m gathering that.”
He scowls at me.
“What?” I ask.
“You sound much too enthusiastic, which means you don’t get it.” He makes a tiny grunt. “This was a bad idea.”
“You’re right. I don’t get it. Because if what you’re involved in is so dangerous, then why hire an assistant?”
“Intern. And I was going to assess you first—your disposition, how you handle stress, your trustworthiness. I never intended to have you jump right into…” His voice trails off, and I’m leaning in, hanging on every word.
“Yes?” I push. “Jump into what?”
“You ask too many questions.” He grumbles something unintelligible under his breath, and the doors slide open. I follow behind him, but instead of heading straight for the lobby, he takes a left and goes down a hallway leading to some of the rooms.
“I just want to know one thing: why not write a story and expose this predator for who he is,” I whisper, “instead of this other plan?” Having someone beat up is just poking the bear.
Merrick stops and pulls me aside, into a small corner by a door leading to a stairwell.
“If I did, then that story won’t ever see the light of day, and Carl’s family will pay the price. Trust me, I’ve been to this rodeo. It doesn’t end well.”
I cannot articulate how or why, but hearing Leland Merrick talk with that smooth accent and say things like “I’ve been to this rodeo” is giving me new tingles, and they’re not in a place that’s appropriate. Or professional.
“Okay, I get that senator is powerful, but—”
“Gisselle, that woman from last night is not the first he’s killed, and the last person who tried to expose him ended up in their car on the bottom of a lake.” Merrick gives me a hard look, as if to say, Wake up and listen.
“Someone tried to stop him before?” I gasp. “Who was he?”
“She was a friend. That was almost two years ago. Carl has been keeping an eye out for me ever since. The senator frequents this hotel for his kinky little escapades. But I never intended for Carl to get involved directly.”
So that’s why Merrick is being careful about doing a story. He’s already lost one person to this psychopath senator, but this is bigger than that. What about all of the people who’ve helped cover up these murders? “I’m so sorry about your friend. I just think we should—”
“Journalists can’t afford to be sorry. We tell the truth. Objectively. No emotion, just the facts.”
“Only you just said you’re not going to tell this story. And stop interrupting me.”
“The clock is ticking for Carl, and I don’t have time to debate a stranger. This senator is an animal. He needs to be put down.”
Whoa. Whoa… Stop the presses. “So you really do mean—” I slide my finder across my throat.
“Do you prefer that Carl watch his little girls be defiled and murdered? Because I guarantee you that will be the outcome. This guy doesn’t fuck around.”
“Well, no, but…” I don’t know how I feel about vigilante justice. If what Merrick says is true—that this senator is a bad, bad man and Carl’s family is in danger if a word of this story gets out—then what choice is there? It’s a lot to take in.
“Gisselle, you don’t know me, but I’m asking for your trust. I cannot allow that man and his family to die. I have an obligation to him above any laws or even my own career. I have to protect the people who work for me.”
Remember when I said how excited I get about telling people’s stories? Well, I’m practically peeing myself. This man intrigues the hell out of m
e. He’s dangerous, dedicated, and a rule breaker. He’s like Clark Kent meets Daredevil. Also, he’s not so hard on the eyes. I wish I could do a story about him. Of course, I’ll have to settle for just satisfying my own curiosity. What makes him tick? How did he get involved with the “accident makers”? I want to know everything, including what compelled him to be the sort of man who fears nothing. Leland Merrick is not what I expected. He is so much more.
“I’m so excited to work with you!” I don’t know what possesses me, maybe the shock or the excitement and the thrill, but I throw my arms around his neck. I intend it to just be a thank-you hug, which is horribly awkward all on its own, but I startle him, and he turns his head right as I’m going in. My mouth accidentally—or maybe purposely? I don’t know—lands right on his. Whatever the reason for my rash decision, I can’t seem to pull my lips away. His mouth is warm and soft.
He pushes me away. “What are you doing?”
The embarrassment hits me like a kick to the muff. I can’t believe I just did that. I have never, ever thrown myself at anyone, let alone my new, highly dangerous boss. Who also collects pens.
Merrick steps back a few feet. “You’re smart, Gisselle. I’m sure you’ve figured out from this conversation that I’m not the sort of man to break promises. I gave Augusto my word to keep it professional.”
Oh god. I’m so, sooo humiliated. “I don’t know why I did that. I swear I was just going to hug you and…” Violate your mouth with my tongue? But just a little? “God, I’m a monster.”
Like a switch is flipped, Leland Merrick puts on a charming smile and straightens his tie. “No worries, love. I have that effect on women. But you and I, we can’t happen.” He heads for the exit.
CHAPTER FOUR
“There you are! I thought we were going to the poetry slam at the Cat’s Meow to celebrate your first day.” Camila, my roomie, is sitting on our red couch with her legs stretched out on our crappy old coffee table, a book in her hand.
I shut the front door, drop my satchel, and go over to the couch, where I plop down. “Oh my God.” I throw my head back and cover my face.
“Uh-oh. Not a good first day?”
“The worst.” And the best. I never dreamed when I was signing up to work for the Leland Merrick, that I was signing up for this. Danger. Real stakes. World-shaping stuff. I just wish I really had all the facts. Does he moonlight for the CIA? Interpol? MI6? Or is it 5? I think it’s 6…international spy.
“Hey, what happened to the outfit you had on?” Camila asks.
I tell her how my day began, including all the details about Merrick and his friend’s penis-pen comparison, the trip here, and the awkward everything after, excluding the “accident.”
“Wait. Your new boss came here?” She scoots to the edge of the sofa.
“It was on the way to the hotel, and I had lipstick all over the front of my white skirt.”
“Ohmygod. I would have died.”
“Yeah, well, I think I wanted to do just that, since I did a face-plant exiting his car, too.” I yank off my boots and peel away my socks.
She shakes her head. “That sounds awful. And I can’t believe your new boss came to our shithole of a hovel. So weird.”
“Weird doesn’t begin to describe this guy. It’s like he doesn’t fit any molds, and he doesn’t seem to care.” He can also have people killed, apparently.
“Oh, I love a good rebel. Does he have any facial piercings? Does he ride with a biker gang?”
“No. He’s…” How to describe him? “Well, he’s British, really good looking, and dresses like he’s a character from some spy movie.”
“So kind of suave and sophisticated like 007?” she asks.
“Not exactly.” I shake my head. “His build is bigger, like he works out but doesn’t go for the juiced look.” No, he doesn’t fall into the beefcake-steroid category at all.
“So, like Momoa?”
“Not that burly. Imagine if Mr. Darcy worked out.” And was into danger. Damn, I wish I could tell her the other part to this story. It’s too freaking insane. I bet she wouldn’t believe me. Not sure I believe it myself.
Camila nods in contemplation. “So let me get this straight. Your new boss, the infamous Leland Merrick, who’s your journalistic inspiration, dresses like James Bond, talks like Mr. Darcy—the Colin Firth version, of course, because there is no other option—and he has a body like a leaner Jason Momoa. Did I get that right?” She gives me a look.
“I know what you’re thinking.”
“That I want his number so I can fuck the shit out of him? Then yes.”
“Camila!” I swat her leg.
“What? He sounds hot to me. And aren’t you always complaining about how all the decent guys are all so worried about being ‘me-tooed’ that they won’t even offer a tissue without asking for a consent form?”
It’s true. All the good guys are so nervous about offending us that it’s killed the art of spontaneous romance. I mean, come on. I’m perfectly capable of saying “no, thanks” or “I’m not interested” if a guy leans in for a kiss because he’s read the signals wrong. And it’s not the nice guys, who get the whole consent thing, we’re all worried about. It’s the non-nice guys, who never have and never will ask for consent, who scare us.
Dating is so fucked up. The good ones are petrified, and the evil ones are still just…evil. I want a good bad boy. Respectful, but dirty in bed. Dominating, but not rapey. Considerate, but not castrated. Masculine, but not toxic.
“There has to be balance,” I say. “And he’s my boss.” Which makes it more confusing that I accidentally kissed him.
“Doesn’t mean you can’t fuck the guy.”
My mouth falls open. “What’s wrong with you? I want to be a journalist so I can shine a light on the truth, not get my lady-jollies.” I know she loves playing devil’s advocate, but sometimes I wonder if she’s being serious.
“I’m sorry, Gisselle, but since when did being a strong woman mean that we can’t feel attracted to attractive men? I mean, isn’t that what equality is all about? We choose? Rich, poor. Powerful, powerless. Old, pool boy?”
“Sleeping with your boss is always a bad choice.” And I never even thought about going there. I kissed him by accident. Spur of the moment fueled by my nerves and excitement. “Also, he’s not my type, and I’m still with Ryan.”
Camila’s provoking little smile melts away.
“What?” I ask.
She squirms on the couch.
Fuck. It must be bad. Camila is not a squirmer. “Spit it out.”
“You know how I’m friends with Barry, the douche?”
“No. Not really.” Barry is one of Ryan’s idiot friends, currently traveling with him in Poland.
“Barry followed me on IG, so I followed him back to be polite. You know, me being a good friend to you and all? Well, @Bboydonkeydick posted a video of Ryan making out with a blonde chick last night.”
“Oh.” My heart sinks. “I guess I knew this would happen.” Why else would Ryan ask for a break while he’s traveling? If he intended to be faithful, he would have said, Hey, I’m laminating my dick while I’m gone. In fact, just take the thing. I can pee sitting down and won’t be humping anyone while we’re apart. I don’t know why I lied to myself.
“I’m so sorry, Gisselle.” Camila gives my hand a consoling squeeze.
“It’s okay.” Because right now, while I’m feeling the sting of Ryan hooking up with another woman, I’m also feeling the sting of guilt. I kissed my boss. And I liked it.
No. Do not think about it. It was an accident. Never happened.
But it did, I argue with myself. And you enjoyed it up until the point he rejected your ass. Sadly, as I sit here with Camila, unable to say a word about the rest of the story or allow myself to fantasize about Leland Merrick, I’m realizing I’m in over my head.
He’s triggered something inside me, and I’m not sure I’ll be able to put it back in the box.
The next morning, I arrive at Merrick’s office, and just like yesterday, nobody answers. Only this time the window is closed, and no one is fighting. The woman in blue doesn’t show up even after I wait twenty minutes.
I go around to the back of the house and see his parking spot is empty. Where is he? I’d panic, but I’m sure Leland Merrick isn’t the sort of man who needs me worrying about him. Still, on a hunch, I open the browser on my phone and search “Leland Merrick” in the news section.
Whoa. What? I get twenty hits from various news outlets: Sex-Trafficking Ring in Boston Exposed.
I quickly skim the first article, which says Leland Merrick went undercover, posing as a wealthy businessman. He personally ordered three sex slaves from the Ukraine and videotaped all four transactions with the ring’s leaders.
When did he have time to fly to Boston for this? Merrick dropped me off at his office around noon yesterday so I could retrieve my truck. I then stopped at Cold Stone Creamery to eat my feelings, and picked up some new work clothes at Marshalls’ clearance rack before coming home. The article says he had a meeting with these men around eight last night, East Coast time. The FBI, in coordination with local police, were there to arrest the men and place the women in protective custody.
I suppose he could’ve run to the airport and taken a four-hour flight, but something smells fishy. I skim the other online newspapers, looking for more details. While I’m searching, I see the second big headline for the day. Senator Ripley Dead at 68.
Oh fuck. Senator Ripley is Brownie Clown? Still standing on the sidewalk in front of Merrick’s office, I look over my shoulder. Don’t know why. I suppose I don’t want anyone seeing me having an utter freak-out.
I calmly go to my red truck and slide behind the steering wheel. I continue reading: Drowned in pool. Cause is a heart attack. I cover my mouth. The senator was an outspoken advocate for women’s rights and for increasing punishments for domestic abuse. “My ass.”
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