MY PEN IS HUGE

by Mimi Jean Pamfiloff

I don’t even know what to say. I was raised by my parents, both lawyers, to respect the law, but can I tell you? Can we discuss the number of times I sat at the dinner table, listening to them agonize over how one client or another was screwed over? The irony is that they both do criminal defense, and as many times as I’ve asked them how they handle knowing that some people, who are guilty of pretty ugly shit, get off scot-free, they’ve never wavered from their answer. “How do you put a value on freeing an innocent person? How many bad guys would you let go just to save the one person who deserves it?”

  I get what they’re saying: There is no perfect legal system. There is no perfect answer. Each choice comes with good and bad. We live with the risk of a certain percentage of bad guys going free so that we can give a better chance to the innocent. But we’re not even talking about that. Senator Ripley used his power to kill women and circumvent the system entirely. He would have killed the janitor and his family.

  I inhale deeply and let go. This is more than I signed up for, but I don’t think I can walk away. No. I want to know more about Merrick and whatever he’s involved with. Curiosity might have killed the cat, but it fuels this girl.

  My cell rings, and I dig it out of my bag. I don’t recognize the number. “Hello?”

  “How are you?” says a deep, smooth voice.

  “Merrick.” My heart does a flick. Not a wave. Just a flick. “Where are you?”

  “I prefer not to have honest conversations over such unreliable devices.”

  He thinks people are listening? I swivel my head, suddenly feeling paranoid.

  He continues, “But I’m sorry for disappearing on you today. Had to take care of some urgent business.”

  Yeah, I bet. Like getting someone killed and creating a very convenient alibi? I want to ask how he arranged it all, but I know he won’t answer.

  He adds, “We’ll have to catch up on the lesson plan when I return.” His voice sounds almost like he’s trying to tempt me or flirt or something provocative. Maybe I’m misreading him. He did throw me off him when I kissed him.

  “When will that be?” I ask.

  “There’s a coffee shop around the corner from your flat. See you there at ten tonight. Oh, and I like your outfit today. Navy blue suits you. Cheers.” The call ends.

  He’s watching me now? “Hello?” I look at my phone and then out the window. If he’s watching, I don’t see him.

  Well, he’s crazy if he thinks I’m going to that funky-ass coffee shop so late. Camila and I call it the Double M—meth and mollies. It didn’t used to be that way, but the last few months, it’s like the neighborhood has turned into a haven for drugs and crime. That includes the twenty-four-hour laundromat next door, though the shady cowboy bar across the street—the Hoof N’ Brew Two—has always been shady.

  I start my engine and back out, my gaze shifting in every direction. I feel his eyes on me, and dear Jesus, my stomach does another flick. I know Leland Merrick is a dangerous man. Or, more accurately stated, he’s involved in dangerous things.

  Yes, I still want in.

  “Whattaya mean I can’t come?” Wearing a pink fuzzy bathrobe, Camila stands in our efficient but miniature kitchen, holding a diet soda.

  “It’s a business meeting. And you shouldn’t drink that brand. Their employees were caught last month punching calves at their milk facility.” It was ugly. I wonder if Merrick’s accident policy applies to animal abusers.

  No. Stop. You can’t start thinking that way. Even knowing the cruel and awful things that senator did, Merrick’s decision doesn’t feel right. What bothers me most is that there were all these people protecting this murderer. I mean, aren’t they just as guilty? Shouldn’t they go to jail? On the other hand, I’m grateful that a psycho woman-beater was stopped before he did it again. What if that had been me? Or my mother? Or my dirty-mouthed roommate, Camila?

  “I bought this soda before that story broke,” she says, “and I also happen to be broke. So until my next paycheck, I’m going to drink what I’ve got.” Camila takes a sip, looks at the can, and then tosses it into the sink. “Damn you, Gisselle. Now it just tastes like baby cow tears.” She marches away.

  “Sorry! I just thought you should know.”

  “Fuck off. And bring me back something illegal from the Double M. On second thought, never mind. You’ll just ruin it with some weird, sad story of the drugs traveling up some baby animal’s butt.” She slams the door.

  I know she’s just messing around, but a part of her also wishes I wouldn’t always be so in her face. Sometimes people want to shut it all out and be allowed to pretend we live in a perfect world.

  Honestly, I feel the same way every once in a while. Today especially.

  CHAPTER SIX

  I’m wearing faded jeans, a cropped white turtleneck, and black boots when I enter the “Double M” Café, still surprised that Merrick wants to meet here. Most bosses don’t call meetings this late, and no one does any legit business at the place. Maybe that’s the point.

  My eyes scan the room, and in the far corner, sitting at a table with a neglected fern, is Merrick. His back is to the wall, and he’s wearing an almost identical outfit to mine. White sweater. Jeans. Black shoes. A newspaper is propped up in his hands, hiding part of his gorgeous face, but I’d recognize that dark silky hair and cocky posture anywhere.

  I walk up, and before I say a word, he greets me. “Hello, love. Why don’t you order yourself a drink? Their Earl Grey is proper, but if it’s too late for caffeine, might I suggest a molly? Or some meth? To go, of course, for your horny roommate.”

  My jaw drops, and he lowers his paper to reveal a mischievous grin.

  “Sonofa… Did you bug my apartment?”

  He neatly folds his paper and sets it on the table. “I needed to be sure I could trust you, Gisselle.”

  “That’s an invasion of privacy.” Oh crap, what else did I say during that conversation? My mind scrambles. I may have mentioned he’s hot, but also that sleeping with one’s boss is a big no-no. We talked about Ryan dumping me and his #makeoutstagram, too. Oh, the humiliation.

  Merrick glances down at the seat across the table, indicating I should sit. I do, but only because I’m peeved.

  “Where do you get off listening in on my private discussions?” I hiss.

  He leans forward, smiling. It doesn’t touch his eyes. “Since you know I had someone killed,” he whispers. “Also, keep in mind I could have kept on listening. I don’t have to disclose that you can find the device on the second bookshelf behind that very educational yoga book.”

  “You’re supposed to be a journalist. Not a voyeur or a vigilante.”

  “I shine a light on the truth.”

  He’s quoting me from that private conversation I had with Camila. “Those are my words. You’re not allowed to use them.” I point a finger at him.

  “But they’re honest.” He holds out his hands. “And isn’t that what journalism is really about?”

  I lean into the table and whisper, “We both know you’re not just a journalist. So please tell me what I’ve gotten myself into.”

  “I am a journalist, I assure you. I merely happen to have friends in high places who ask for assistance in publishing the occasional story that may or may not grease the wheels of justice. In return, they feed me leads that result in some fairly spectacular stories.”

  “I think you’re playing this down.” I lower my voice again. “The janitor thing was way more than just some information swapping.”

  “That was an extenuating circumstance. I don’t normally run around,” he lowers his voice, too, “looking for serial killers and calling in those types of favors.” He leans back, all cockiness. “Sorry to disappoint you, love, but there is no glamorous movie plot at play. No spy novel in the making. It’s just me, the truth, and the occasional rubbish collection.”

  I’m not buying it. There has to be more to this. “So why did Augusto force you to hire me?”

  “Augusto
Kemmler and I are old friends. He worries—thought having an intern would keep me reined in.”

  “Bullcrap.”

  “It’s the truth.” He smiles innocently.

  I shake my head. “You’re hopeless. Also, may I remind you that you promised you’d be honest with me. No secrets.”

  He scoffs. “I distinctly recall telling you that you are not in a position to make demands.”

  I stare with an unwavering commitment to make his life a living hell if he doesn’t throw me a bone.

  “All right,” he says, “Augusto has been after me to get to the bottom of a matter pertaining to his family’s business. He thought you might be useful in gathering information—says you’re good with research and that sort of boring crap.”

  That’s why Augusto chose me? I don’t know whether to be flattered or peeved because they both lied. “So why not just say so?”

  “Because I don’t like the idea of dragging a stranger into a situation I’m unfamiliar with. Especially someone who’s a…inexperienced.”

  “You were going to say ‘a woman,’ weren’t you?”

  He stares unblinkingly but doesn’t answer.

  “Unfuckingbelievable.” I look away at the nearly empty café. There’s a woman by the window reading and the barista. That’s it. It’s unusual to see so few people here; it used to be so busy before the crime outbreak in our neighborhood.

  “Perhaps I was going to say nerdy or uptight. You don’t know.”

  I snap my head in his direction, push my thick glasses up my nose, and offer him my most blistering glare. “I’m not nerdy. I’m studious.”

  “So you admit you’re uptight?”

  “I’m not uptight either!” I threw myself at him yesterday—albeit by accident—but that hug was the action of a passionate woman. “You, on the other hand, are a chauvinist, and the whole growing up in some patriarchal tribal community thing is not an excuse. That was, what, fifteen years ago?”

  His dark eyes twinkle with smug satisfaction, and his two perma-dimples pucker into full-blown adorable smile divots.

  “What?” I snap.

  He wiggles his brows. “You were reading up on me. Who’s the spy now?”

  “Stop congratulating yourself. I wanted to find out how you always manage to get all these incredible stories.”

  His smile turns into a shit-eating grin. “You’re a fan,” he singsongs teasingly. “You’re a fan. You think I’m awesome—”

  “I think I want to punch you in the nose.” But of course, I have to fight to keep my traitorous mouth from betraying me. It’s impossible to look at this man, as well-connected and fearless as he might be, and not want to laugh when he’s flashing such a genuine smile. So unlike his oh-love-this and oh-love-that little act. “Don’t change the subject. You think a woman can’t do your job?”

  “I never said that.” He folds his muscled arms over his chest. “After all, I agreed with Augusto to bring you in on this investigation if you passed my vetting.”

  “How come it sounds like you don’t want to work with me after this?”

  His smile melts into an unreadable expression. “Sorry, love. I work alone. And since you’re a superfan who’s read the tell-all, that can’t be a surprise.”

  He just zapped away the levity of the moment. My only other job offer—which I turned down—was from one of those local travel magazines, and I need money to pay my bills. My parents don’t believe in handouts. They even went as far as filing the paperwork with the university stating I was a fully emancipated human being who received no financial support from them. They stopped claiming me on their tax returns and everything, all so I could pay my own way through school, something they both had to do twenty-something years ago.

  I can’t really argue with working for the things I want, but it would have been nice to get some help from them besides buying the pickup truck off the neighbors when I was sixteen. My hunk of junk has over a hundred thousand miles, and the transmission is on its last leg. Car repairs cost money, and I have none. I’ve struggled every step of the way, working on campus at the cafeteria and bookstore while carrying a full course load. In short, I could use a nice-paying, steady job. Of course, that wouldn’t come with the résumé-building bragging rights I can get from working with Merrick.

  “Do I get a writing credit next to your name?” Because that could make this all worth it. Maybe. I still have to sort through the whole morality piece of this.

  “If there’s a usable story and you contribute to it, then yes.”

  I give it some thought. “So what’s Augusto asking you to look into?” More importantly, why would these two need me to do the research?

  Merrick toggles his head and takes a sip of his tea. “I would rather not say until I’m convinced you’re the right man—excuse me—woman for the job. It’s the sort of story that will make you a lot of enemies.”

  Yikes. “The kind who will post spiteful memes or the kind who will call on their own accident squad for favors?”

  “Both.”

  I worry my bottom lip. “But if or when the story comes out, will it change the world for the better?”

  He cocks his head to one side, studying me. It makes me feel uncomfortable, but in an exciting way. There’s something about having a man like him look at you like that.

  “You are a very interesting woman, Gisselle Walters.”

  “Just answer my question,” I prod.

  “Yes,” he says bluntly. “It is the sort of story that will change many lives.”

  “For the better?” I ask.

  “That depends on which side you’re on.”

  “I think you know which side that is.”

  He leans in and plants his elbows on the table, spearing me with his intense brown eyes. “Gisselle, love, if you want to do this for a living, you’re going to have to accept that black and white don’t exist. You might write your stories that way, but your conscience needs to make peace with gray. Always gray.”

  Well, I see a world of colors, and I want to fill it with as many happy, beautiful, vibrant colors as possible. But this isn’t about me. I’m here to learn, and he’s just pulled back the curtain and given me a tiny peek.

  “So it sounds like you’re never one hundred percent sure that you’re making the right choices. How does that make you feel?” I ask.

  “My God, Miss Walters, are you trying to interview me?”

  How can I not? “I’m trying to understand you. I mean, if career-wise this is the path I’m going down, I want to know if I’m going to sleep at night. I understand if you can’t talk details related to a particular story, but at least tell me what all of this,” I wave my hand over him, “crap you’ve put yourself through means personally. Do you lie awake at night, rehashing every mistake, wondering how you’ll live with yourself, or do you feel like when you meet your maker, your chin will be high?” His sexy dimpled chin.

  He stares intently, and I’m expecting him to whip out some plucky one-liner.

  “When my time comes, I will have no regrets,” he says with sincerity.

  “How about right now? Any regrets?”

  His strong jaw pulses. He’s thinking hard about this one, and I appreciate that.

  “No,” he finally says.

  “How come I don’t believe you?”

  “Then there’s the door. No one’s forcing you to be here.”

  True, I could leave, but I signed up to learn from him. “I just want you to promise you’ll tell me absolutely everything. No secrets. You might be able to sleep at night, but I’m not so sure I will, and I want to choose what haunts my nightmares.”

  “I’ll give it some thought, Miss Walters.”

  I suppose I can live with that for the moment. “I’m Miss Walters now, am I?”

  He lifts his cup of tea. “I’d say you’ve earned some respect, love.”

  Love. “You couldn’t help yourself, could you?”

  “Nope.” He sets down his cup. “
Now, if we’re all done chatting about business, I think it’s time for a proper drink.”

  “You mean like a cocktail?” I question.

  “The pub across the way doesn’t serve those, but I’m fancying some whisky.”

  I cock one brow. Mr. White Sweater wants to hit the shitkicker bar across the street?

  “Sure. Why not?”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  I’m not going to lie. I would never go inside a bar like this if I were alone. I know, I know. That implies certain things about Leland Merrick, such as, maybe I feel safe with him? Or perhaps his boldness is rubbing off on me.

  All right! Fine! A teeny tiny part of me wants to see what happens when he walks through that creaky wooden door, dressed like a model from the manly-man edition of the J.Crew catalogue. I’m mean, the guy has on a cashmere sweater. He’s wearing jeans without holes. Don’t get me wrong, though; it’s not like he has “please fuck with me” stamped on his forehead, and I’ve seen his intense side. But he’s kinda sorta askin’ for it by going in there.

  “You sure about this?” I ask.

  A pickup truck without a muffler rolls into the parking lot filled with bikes and beaters.

  “What’s the problem? You too uptight to hang out with the riffraff, love?” He reaches for the door’s handle.

  I narrow my eyes. “I’m not uptight. I’m honest. Places like these are where blue-collar guys go to blow off steam.”

  He eyes me judgmentally.

  “What?” I snap.

  He releases the door handle. “You want to be a journalist, Gisselle, then you have to learn how to rub elbows and make friends with people from all walks of life.” He leans in close. “Or you can go home right now and admit that you’re not cut out for this sort of work. A man’s work.”

  Oh, now he’s egging me on. “I was just worried for your sweater.” I reach for the door, jerk it open, and step inside.

  Yep. It looks just as disgusting as I imagined. Dark, dirty, and smoky, despite it being against the law to smoke in public establishments. The wooden floors are scuffed and worn. The tables, all black Formica-type stuff, are chipped. The brown chairs are old, with cracks in the vinyl cushions. Mirror-style pictures of beers and bulls and whatever else they found at the junkyard are mounted to the black walls, and the bar itself looks like it has ten layers of goo stuck on the counter.