MY PEN IS HUGE

by Mimi Jean Pamfiloff

  Poor Jed doesn’t stand a chance.

  “So, guys,” I say to them, “I’m gonna take off. Got some packing to do.”

  Camila gives me the nod. “Catch up in a few.”

  “Thanks again for everything,” Jed says. He and the other business owners already thanked me twenty times.

  “My pleasure. Keep me posted on any news.” I wave and head for our apartment on foot, feeling a sense of accomplishment tinged with defeat. While I did manage to get the story into the local papers and help a lot of people, I didn’t manage to get paid much for it. Just a hundred dollars.

  I’m broke and moving back to Houston to stay with my parents while I try to find steady work. I hated breaking the news to Camila, but with my encouragement, she just took an amazing job offer to work for a friend in Oregon at some fancy-dancy winery. I’m so happy for her, but it’s hard to accept that this chapter of my life is ending so abruptly. Going forward, I’m on my own. Not that my parents aren’t giving me a place to park, but if I really want to carve out a piece of this world, I’ve got to go where the story takes me and where I can make the biggest impact. The thing is, I need to build my credibility with something big that will put my name on the map. Working for Merrick was supposed to solve that problem.

  I wonder if he saw my article. I bet he’s irritated that I took the story right out from under his nose. Not that he wanted it, but maybe after he saw what a positive impact it had, he regretted not doing it.

  “Ha!” I snort. Yeah, right. His ego doesn’t allow him to have regrets because it’s too busy telling him how awesome he and his huge pen are.

  My mind quickly produces a naked image of Merrick, and it isn’t a pen hanging low between his thighs.

  Wait. Why am I thinking about his penis? What I should be focusing on is my next big story. Something that will reach national headlines. Something that people will be talking about for months.

  As I get to my apartment door, key in hand, the idea hits. Oh, that’ll really piss off Merrick. I bite my lower lip. It’s risky, but if I do it right, I’ll kill two birds with one stone: I could right a wrong and get my first big story.

  I go into my apartment and get to work. Step one: find Carl the janitor’s last name.

  Leland

  Sitting behind my desk, I drop the morning paper and stare at the wall full of gleaming awards in front of me. Not that I’m really looking at them. I can’t bloody believe she did this.

  It was one thing when she wrote that article last week about Jed, but this is different. The little minx thinks she can just skip right in, licking her lolly, and play in my sandbox? She has no idea what she’s getting herself into.

  “Stephanie! Get in here!”

  Stephanie’s brown bob pops through the open doorway. Today she has on a black pantsuit and rain boots with yellow duckies though it’s merely sprinkling outside. I know she does this sort of stuff to fuck with me. I have a strict dress code in our office: dress like you’re going to your funeral. Because one just never knows in this line of work. Also, I happen to enjoy a nice suit. Sets the tone when you’re out trying not to look like you have dark secrets.

  “Yes, Leland?”

  “No more ducky boots. That’s the last warning. And have you seen this?” I point to the front page of the paper. Not a paper. The paper. New York. Globally read.

  “Fine. Hello Kitty boots next time. And yeah, I saw it.”

  I give her a stern warning with my eyes. She might be the Alfred to my Batman—because even a lone wolf needs help with paperwork—but I’m still the boss. Don’t push me. Not today, woman. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  She points at the paper. “I left that on your desk. Is the written word no longer a form of acceptable communication?”

  I growl. “How long do you think it’s going to take for people to figure out that Senator Ripley didn’t keel over of a heart attack?” The article only speaks of his murders and of the people who tried to cover it all up. I suppose I should be grateful that Gisselle didn’t drag Ripley’s cause of death into the mix, but she might as well have. The worst part is who corroborated her story.

  “For our sake, Leland, I hope never,” Stephanie says.

  “Get Carl on the phone.” I groan with trepidation.

  Stephanie gives a nod and leaves. Moments later, the phone on my desk rings. I snatch up the handpiece. “Carl, how’s it goin’, mate?” I say with a chipper tone.

  “Leland, wondered when you’d call.”

  “Yeah, well, seems we need to have a chat about sticking to plans.”

  “Look. Bottom line? I couldn’t live in a safe house with my wife and two girls forever.”

  “It was a temporary arrangement.”

  “You didn’t return my calls,” he complains.

  “I was busy, Carl, trying to ensure this whole issue went away quietly.” Things like that take time.

  “I didn’t want quiet. I wanted justice. My family’s life was threatened. A few days later, the asshole senator ends up—”

  “Careful now,” I warn. “Eyes and ears, mate. Eyes and ears.” Anyone could be listening.

  “Whatever, Merrick. You promised you’d take care of everything.”

  “You and your family are alive.” What else matters?

  “Well, now we’re alive, justice is being served, and we’re free.”

  No. They’re not. “What did Gisselle tell you?” I ask, my voice restrained.

  “That if I told my story, Senator Ripley wouldn’t get to be remembered as a hero, and everyone involved in covering up those poor women’s deaths would go to jail.”

  “Did she also mention that these are not the kind of people you want to piss off, Carl? They’ll get to you before you testify.”

  “I’ve already submitted my videotaped sworn testimony to a grand jury. Those assholes can do anything they want, but it won’t save them or change a thing. Just like Gisselle said, they’re screwed. The only option they’ve got left is to run.”

  Fucking hell! It’s not that simple. If it were, I would have exposed this Ripley situation myself. Testimonies can be challenged, especially the recorded type. The defense might claim Carl was coerced, bribed, looking for fame. If any of the dozens of people involved go to trial, he’ll be required to testify in person. The right to face your accusers and all. We could be talking multiple trials spanning years, involving police and other individuals who were able to cover up the late senator’s crimes. Carl and his family will not be safe.

  “Please, Carl,” I say, “Gisselle doesn’t know what she’s talking about. Just take your family and run. Get as much cash as you can. Throw away your cell phones. Call me in a week from a burner. But don’t stop moving. You. Are. In Trouble.”

  “We’re fine. But thanks for the concern, Leland.”

  “Mate, seriously?”

  “All you’ve ever cared about is collecting people who bring you stories. She cares about the truth.”

  The call ends.

  Bloody hell. I think it’s time I pay this little diva a visit and set her straight. Lives are on the line. Mine included. But somehow, I can’t help feeling like I’m the one who’s made a mistake. I’ve underestimated her. You’ve unleashed her on the world when you should’ve bloody well kept her close.

  CHAPTER TEN

  When I arrive at Gisselle’s apartment, it’s apparent she no longer lives here. The curtains are off the windows, and there’s an unplugged steam cleaner sitting on the carpet.

  Where did she go? I should never have told her about the bug in her bookshelf, especially because I thoroughly enjoyed listening in on the conversations. Camila is a riot—a very dirty mouth—but Gisselle is…well, she intrigues me. It’s as though she’s made of some strange alien material that absorbs the light around her, which she radiates back. An irritating overly spunky ball of sunshine. Quite sexy, though. I almost had to stab myself with my pen to keep from getting aroused that first morning when she changed into her s
nug black jeans. How’s a man supposed to concentrate with an ass that round being flaunted in his face?

  Good thing I can’t stand her. I place my hand on my waist and swivel on my heel, trying to think. Due to the sensitive nature of the topic, I need to discuss this in person.

  I return to my car and slide my mobile from my pocket. It rings three times before I hear that sweet, sassy voice I enjoy way more than I should.

  “Well, if it isn’t Mr. Big Pen. How ya been, Merrick?”

  “I would be supremely better, love, if you told me you’re in Austin so we can have a quick face-to-face chat.”

  “Sorry to disappoint you. I’m in Houston. Had to give up my apartment since I turned down a solid-paying job in exchange for working for a massive knob who fired me after a day.”

  Massive knob is right, though… “I didn’t fire you. You simply didn’t pass the trial period.”

  “You grabbed my ass,” she snarls.

  Yes. I did and it was lovely. No regrets. “You forced yourself on me at the hotel. Had to peel you off like a wet shirt.” A very, very nice-smelling wet shirt that I later jerked off to. Had to relieve the pressure after having those nice plump tits pushed against my chest.

  “Ohmygod,” she huffs, “I said I was sorry. It was a mistake, and I hardly think that’s the same thing, since you were my boss.”

  “So you’re not a what’s-good-for-the-goose sort of gal, then? Us ganders must submit to your feathery advances in silence without the opportunity for reciprocation? I hardly call that equality.” I’m not serious, but who does she think she’s fooling with her awkward-little-nerd act? Anyone with eyes can see that she’s a bold, insanely attractive woman, and I bet she uses it to her advantage. Case in point: Augusto wouldn’t stop babbling about her. “Gisselle is smart. Gisselle is the brightest student I’ve had in over a decade.” Gisselle, Gisselle, Gisselle.

  “I don’t even know how to respond to that,” she says.

  “You could start by cutting out the victim game,” I say.

  “Wha—you treated me like a child! Wait, no. Like a child’s toy. Do you have any idea what that does to a person just starting her career? Instead of mentoring me, I got schooled by a clown.”

  Good one. I bloody adore her feistiness, however, “You don’t honestly believe that simply because I am a male and was your employer, that I have any power over you or your future?”

  “Errr…yeah. That’s exactly what I think. You’re lucky I don’t sue you for firing me, especially since you said I can’t be an effective journalist because I’m too emotional.”

  “Wrong. I only said that your gender limits what you can do in the field. But that has nothing to do with you and everything to do with all of the violent, backwards bastards who’d sooner stone their own sister than see her voice an opinion. In my line of investigative journalism, some geographies simply aren’t safe. Especially for women who can’t keep their emotions in check or put a lid on it.”

  How does she not understand this? Can’t be running around Afghanistan, all willy-nilly and mouthing off to every man who doesn’t show her feminism the proper respect. Gisselle would end up with her pretty little head lopped off, and I wouldn’t be able to do a bloody damned thing about it. Bottom line, she is a firecracker and leads with her heart. I happened to find that extremely attractive, but if you want to go to dangerous places for the sorts of stories no one else will touch, then you’ve got to keep your wits about you.

  All the same, aside from that ass-grab test to prove my point to her, I wouldn’t dare abuse my position. Even if she’s the one with all the power. She’s a gorgeous woman. Could probably talk me into chopping off my own bollocks if she asked nicely enough.

  “A, you never said any of those things,” she says, “and B, I don’t think it’s your place to pass judgment and decide what I can or cannot do.”

  “Maybe I didn’t say it in those particular words, but I did say them, love. You simply had your man-hater hat pulled down over your ears. But you’re right, it’s not my place if you’re speaking in general terms. If you’re working for me, however, then it’s my job to look after your pretty hide. I protect my people, and before you pop off with some snide remark, I’ll remind you about a recent accident.”

  I don’t want to say more over the phone, but when I promise to watch someone’s back, I watch it, and I’ll do everything in my power to ensure they’re kept out of harm’s way if things get dicey. That’s the reason I often keep apartments rented under various names wherever and whenever I’m working on stories involving dangerous people. Learned that lesson the hard way after I decided to investigate a lab down in South America. I heard they were trying to splice a banana with a coca plant. Turned out to be true. I got hold of the banana to prove it, but nearly lost my head in the process; had nowhere to lie low while I made arrangements to get out of the country and break the story. That banana and the things I had to do to get it into the US still haunt my nightmares.

  It was bananas…I shiver.

  “Whatever, Mr. Big Pen. So, what do you want to talk about?” Gisselle snarls.

  “Mobile phones aren’t suitable for these sorts of conversations. Meet me tonight at eight. There’s an inn right off Highway 71, near the turnoff for Interstate 10.”

  “Uh, no. I’m not driving an hour to meet up with you at a hotel. Had enough of your stupid mananigans.”

  “Mananigans?”

  “As in shenanigans, but the dipshit manly kind, like you’re propositioning me with right now.”

  “I’m very sorry to inform you that I am not propositioning you with she-, man-, or any other kind of nanigans. It’s a meeting.” If I wanted to make our relationship about a shagging, I would have accepted one of her two offers. Though, if she offers a third time…

  Hold on. Of course I wouldn’t accept. Made a promise to Augusto not to touch her. When he first brought up the idea of one of his former students working on a story he’s been after me to look into, I didn’t understand all the fuss he made about Gisselle. We’d had a lot to drink, and he kept pushing me to hire her, but also warned me repeatedly about “keeping it in my pants.” I didn’t think about the warning again until I saw her.

  Temptation in nerd glasses. But quite honestly, she is just the sort of woman who could get me killed, which is the main reason I gave her the brush-off. Can’t afford any distractions while I’m so close to breaking such an important story—not the one I’m looking into for Augusto as a favor. A different one. My current project is an exposé on an underground market for male sex slaves. I’ve interviewed dozens of poor buggers who’ve been sold at auction to rich women for their gentleman’s sausage, bought because of the size of their todgers, knobs, winkies, or what have you. It’s bloody awful, and the authorities don’t give a toss.

  “I will agree to meet,” she says, “if you get down on your knees and apologize for the mean-ass crap you said and concede that I am not inferior to you simply because I have a lady garden instead of a flagpole.”

  Bloody hell! I like this woman. If I thought it appropriate, I would be begging her to say flagpole and lady garden again so I could make a recording and play it on a loop tonight while I “write some long letters with my huge pen.”

  “So?” she prods. “Do we have a deal?”

  She wants me on my knees, eye level with her naughty bits, while I’m begging? I visualize the scene and tug at my collar. I suddenly can’t breathe and my trousers feel too tight.

  “Yeah.” My voice comes out squeaky. “I mean,” I force my voice to go deeper, “we have a deal.”

  “See you at eight.” She hangs up.

  I blow out a slow breath. I know my intention was to set her straight, but it suddenly dawns on me that she is the first person I’ve ever met, male or female, who might be my equal. If her sharp tongue is any indication of her mind, we could be good together.

  Such a shame she hates me and that it won’t ever change. Because hell will freeze o
ver before I encourage her to run into the world’s most dangerous places for a photo and a story. In fact, I’m resisting the urge to meddle and prevent her from going anywhere I can’t keep an eye on her.

  Gisselle

  That man is a complete, insufferable butt. Yes, yes, he’s hotter than the sun, is immune to fear, and he’s apparently connected up the ying-yang, but that doesn’t change the facts. He’s a dick. And I scooped him. So, ha!

  Little does he know, however, that I’m just getting started. Before I left Austin, I decided to confront Professor Augusto about his and Merrick’s bet. Augusto swore up and down that there was no bet. He never even got that call from Merrick. What a faker! Merrick clearly just didn’t want to work with me, but didn’t have the balls to say it to my face. Anyway, that’s when Augusto came clean about the real reason he wanted me to work on this story.

  Ready for this? Turns out Augusto felt I’d be useful because of my hobby—collecting old photos. Of course, I don’t collect just anything. I like photographs shot by particular photojournalists, kind of like how some people collect paintings by their favorite artists. I collect pictures shot by journalist icons. So, one day before class, I’m looking at a discussion in my online collector group and adding my two cents. Basically, we’re a bunch of history nerds, and we share our latest treasures, ask questions about authenticity, etc. This time we’re discussing a bunch of old WWII photos a guy found in his attic after his dad died. The dad is none other than George Hofer—a famous photographer who was one of the first to expose Australia’s natural beauty to the world. Hofer also roamed the European countryside during WWII, embedded with Allied troops. He even snuck behind enemy lines. Talk about a danger junky. He could’ve been captured and shot on sight for spying. But he wasn’t. His photos were sent back home to Australia, printed in the papers, and eventually referenced in history books around the world. I know because he happens to be one of the photographers I collect, if you can call owning two of his original signed photos a collection.