MY PEN IS HUGE

by Mimi Jean Pamfiloff

  “Your pen pal?”

  He nods.

  Very interesting. “And your assistant? Where’d you find her?”

  “Stephanie? She came looking for work one day. Been with me ever since.”

  “So you just gave her a job because she asked? That’s pretty generous.”

  “She has some hard-to-come-by skills she picked up as a misguided youth who enjoyed stealing cars, hacking, and the occasional burglary.” He grins.

  “Really? You’d never guess it by looking at her. She dresses like your average office manager.”

  “That’s the point. Wouldn’t want people seeing our hidden aces, now would we?”

  That explains his focus on wardrobe. You’d never guess by looking at him that he’s involved with anything other than shopping for nice suits.

  “So do you share everything with this work wife of yours?” I ask.

  “I told you, it’s platonic.”

  “I meant all of your little secrets and work stuff.”

  He hesitates to answer, so I wait patiently. “She’s been with me for years—moves where I move, has no family. She’s loyal to me.”

  I guess that’s a yes. “And what about me?”

  “What about you?”

  I frown and sit up, grabbing a corner of the sheet to cover my breasts. “Are you going to tell me everything, too?”

  His demeanor instantly shifts, and I sense that I’ve pushed a button. “What exactly is it that you want to know?”

  I stare into those beautiful chocolate-colored eyes, wondering if it’s really worth it. I don’t want to ruin this—whatever it is—because I can already tell by the look on his face what his answer is: no. He’s not going to trust me, and hearing him say it will only piss me off.

  “Never mind.” I get up to find my clothes.

  “Don’t run away.” He’s up too and snatches my arm. “Say it. What do you want to know?”

  “I wanted…” Ugh. I have to resist getting into it with him. Things are good, and if I leave now, maybe we can figure this out slowly. Together.

  “So that’s why you just slept with me? What story, what information was worth fucking me for?”

  Whoa. Whoa! “Are you being for real right now?”

  “You think you’re the first person to try to seduce me for a story?”

  I can’t even… “I wasn’t,” I snap.

  “Then why ask for information?”

  “I didn’t ask! I just wanted to know if you’re going to trust me or keep treating me like some…child or thing you need to protect all the time.” I get up and start dressing, loathing the fact that he’s seeing me naked right now. It’s stupid, I know, because he’s explored just about every nook and cranny of my body, but I suddenly feel like revoking the intimacy card. Access denied!

  “Hey, I’m sorry. Don’t go.” He’s suddenly standing behind me with his strong hands on my waist as I slip on my bra.

  “I think I should.” I’m feeling wounded, and I know that means I’ll only say something I regret, like… I can’t believe I licked your balls. You aren’t worthy of my bravery! Because, yeah, I’ve never done that before. Never gone down on a man. Never let him take me from behind and get so close to the no-no zone. The booty. Never let anyone go down on me while having my g-spot fingered. I felt like he was scuba diving for orgasms. Worth it. So worth it, but still… And I certainly never let anyone bend me like a pretzel and fuck me fifteen different ways. Also worth it. Yet he thinks I did all that to get information out of him? I mean, can we talk, Mr. Huge Cock? Because that wasn’t easy. His dick is really big. But good. So…good.

  “Why are you leaving?” he says.

  I turn to face him. “Because if you can’t trust me, then there’s no future for us.”

  “I do trust you,” he says, his face filled with sincerity—brows furrowed, lips flat and determined, his stare unwavering.

  “But?” I push.

  “But you don’t know what you don’t know.”

  “Uh, yeah. Thus, the invention of the question. I ask. You answer honestly. Trust is born.”

  “No.” He shakes his head, regrouping. “That’s not what I mean. The things I’m involved in are…” He groans with frustration. “Let’s just say that I’m only a piece of it, and I’m disposable. I follow the rules or bad things happen.”

  “So you’re a hostage?”

  “I volunteered, love. But it’s not the sort of position you can retire from. Not exactly. The promises you keep, the secrets you hold, they’re forever.”

  Oh shit. Oh…shit. I’m finally getting it. I lean in and whisper, “You are a spy.” My mind replays those thoughts about how he always seems to end up smack in the middle of major events that ultimately play a role in geopolitical events or shape lives.

  “No. Nothing like that. I’m a journalist, just like I said.”

  “Then?”

  “I help certain people or groups of people with their particular goals, and they help me. It’s a mutually beneficial relationship, but there is no divorce option. I stay in play until they have no use for me.”

  “So you can’t tell me everything even if you wanted to.”

  “I could, but then I’d have to kill you.”

  My eyes go wide.

  “That was a joke, love,” he says.

  Maybe so, but I’m not laughing. It seems that Merrick has made a deal with the devil. Voluntarily. No regrets. But as a woman with a conscience that weighs on me, I don’t see how Merrick and I will ever work. Yes, I could love him. Maybe I already do. But knowing he’ll always have this part of his life hidden away from me isn’t something I could live with. It means he wouldn’t be able to tell the truth. I don’t like it one little bit.

  “I’m sorry, but whatever you’re involved in is not what I’m about.” I blink. “And call me idealistic or naïve, but there is no deal I would ever make that gives powerful people the right to hide the truth or make me their political tool.”

  “So you’re judging me,” he snaps, “without so much as giving me the benefit of the doubt or trusting that my involvement is because I believe in what I’m doing.”

  “Yeah. I guess so.”

  “Then you’re not only the shallowest woman I’ve ever met, but you are…are…”

  “Fine. Just say it. At least I’ll know you’re being honest.”

  He chuckles bitterly. “Here I was thinking that maybe I wasn’t good enough for you. But you are one hell of a miserable person.” He goes for his pants, slides them on, and grabs his things before he’s halfway out the door.

  “Hey! I was going to leave first.”

  “Nope.” He storms off.

  “Fine. Just run away again, you coward!” I yell out the door. I’m pretty sure I hear him call me a twat. “Oh yeah? Come back here and say that to my face, you big pussy!”

  “Twat!” echoes off in the distance.

  I can’t believe he called me that. “That wasn’t to my face, so ha!” I slam the door, my chest heaving.

  I march over to the bed and sit. The anger is quickly overcome by sadness. For a few short hours, everything felt perfect. I honestly believed I’d found the man who was meant to be by my side forever.

  I can’t believe I let him scuba dive down there.

  Leland

  That’s right. I said it. I called her a dirty name, and she deserved it.

  You want honest? You want equality, Gisselle? Well, there you go. You’re being a nasty twat. A snotty little princess. A shit-chucking tree monkey! Oh yes. You are no better than Mr. Chunky, the village nemesis. The furry knob made our lives hell as children. Really, how does a five-pound primate produce twenty pounds of flying crap? And his aim. Dear god, he could have played professional cricket.

  I storm off to my car and ignore the fact that a mere few hours ago, I had Gisselle pinned against the driver’s side door while I drove my shaft into the nicest place it’s ever been.

  Well, too bloody bad. Because
I’m not about to bend over backwards to build a relationship with a woman who doesn’t trust me. She practically called me a terrorist.

  I unlock the car and get inside. I’m a bloody good person. I won’t ever feel bad about my choices. They were right. They were the only option. Of course, she can’t possibly fathom what I’ve been through, that I might have a valid reason for signing up to support the people I do. But no…that bloody hypocrite automatically assumes everyone is greedy, evil, and selfish.

  Of course, I can’t tell her all the things that could change her mind. And I certainly can’t tell her the price I’ve paid personally for having a front-row seat to making history. The violence. The roles I’ve played. The innocent lives who got caught in the cross fire.

  That fucking hotel, for example? The one that haunts my dreams every bloody night? Yeah, I was there. It was a nightmare of violence and blood. Bodies everywhere. The floors and walls dripping with red. No one was spared. Except me.

  You want to know why I can’t sleep, Gisselle, love? Try surviving hell.

  The only reason I’m alive is because they called in the favor. I’d been covering a story about the uprising in India, when I got a call at four in the morning from a man. I don’t know who he was, but I’ll never forget his words: “Merrick, the hotel is about to be burned to the ground along with everyone in it. There’s nothing we can do, but they’ve granted you safe passage as long as you don’t interfere.”

  Fuck. Fuck. What the fuck? “I don’t understand,” I said.

  “Everyone there is going to die. There are a thousand soldiers outside and three hundred and eighty in the hotel. You’re the only one they’ll let live.”

  “W-why? Why me?” I asked.

  “Because you’re a journalist. They think you’ll spread their message to the world. Just keep quiet. Take notes. Stay alive. We need at least one person to give us information when it’s over. See you at the pickup spot.” The rendezvous was about twenty kilometers north. I’d never had to use one, but they always gave me a location when I had these types of stories.

  Then there are the other ones, the stories where my involvement is completely fabricated because whatever agency doing the work doesn’t want to reveal itself, like the sex-trafficking ring in Boston, which also served as my alibi for the night Ripley drowned. Maybe the methods used by the authorities to catch the sex traffickers weren’t entirely legal, or maybe they want to stay imbedded and continue to monitor other branches of these criminal organizations. I never really know, but not once have I assisted them and wondered if I was doing the right thing. It’s always about stopping bad people from doing bad things to innocent people.

  Yet she judges me like I’m some pawn? I start the engine and grab the steering wheel. I can’t remember ever being this pissed off, which says a lot. I’ve lived through some bloody awful stuff.

  I’m about to throw the car into reverse, but I stop. I should go back there and set her straight. I want to. But there’s no way to do it without breaking my word and putting her at risk.

  “Sonofabitch.” I slap my hand on the steering wheel. Maybe I do need to get out. This all started a few years after I graduated university. Like Gisselle, I quickly grew a reputation for being a risk-taker. Mostly because not much scared me—growing up in a place where lions and poisonous snakes are a constant threat will do that to a person. You become immune and learn to accept that life comes with certain risks. Little did I know that a knock on our door would change everything. I still lived with my mum since my grandparents decided to decamp for warmer climates in Spain, but I saw little of her given my hours. When the men in suits showed up, I thought they were investigators from the hospital, coming to question her about a few robberies they’d had. Drugs gone missing or something. But no. They were there for me.

  “Leland,” I recall the bald man in a cheap gray suit saying, “your father is dead. The entire tribe has gone missing. And we need your help.”

  Just like that. Gone. And these men offered no sugarcoating, no condolences, and no answers—mostly because they didn’t have any—but they did offer me something more valuable: information. And a chance to get justice. If I committed to doing them a few favors, they promised to share the information they had, which would enable me to write one hell of an article and draw international attention to a series of genocides occurring across Africa. The hunt for diamonds was wiping out thousands of people faster than any drought or famine.

  I took the deal; they gave me photos, names of companies, and statistics. So many people had died, my father, the chief, his daughters, and the entire tribe I’d lived with.

  I published an article, and arrests were soon made. Then I published another for the men, exposing a member of parliament for taking bribes. Again, I was given photos, dates, and copies of bank records. All of it legit. And just like that, the alliance was formed. They never asked me to publish anything fake, and I never asked questions about whom they worked for.

  This went on for about a decade before I finally asked for a favor outside of our usual arrangement: stop Senator Ripley. I knew he was behind my friend’s death, but there wasn’t enough proof to nail him. My contacts responded with a compromise. I bring them some form of evidence—a confession, a photo, a witness—and they would make sure Ripley was taken care of. He’d killed three other women before I finally got to read about him drowning in his own pool. Three. Mothers, daughters, sisters.

  None of this has been easy, but when Gisselle asked if I could hold my chin high when I meet my maker, I answered honestly. Yes. Justice can’t always be served in a courtroom.

  Sitting in my car, fuming, it dawns on me that as angry as I feel about being cast as a villain by the woman I love, or loved, or was falling in love with—I don’t know—l have another problem I can’t ignore. Someone is still after Mitch Hofer. If he’s killed, that leaves her and me as the witnesses in Kristoff’s trial. I have no doubt that Gisselle will get on her high horse and ride to the rescue. She’s got a good heart. It’s what I love about the stubborn woman. But it’s going to get her killed.

  I’ve got to find out who’s behind this and get the contract on Mitch’s head lifted so he can testify.

  I decide the best course of action is going to see Abi Carter, Mitch’s bodyguard, and seeing what she knows.

  I make a call to Stephanie, who’s a damned genius at getting information, and obtain Abi’s home address. I’m going to do everything in my power to stop these people.

  Also, I need to make sure Gisselle is out of the way for a week or two.

  I have an idea.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Gisselle

  After the night with Merrick, I feel reenergized and focused on what’s really important: my career. I mean, who needs him anyway? Just because every time I think about those sensual lips exploring, licking, kissing my entire body or that deep gravelly voice groaning in my ear as he comes, my heart races, my palms get all sweaty, and I have the overwhelming urge to shop for pens, doesn’t mean we’re meant for each other.

  Yes, I understand now why he can’t tell me everything. Yes, I understand that he believes he’s doing good. But the fact he’s in bed with people who work in the shadows is a big red flag.

  Anyway, I’m not sure what to do. Part of me knows I overreacted, a big fat knee jerk to him slamming the door on having an honest relationship. The irony is that he actually was honest. He said he couldn’t share everything with me because of the secretive nature of some of his work, which is the truth. He could have lied or made up a bunch of excuses, but he told it like it is, and I flew off the handle. It doesn’t change the fact that I don’t see a future with him. He’s involved in all of this dangerous, clandestine, spy-related stuff, and I’d be dying on the inside every time he left the house.

  Why can’t he just quit? We could work together and write the kind of stories that inspire people. We could focus people’s thoughts on solutions and kindness instead of what’s go
ing on in the media today: merchants of chaos, who want to keep everyone angry.

  Anyway, I’ve decided to drop this story about Kristoff, Mitch Hofer, and the Kemmlers, and start focusing on the reason I wanted to be a journalist: telling stories about people. Still, I need to have closure with Merrick. I need to ask him to consider quitting. He said there was no way, but I don’t believe it. They can’t force him to be their press puppet forever. Can they?

  I don’t know, but I’m going to track him down in Miami, where I know he’s heading right now because Mitch Hofer is doing some fashion shindig. I’m also going to see a woman named Georgie Walton, who’s agreed to let me interview her. My first real people story. She’s about my age and is working with her sister-in-law, Elle Walton, on a new venture: algae farming in the desert. It’s the kind of sustainable energy source that could change the world, and they’re looking for investors to help commercialize. The serendipitous part is that I found out about her when I was doing a little digging on Mitch Hofer, who’s friends with her.

  Sitting at home in my old all-pink unicorn-themed room, still filled with stacks of my photo collection and history books, I grab my cell to book a flight to Miami. I give the information to the airline representative on the phone—time to cash in some miles.

  “Sorry, ma’am,” the representative tells me, “but we are unable to issue a ticket. You’ll need to contact Homeland Security for more information. Have a good day.” Click.

  What the hell? This smells of fish and chips. “Merrick! I’m going to kill you.”

  Leland

  Not only is my visit a few nights ago with Abi Carter—Mitch’s lovely young bodyguard—a waste of time, but Miami ends up being a disaster, too.

  First, there’s another attempt on Mitch Hofer’s life at his hotel, and I can’t get anywhere near him. Then he decides to go public with his story, divulging every single detail he knows, including calling out the Kemmlers as the ones behind the attempts on his life. If true, it might stop the Kemmlers from taking further action since the world is now watching them, but it doesn’t change the fact that Mitch is still a witness to a murder that Kristoff Bones committed. Kristoff doesn’t leave witnesses alive. Not for long anyway.