To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
I think you're the one who's been hitting the whiskey, hon.
Serious answer? I'd probably just walk right on out of there and try to forget it ever happened. That's just too messed-up. Doesn't mean it won't work in fiction, of course, but I can't really wrap my head around it. lol. No offense, I'm sure you could make it seem hot.
***
When I set the mail on Adrian's desk on Monday, he looks up at me.
"Good morning," he says. "Thank you, Meghan."
It sounds terribly forced, but I suppose I should be happy that he's trying.
"Just doing my job," I tell him, as I breeze out the door. I'm hoping the crisp new envelope on the top of the pile intrigues him. I've written an eloquent, impassioned plea for the animal shelter - if I do say so myself. He won't be able to pass up the opportunity to feel like a hero.
"Sit down for a minute," he says, just as I've got one foot in the hallway. "Please."
Biting back a sigh, I do. I've got no idea what this conversation is going to be about, but I have a feeling I won't like it.
"Remember we talked about that conference in Austin? It's in three weeks. Since the signing went so well, I'd like you to accompany me there." If he thinks his stilted words are hiding the fact that this is an order, not a request, he's very wrong. I can still see the imperative in his eyes.
I fold my hands in my lap. "Please don't talk to me like I'm an idiot."
His lips thin. "I'm trying to be nicer."
"Well, don't."
He sighs sharply. "What the hell am I supposed to do, Meghan? You tore me a new asshole in the bar, and now I can't be nice?"
I snicker. "You can't be nice, no. Normal people can. But you don't actually mean it, so it's pretty hollow."
Adrian's fingers are interlaced on the desk, and his knuckles are starting to go white. "Fine. Come to Austin with me. That's not a request."
"That's more like it." I smile at him, hoping for something in return. "If I didn't like irritating men ordering me around, I wouldn't still be here. And I wouldn't like your books."
Well, that just slipped out. His face actually softens a little. "You actually like them?"
"Of course." I shrug. "I have a vagina, apparently that's the only prerequisite."
He smirks. Finally. "Yes, I seem to recall that fact about you."
There's a moment of silence, a very dangerous moment, where we just look at each other. I find myself wishing he'd keep giving me orders. I wonder, in the bedroom, is he anything like Dirk? Kinky and domineering? It's hard to judge, because at the pool, I was certainly the aggressor. Even if he did end up playing me like a virtuoso.
"I don't really feel like I know Natalie McBride," I say, matter-of-factly. "But now I have to play her. Not just for a few hours, but for a week. How am I supposed to do that?"
"Just make something up," he says. "She's a blank canvas, more or less."
"But I have no idea what to say!" I insist. "I'm not the writer, you are. At least give me some idea of what was going through your head. I need a basis to work from."
"I have actual work today," he says. "And so do you." He pauses, picking up a sheaf of papers and straightening them. "Tonight, if you want, we can talk. I'll come by. I'll bring something decent to drink, because I know you don't have anything but ghastly wine and diet soda." His face is still turned down towards the desk, but he eyes me from under his brows. "Just talk, you understand."
"I don't know why you'd feel the need to underscore that," I mutter, shifting in my chair as I feel my face grow hot. "I told you, I'm not letting that happen again."
Adrian grabs a pencil. "I don't think you did, actually."
"Okay, well, I'm telling you now."
"Duly noted." He smiles, full of mischief. "Tonight, Meghan. Eight o'clock. Make sure you've got pickles in the fridge."
He waves me out, picking up the phone, before I can react to that.
Three years ago, back when I still thought he might actually have something resembling a human conscience, we spent a late night working on some hideous proposal for the senior board members, which they'd only asked for after nearly everyone else in the office went home. I actually felt bad for him, and I knew he wouldn't be able to finish it by himself. Neither one of us could stand to spend another minute in the office, so I volunteered my place, since it was relatively close.
We spent the night poring over paperwork with some of Adrian's beloved bourbon, and at one point he convinced me to try a shot that somehow involved salt and pickle juice - it actually wasn't bad.
He used to smile a lot more, back then. I remember that.
***
When I get home, I spend some time cleaning up the place so it's presentable for Adrian. I should've told him I'd rather meet in a restaurant or a coffee shop or something, but a) I was pretty sure he'd steamroll me as usual, and b) I actually liked the idea of him being here. It reminded me of the last time, which was actually bizarrely fun. I have a feeling the same guy who laughed with me that night is still buried in there, somewhere, underneath all the sneers and jeers and misplaced perfectionism.
Once everything's in order, I make myself a quick dinner to eat in front of the TV. I'm certainly not drinking any of Adrian's bourbon on an empty stomach, even if I don't particularly have much of an appetite right now.
My phone starts ringing when I'm halfway done, and the name on the screen gives me an instant sense of foreboding. I take a deep breath before answering.
"Hi, Mom."
"That was awfully quick," she says. "I hope you're not just sitting there on your phone all night."
Right away with this shit. Dad must have pissed her off with his expert passive-aggression. "Nope, I'm actually crocheting a life sized replica of the Last Supper."
She sighs. "I'm in no mood for your smart mouth."
"Why'd you call then, Mom?" I'm feeling pretty low on patience myself.
"Stop stuffing your face while I'm talking to you."
My blood simmers as I set down my fork. "You called me right in the middle of dinner, Mom."
"Well, then you shouldn't have answered," she sniffs. "It's rude."
"If I don't answer, you just keep calling." My fist is clenched in my lap. "Over, and over, and over … "
She sighs. "Then just stop eating. I doubt skipping a meal now and then would kill you."
It takes all of my self-control not to throw the phone at the wall.
"I have to go, Mom. I have a date."
"I'm sure you do." She's smiling on the other end, and I can picture it perfectly. "Your father and I just wanted to know when you'll be getting off for Thanksgiving, so we can plan your tickets."
"Actually, I'll just take care of those myself this year," I tell her. "Mr. Risinger gave me a nice bonus."
"Nonsense. You should put that money in a savings account."
"It's my money, Mom. I'll tell you when I'm coming, but I'm getting my own tickets, and if you buy some for me you're just gonna be stuck with them."
"When did you get like this?" she exclaims. "I swear, Meghan … "
"Have to go. Mr. Risinger's calling me on the other line. Bye, Mom."
I toss the phone down on the sofa with a groan. Now I'm definitely not finishing the rest of my dinner.
***
I'm sitting across from Adrian, and he knows something's wrong.
Watching him try to figure out whether or not he should say something, and if so, what, is almost funny enough to make me forget how much I hate my life.
Not quite, though.
"So," he says. "What do you want to know about Natalie?"
It's bizarre, the way he talks about her like she's a real person. Like he's got a broom propped up in the corner of his kitchen wearing lipstick. "You really think of her as a separate person?"
"Not really," he says. "But it's the easiest way to talk about it, without getting confused."
My head's throbbing already, but to be fair, it probably doesn't have all that much to do with him.
"So … she's you, but without a dick?"
"She's no one," he says, only smirking a little at that. "Just a name I attached to my books. Really, you should be having this conversation with Kara."
"Something tells me Kara wouldn't agree."
He makes a little face. "She's very protective of my career. Doesn't like anything that she sees as potentially jeopardizing it."
Right. His career. That must be it.
"I can see you're skeptical," he says. "But trust me, not every woman who meets me is instantly overcome with seething jealousy."
"Are you implying that I'm jealous?" I demand.
"No, Meghan." This is accompanied by a slow smile. "Of course not."