"Really - Meghan - are you feeling all right?" Mr. Risinger is staring at me. "You actually do look like one of the undead."
"I'm fine," I snap. "I just…I just need…" What's a good excuse? "I get stage fright. You know. Social anxiety." Yeah, that's it. It's even a little bit true. "I don't know if I can do this."
Normally I'd never show weakness with a shark in the water, but this is infinitely preferable to the truth.
"Oh, you'll be fine." Mr. Risinger waves a dismissive hand. "I'll coach you. You've just got to…"
"So help me, if you say the word 'bootstraps' I will tell everyone in the entire world that you write middle-aged-lady jackoff material," I snarl. "NDA be damned."
His eyebrows go up, a fraction of an inch. "That's a very colorful description," he says. "I trust you'll find they're a little more than jackoff material. Although, speaking from experience…" He's smiling.
"Ugh." I grab the stack of books before he can continue that train of thought. "Please. Fucking spare me. If any of these pages are sticky, by the way, I'm burning all of them."
The idea that Mr. Risinger and I have masturbated to the same thing, ever, is legitimately horrifying. Neither more or less horrifying than the fact that it was something he wrote. Just a different kind of horrifying.
"Sorry," he says, not looking sorry at all. "But no, I promise you, those are brand new, fresh copies. Just for you." He winks. He fucking winks at me.
"Jesus." I look down at the pile in my arms. "You know, I always suspected you were the kind of guy to jerk off to your own reflection, but this is a step too far."
And with that parting barb, I go to my doom.
***
I'm sitting in my living room with the fucking manuscript in my hand.
A day ago, no, hours ago, I would have been overjoyed to be holding the next installment of His Secretary. Thrilled beyond belief. But that was before I knew the truth.
Gnawing on my fingernails, I wonder if Mr. Risinger's publicist had ever mentioned me, even in passing. If she'd guessed that I might actually work for him. It was a hell of a coincidence.
Unless.
Heart twisting in my chest, I pull up Natalie McBride's author page. I don't want to look, but I have to.
I have to know.
I scroll down to the first book in the series, eyes searching for the publication date.
Instantly, my throat goes dry.
Hands shaking, I go to open up the resume document that I keep updated in my backups. I always have my dates of employment in there, one hundred percent accurate. After a few years of working for a madman, you'd be surprised how easy it is to forget little details like days and months and years.
I'm praying that I've misremembered, that I haven't really been with Mr. Risinger for as long as I think I have. Because if my memory is correct, then…
Two months.
Two months after I started working for him, he published His Secretary.
No. I can't. I can't handle the idea that my fucking insufferable boss used flowery literature as an outlet for his lust towards me. For one thing, it's the most ridiculous idea I've ever heard in my life. It just…it just can't be true.
But nothing he said contradicted it. All he told you is that he "had an idea."
No. I won't accept it. I can't.
Coincidences are all around us. We never want to accept it, we're always looking for an explanation, but that's foolish.
Still, I'm trying to remember if he describes Amanda in the book. You know, physically. I can't go back and look. I don't dare. In fact, in the fan communities online, I'm pretty sure I recall people posting such wildly variant examples of how they picture her - he must not have. Or, everyone is just stridently ignoring it.
Oh my God, are you seriously considering this? Are you really sitting here right now, trying to figure out if Adrian Fucking Risinger wants you so badly that he wrote a series of books about it?
Look at him, Meg. Look at him, and then look at you.
I don't want to.
I know what I look like, particularly when I'm sitting down. My hips seem like they're a mile wide, my belly a little roll that I always try to hide when I'm in public. All these years, Adrian Risinger has called me everything imaginable - a witch, a zombie, a bloodsucking parasite (oh, the irony!) but never once has he called me fat.
I've never stopped to wonder why that is, but I do now.
Nobody else has ever bothered to pull punches. In high school, in college, I heard the way people snickered about me behind my back. People who were supposed to be my friends. Oh my God, I saw her eating a huge sandwich the other day. I wanted to tell her to vomit it up later.
There's nothing about me that's particularly glamorous. At my thinnest, I still have childish freckles and unruly red hair. Heroines in romance novels aren't described like me.
Dirk certainly isn't based on him - not physically, anyway. He's got the typical dark hair, dark eyes, blah blah blah thing going on - all the book boyfriends basically look the same, but Mr. Risinger is more of a dirty blond, and a little too tall. His clear blue gaze doesn't so much smolder, as it sears - like a laser, through six inch plated lead.
Shaking my head, I try to bring myself back to the present. I can't do this. I can't sit here and read this fucking book. I'm seriously thinking about quitting, because even if Mr. Risinger isn't serious about this being a condition of my job, I won't be able to handle working for the guy, knowing what I know now. I mean, how can I? Am I just supposed to pretend that I don't know?
And more importantly, without "Natalie's" books to keep me company, will I even be able to get through the day without trying to kill him?
The thing is, I don't have a choice. I'm sitting here, pretending to debate my options, when I already know what I'm going to do. What I have to do. Mr. Risinger might need me, because nobody else can stand to be around him, but the worse part is that I need him too. "Codependent" doesn't even begin to describe it. I wouldn't know how to work with someone who isn't a selfish, paranoid egomaniac.
I used to roll my eyes at the idea of getting post-traumatic stress from your job, and I guess I'm being cosmically bitch-slapped for that now, because it's my reality. But the thing is, as long as I stay in my fucked-up environment, my own fucked-up-ness isn't so obvious. By definition, it's not dysfunctional. As long as I stay here, I'm sane.
With that cheery thought, I pour myself a giant glass of wine and open the first page.
Chapter Three
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