MY PEN IS HUGE Page 13

“Huh?” Nancy went from all smiles and confidence to playing with a lock of blonde hair. “What makes you think I know him?”

  I pointed to her wall. “That is the award for the ‘It’s Bananas!’ exposé, is it not?”

  She blinked rapidly.

  “I knew it. I just knew it.” I slapped my thigh. “Why else would you want to interview me?”

  “No, no. Gisselle, you’ve got it all wrong. I called Leland asking for suggestions to fill the role. He’s an old friend and knows everyone in the business.” She leaned into her desk. “He recommended you.”

  Yeah, right. “Then why not tell me?”

  “He made me promise not to say anything—said you and he had a falling-out of some kind? But he spoke very highly of you, and I’m not about to lose my job by hiring a hack. You’re here because I genuinely wanted to talk. You have a strong voice and a unique, positive angle on every story. I think it’s just what our readers want.”

  It was my turn to blink. To hear a woman like Nancy Blaine, someone who’s been in the industry for over fifteen years, say that about me was a moment I’ll never forget.

  “I’m so, so flattered, Nancy. I mean,” I blew out a breath, “wow. Just to be here in your office, surrounded by all of these people I could learn from. I know this would be the perfect job.”

  “But?”

  “But I need to think about it.”

  She gave me a look, like I was slapping her in the face, which prompted me to explain. “No. Please don’t think I’m being ungrateful, it’s just,” I shake my head, “to be frank, I hate Leland Merrick. I mean, that man is a weasel. I wake up in the morning and see his face when I brush my teeth and spit in the sink. I just hear his name or think of him, and I want to scream at someone, maybe poke a baby in the eye, and kick a puppy. That’s how angry he makes me.”

  Nancy’s face twitched into a frown.

  Great. Now she thought I was a violent loon. “I didn’t mean I would ever do those things. It’s just how I feel when I think about him.”

  “Oh, honey,” she said, “trust me, you’re not the first. In fact, we have a club on Facebook dedicated to the man: Leland Merrick’s Hate Club.”

  “You’re joking?”

  “Nope. A couple of us got to talking at a convention a few years back, and his name came up. It was like this instant connection. We’d all been outgunned, scooped, insulted, or had some other issue with him over the years. Anyway, a few bottles of wine later, and there we were, laughing, telling stories, and one of the ladies came up with the idea to form a group to stay in touch. It grew over time. Now we’re thirty-two.”

  I couldn’t believe it. “So why would you call him for a recommendation?”

  She blushed, and I knew. She’s into him. “Like I said, he’s well connected.”

  I narrowed my eyes. “Did you and he have a thing?”

  Her eyes went bigger. “God no. From what I’ve heard, he doesn’t sleep around. I think he likes keeping things neat in his professional sandbox, if you know what I mean. But make no mistake, that man is a shark. He goes after stories and isn’t afraid to step on toes. Also, he can be pretty demeaning to women. And men. Okay, pretty much everyone. He thinks he’s some god. The god of journalism.”

  I laughed, knowing exactly what she was talking about. “Well, it’s nice to know he’s an equal opportunist when it comes to insulting people.”

  “He is a pit bull, but I think that’s why people admire him. He’s not afraid of anything.” She sighed appreciatively. I was getting the feeling the hate club was really a fan club. God, I hope he never finds out. I’d hate to see his ego get any bigger.

  She continued, “So, will you give the job some thought now that you know about our little club?”

  I didn’t think I could stand coming to work every day, knowing I had this job because of him. Unless…I understand the real reason he did this?

  “I will give it some serious thought. I promise.” We shook hands, and now here I sit at JFK, waiting for my flight home.

  I dig out my cell and dial Merrick.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  “Well, hello there.” Merrick’s deep smooth voice fills my ear. It’s amazing how, even now after three months of not speaking to him, my body reacts, like it can’t decide if it’s the best sound in the world or fingernails across a chalkboard.

  “You’ll be happy to hear that the interview went well,” I say, my voice quiet as I try to mask how I’m feeling. Vulnerable.

  “Sorry, love, not sure what you’re talking about, but I’ve got to jump on the other line, so—”

  “I just want to know why, Leland. Why have you been feeding me these opportunities?”

  “Gisselle, I assure you I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  Ugh. He’s lying, and I know it. “Please just tell me. Is it because you wanted to keep me busy, or is it because you really believe in me?”

  He’s silent for a long moment. “What difference does it make?” His tone is void of his fake little charm and flippancy.

  “Because…” if you did it because you believe in me, I think I could fall in love with you and stay that way forever. “I just need to know.”

  “If I tell you, will you promise to never chase the Kristoff story again?”

  Is that what this is about? I want to say “No, I won’t promise” because it’s the truth, and telling the truth is the right thing to do, but somehow, that’s not the truth my heart’s caring about right now. It wants to know if Leland actually cares about me. Because it’s been three months since I’ve seen or spoken to him, and there’s not a day that goes by where I’m not wondering where he is, what story he’s working on, or who he’s pissing off. But, also…I miss him. I think if I could just hear him say the words, that he’s been acting out of his own self-interest and not because he cares, then I could finally let go.

  “It’s a deal,” I say.

  “I have your word? You’ll never go near that story again no matter what?”

  “Yes,” I lie.

  Leland

  Part of me knows she’s only saying what I want to hear, but somehow it doesn’t matter. I want to tell her the truth regardless. I went to her hotel room three months ago because I wanted her, and I haven’t stopped wanting her since.

  So I suppose she was right when she said I’d spend the rest of my life wondering what could have been. Now I’m wondering how I’m ever going to get her out of my head. Because believe me, I’ve tried not to think about her spitfire personality and that round ass.

  It’s maddening.

  It’s also time for me to face the truth: I have to give this a go or let her go. The only challenge is I still can’t see us working out. My work is dangerous, and I don’t want her anywhere near it. Not now. Not ever.

  I swallow hard and take a deep breath. She needs to know that I didn’t do any of this as a joke or to hurt her. It was always about keeping her safe.

  “I wanted to keep you distracted,” I admit. “The Kristoff story is too dangerous, and if something happened to you, I would—”

  “It wouldn’t be your problem,” she cuts me off, her tone instantly turning from vulnerable to hurt. “So from here on out, no more, Merrick. I want you out of my life, okay. No more handouts. No more games. We’re done.”

  “But I—”

  “I’m serious, Leland. This has to stop. You’re not responsible for me.”

  I have no idea why, but when she uses my first name, it gives me pause. I like how it feels more intimate. “All I’ve done is point a few heads in your direction. Nothing more.”

  “Oh really? What about Sydney and the press conference? How about the fake emails from Augusto?”

  Forgot about that. “Yes, there were those, too, but I did it to help you.”

  “Help? I spent thousands of dollars I didn’t have,” she throws back.

  “Which is why I made sure you had a good-paying job lined up when you got back.”

 
“See. Right there. You had no right to—”

  “I did it because I care about you, so get over it, for fuck’s sake, woman! I mean, bloody hell. Give me a break. You won’t listen when I warn you, you dismiss everything I say because you think I value a big story over your life, and you’re dead set on getting your pretty neck broken, so what choice did you give me?”

  She’s silent, and I’m immediately questioning my choice of words. That did not come out the way I intended.

  “None. I gave you none,” she says quietly, back to sounding vulnerable. “But how do you expect me to react, when all this time, I was running around, feeling proud of myself, thinking that I was getting noticed for my work, for my brains, only to discover it was all you calling in favors because you think I need a babysitter.” Her voice quivers like she’s about to cry, and now I feel like the biggest asshole on the planet. “How would you feel, Leland, if you were in my shoes?”

  “I would feel pissed off,” I admit remorsefully, seeing that in an effort to keep her safe, I’ve hurt her. I want to tell her she is amazing and beautiful and that she should never doubt herself, but my words would be meaningless. I’ve treated Gisselle like a child, not a grown woman who can make her own choices and command her life. I certainly wouldn’t put up with anyone getting in my way or telling me I’m too fragile to go after a dangerous story. Bottom line, I haven’t treated her as my equal, and it’s wrong. She knows it, and now I know it.

  Additionally, there’s not much I can do now to protect her. She’s caught on to my ruse. Going forward, she’s not likely to accept any work I push her way. In fact, I’m betting she’s going to double down on pursuing the Kemmler-Hofer story. She’s the type of woman who’ll want to prove to herself she can handle it and play with the big boys. Or girls. Whatever.

  All of this means I’m left with only one choice: Treat her like a competitor. I’ll have to get this story before she does.

  “Fine. You win.”

  “Win what?” she asks.

  “Go after the story. But we were never there that morning. That part can’t ever get out.”

  “So you won’t try to stop me?” Her voice is filled with skepticism.

  “Hey, it’s your neck. Just don’t get in my way.”

  “Sorry?” she says.

  “You heard me, love. Gloves are off. Show Mr. Big Pen what you’re made of, if you have the balls.”

  “I have a vagina, and it’s braver and tougher than those wimpy hothouse flowers hanging between your legs.”

  “I have no idea what you just said, but okay.”

  “I meant that your balls are always having to regulate their heat because—oh, never mind.”

  I smile and try not to laugh. I hate that she’s going to jump into the tiger pit with me, but I cannot lie. I love this woman’s feistiness. “See you on the battlefield, love. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a story to crack open.”

  I hang up, grinning ear to ear. Guess I’d better get to work. I have a story to break. And quickly.

  The latest news regarding this Kemmler-Kristoff-Hofer ordeal is that there was an attempt on Mitch Hofer’s life inside his home during a party. The man was discovered after everyone had left. In my book, it was a disaster averted, but in Mitch Hofer’s opinion, he believes his security team failed. The man never should have gotten inside to begin with.

  How do I know all this? Because I am acquainted with the man whose team has been hired as the replacement: Sam McDaniel. He’s a complete hard-ass and your run-of-the-mill sonofabitch, former Marine and ex-FBI, who owes me a few favors. Many people do. Over the years, I’ve learned that information is a valuable currency no matter where you go. Which is why I passed along information to him about the drug company responsible for his wife’s death a few years back. Poor bastard was left to raise his small daughter on his own, but because of my tip, he got the pleasure of making sure those responsible went to prison.

  So today I’m paying a surprise visit to Sam McDaniel to see what information he’ll give me on Mitch’s situation, and then tomorrow night, I’ve paid for tickets to a very bizarre dolphin charity event being hosted by Mitch Hofer. What story am I chasing? I still need to find out who was behind his uncle’s murder and who wants Mitch dead. And does it have anything to do with those WWII photos? No one is sure.

  As for Gisselle, I’ve promised to take the gloves off, and that includes giving her a taste of a little friendly, professional sabotage. Yes, I’m treating her like an equal. She’ll get no help from me. Every man—and woman—for themselves to get the story.

  A part of me is excited to see what she’s made of, but I know how crucial it is to beat her to the punch. I don’t want her stumbling upon some information that gets her killed. If there’s one thing I’ve learned during all these years of investigative journalism, it’s sometimes people will do just about anything to keep the truth from getting out. Albert Hofer is proof of that.

  Gisselle

  I found it hilarious that minutes after my conversation with Merrick, I received a text from my ex-boyfriend Ryan, telling me he needed help and that I should come to Warsaw immediately.

  Seriously, Merrick has no shame.

  (A) Ryan hasn’t contacted me in months, but I know he’s back in the US. (B) It wasn’t even Ryan’s number. I blocked him ages ago because I didn’t want to risk relapsing into old bad habits. Ryan never loved me, and I was willing to settle for him just because he liked wearing sustainable clothing. What was I thinking? Don’t get me wrong, being green is great, but I need to set my bar a little higher. (C) If he were in trouble, I’m sure he’d be calling his new girlfriend, Natdja or Nadja or something.

  Bottom line, it all adds up to a scam. Merrick likely did his homework after I started working with him, so it wouldn’t have been hard to see that Ryan was tagged as my boyfriend on Facebook. Shortly after, I unboyfriended him, and Ryan began posting pics of his new girlfriend in Poland.

  Just to be on the safe side, though, I did check his Gram feed. All US posts. None of his stupid airplane, vacay bragging pics.

  “Sorry, Merrick. Nice try, though.” Still in New York, I board the plane for home and begin thinking about where to get a dress for tomorrow night. There’s a charity event hosted by Mitch Hofer. I plan to ask him to dance, if I can get by his security team, and see if I can’t get him to trust me with a little information.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Leland

  Tonight, I’m in my element, wearing a tux and feeling quite proud of myself for having convinced one of Mitch Hofer’s bodyguards—a very lovely brunette named Abi Carter, who’s wearing one hell of a skimpy dress—that I’m actually a member of her team. It was dumb luck that I overheard her name when I went to Sam’s office yesterday, which turned out to be a waste of time, except for this. Because when I came up to offer my ticket at the door, Stephanie having dropped out at the last minute due to menstrual cramps—dear God, why does she insist on telling me these things?—I heard Abi saying her name to the man at the door. I introduced myself, she assumed I was someone else, and I played along. So, while I originally came here tonight to speak with Mitch Hofer, this has turned out to be a stroke of luck. She’s much more likely to divulge important information.

  The man at the door takes our tickets, and I escort Abi across the wide-open ballroom decorated with obnoxious silver and blue fish-shaped balloons. In the nearest corner is a person in a dolphin costume handing out goody bags and posing for photos.

  Feels like a child’s birthday party. And that dolphin is bloody frightening. The silliest part is that Abi and I are tied at the wrist—all some part of tonight’s theme of saving dolphins with your “mates.” Everyone must be paired up in order to enter, except for the staff and press. It’s a shame that Gisselle thinks she’s getting in. I heard she was on the press list.

  “Ah, here’s our table,” I say, pulling out a chair for Abi. “Can I bring you a cocktail, love?”

  “Love…” She
swoons, taking a seat. “I’ll have champagne.”

  “Champagne, it is. Back in a flash.” I untie our wrists and scan the room. Doesn’t take much to spot Mitch Hofer over at one of the tables, shaking hands. He’s a tall chap, like me, but he seems intent on murdering Abi with his jealous looks from across the room. I feel a twinge of sympathy. The last time I saw Mitch was the moment his life changed forever. It never should have happened. Bloody damned shame. But it speaks to the people I’m in bed with. I never question their motives, but their methods are sometimes difficult to stomach.

  I order our drinks and watch Mitch cross over to Abi. Whatever he says, she’s not having it. Time for me to come to the rescue, which will buy a few points so I can pump her for information.

  “Abi love, is everything all right?” I wedge myself between her and Mitch Hofer. She needs to trust me, and a show of protective chivalry always wins the ladies.

  “Yeah.” She nods. “I’m fine. The host of this really cool event was introducing himself. But I just told Mr. Hofer here that I already donated everything I can. I’m tapped out.”

  I take her hand. “Then I’m certain our humble host won’t mind if I steal you away to the dance floor so he can solicit money elsewhere.”

  She leans in to whisper something to Mitch that has his pot bubbling over.

  He’s in love with her. I can see it. Poor sod. I know how you feel.

  I lead Abi to the far end of the room to the dance floor. With luck she’ll tell me who they’re on the lookout for tonight.

  “So,” she whispers, swaying in time to my six-foot-two frame, “how long have you worked for Sam?” Abi’s eyes scan the room for threats. It’s a harsh reminder that the threat against Mitch Hofer is real.

  Hmmm… I’m not sure what the correct answer is since Sam’s only been in the private security business a short while, but I’ve known him for several years. I force a smile on my lips and try to look as charming as possible to distract her.

  “So, how long?” she asks again.