MY PEN IS HUGE Read online

  Anyway, his undiscovered collection was offered up to a Sydney museum recently, and the curator—a member of my collector group—posted a few images, asking if anyone had information as part of his due diligence.

  That’s where I come in. I’m sitting there, commenting on one of the pictures, when Augusto sees it and asks what it is. I go all super-nerd and tell him about my hobby. What I didn’t know at the time is that the man in the photo—who has an eye patch and the world’s biggest mustache—resembles Augusto’s grandfather Ralf Kemmler, who was apparently a German foot soldier.

  “But that photo can’t be real, Gisselle,” Augusto told me last week. “It just can’t. My grandfather was in the infantry, not part of any war crimes. I asked you to help Merrick because I figured between the two of you, we could get to the bottom of that photo.”

  Why? Because the man with the eye patch is being saluted by a bunch of German soldiers right near the site of a mass execution of Allied soldiers that occurred around the same time.

  “Someone doctored that photo,” Augusto told me, “because they want to destroy my family.” That’s when Augusto explained that his grandfather Ralf started the world’s most successful greeting card company. The black-and-white Cutie Pie Animal collection is everyone’s favorite.

  I get why Augusto wanted to hold back telling me the truth—I mean, he wasn’t sure if Merrick was going to bring me under the tent, and the fewer people who knew, the better. Maybe Merrick felt the same way until I passed his “trial” period. But I think it’s more likely that Merrick just didn’t want to share the credit if this turned out to be a big story.

  Well, joke’s on him. I’m flying off to Sydney tomorrow morning to try to speak to Albert Hofer, George’s son. If the photo is legit, then I told Augusto we’d have to talk. On one hand, sinking a three-hundred-million-euro company and putting people out of work over a crime they didn’t commit sounds horrible. On the other hand, there’s the truth. If Ralf Kemmler was a war criminal, then he should’ve gone to prison, and his greeting card company should never have been born. It’s complicated, I guess, but Ralf is long gone, and the company makes a lot of money that could be donated to help thousands. The alternative is to let it all sink. No money to help anyone. People jobless.

  As for Merrick, I’m not sure what else there is to say. He hasn’t gotten back to Augusto, and I’m going full steam ahead on my investigation.

  Whatever Merrick wants to chat about tonight, I don’t care, but I would drive five million miles just to see him on his knees, begging forgiveness.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  The drive to the inn is two hours from my parents’ house, basically the halfway point to Austin. About five minutes out, I get a text from Merrick telling me to meet him around back near some excavator. Guess they’re renovating?

  Driving my red pickup, I pull into the big parking lot and head around the building, which is a plain brick structure with zero curb appeal—no landscaping, no welcome sign, just cement bricks and a door. Most of the parking spots are empty, except for the red Audi parked next to a dumpster piled high with wood and sheetrock.

  Oh good. It’s extra dirty back here. Gonna enjoy watching Merrick get his tailored pants all grimy.

  I pull up, and he exits his car. It’s dark out, but there are several streetlamps around, so I see him well enough. He’s wearing a white suit, he looks insanely fuckable, and he’s pissed.

  Welp. Guess he lied about that apology. His expression says he’s handing out ass-kickings tonight. Can’t say I’m entirely surprised. Leland Merrick doesn’t strike me as the type to grovel for anyone.

  I get out of my truck and close the door. “Merrick.” I paste on a sugary-sweet smile to match my voice. “So nice to see you again. You look well.”

  He walks right up and points an angry finger in my face. “What the bloody hell do you think you’re doing with Carl? Also, you look really pretty. Did you change your hair?”

  “I’m doing what you should have and what Carl wanted: getting justice for those poor women. And yes. I went a little darker to match my mood. Thank you for noticing.” I flip my hair over my shoulder. I’m wearing jeans and a black leather jacket that matches my English-style riding boots. “So now that we’ve complimented each other, and I’ve heard you’re upset because I busted open the story about Senator Ripley, I’ll be on my way.”

  “Hold on.” He grabs my elbow. “I’m not done yet. You need to convince Carl to go back into hiding. He’s not safe.”

  I’m surprised he’s more upset about Carl’s well-being than he is about my story grab. I thought it would be the other way around. Nevertheless…

  I jerk my arm free. “Don’t manhandle me, and Carl is not a child. He knows the risks and wants to take them.”

  “Because you,” the angry finger returns as Merrick scowls down at me, “convinced him he’d be safe.”

  “Wrong. I warned him that he could be the target of everyone who’s about to be swept up in the net, and that he should consider protective custody. He didn’t want that.”

  “Well, he seems to think that he’s safer being in plain sight. Who would have given him that idea?”

  “How should I know?” I throw back, suddenly noticing how Merrick’s expression has softened and how his lips have a sensual pout when he’s relaxed. The cheekbones are also more pronounced, as are the dimples.

  Damn. Why does he have to be so good looking? And infuriating?

  I add, “You should know that Carl was the one who reached out to me, but I’ll try to talk to him again.” I did want to speak with him and see if we couldn’t find a way to safely expose this story, but Carl was at Merrick’s safe house. I have no clue where that is, so I went to the hotel where he worked, and ferreted out Carl’s last name. From there I found his home address and slid a note with my name and number under his front door, just in case he happened to return. He called the next day. It was his idea to go balls-out, guns blazing—or mops swinging?—with what he knew, despite my advice. My impression was that he planned to do it his way, no matter what.

  “I would appreciate that,” Merrick says with a tinge of actual gratitude. “Carl isn’t the brightest bulb in the room, but he’s a good man. I don’t want to see anything happen to him.”

  I nod and cross my arms over my chest. I didn’t know this, but apparently nipples have muscle memory. Mine are remembering their electric moment dancing with Merrick right before he stomped on my dreams. Dreams that I have since dusted off and fluffed back up to their original size. I’m not taking any chances or letting him near them again.

  I take a step back, but he closes the gap. I take a step to the side. He follows. I don’t think he realizes he’s doing it. Are parts of his body remembering our dance, too? Stop. He likes you about as much as a prostate exam.

  “I don’t want anything to happen to Carl either. So is that all you wanted to talk about?” I ask, stepping in the other direction. He follows once again. It’s pretty adorable.

  “I’d appreciate it if you keep me posted on what Carl says. I have some contacts who can ensure he and his family are swiftly placed in witness protection and given the best possible accommodations.”

  “Okay.”

  “Great.” He stares for a long moment, first into my eyes and then at my lips. The light of the streetlamps at the edge of the lot allows me to see the intensity in his gaze.

  An awkward static erupts between us, buzzing in the air. My skin tingles. My core flutters. His attention seems tuned into me. Wait. Hold on…

  I huff. “Not falling for that one again. Have a nice life, Merrick.” I turn for my truck but feel a firm hand on my arm again.

  “Wait.”

  I pivot and silently stare, the shadows making his masculine features seem more dramatic, more seductive.

  “I just wanted to say…”

  “Yes?” I push.

  “I’m sorry. Really sorry for the things I said. They were ungentlemanly and out o
f line.”

  I don’t believe it. He is apologizing. No, not on his knees, but I don’t care. I’m ninety-nine percent sure a man like him never admits any wrongdoing.

  “So you acknowledge that a woman can be just as good at journalism as you?”

  He chuckles. “Don’t push it. No one is as good as me, regardless of whether they have a flagpole or lady garden.”

  Awww, he quoted me. My heart pitter-patters.

  “Fair enough,” I say. “I mean, you’re wrong, of course, but at least you’re not being gender biased.”

  He bobs his head, but his eyes continue to hold me firmly in their grasp. It feels like he’s pushing through my chest, reaching inside, and poking buttons and pulling levers. It’s uncomfortable and exhilarating. My body can’t help twitching at the knees and in other lady-gardeny places.

  But what would be the point of acting on my impulses? Even if he felt attracted to me, I’m not into one-hit wonders. I want a man who’s in it for the long haul, kind of like Camila. I need a partner who will support and encourage me, not make me doubt my worth. Merrick is an attractive man, but nothing more. Kind of like a sexy cover model on one of those romance books. Sure, you might look or be game for a fantasy involving him, but in real life, they’re probably trouble.

  “Well, uh…” I clear my throat. “Nice seeing you again.”

  He stares with a predatory gleam. “You take care, Gisselle,” he says, but his tone says something entirely different: I’d like to write some dirty, very sexual stories about us with my huge pen. Maybe we could write all night. Long stories that go deep and hard. Followed by chocolatey snacks.

  All right, I made it all up, but that’s what comes to mind as I try not to fall for his mind games.

  I jerk open my truck door and slide inside. Don’t do it, Gisselle. Just close the door. Don’t look at him. Keep driving. I’ve gone for him twice, only to be swatted away like a sad little gnat. I’m not taking the bait again, no matter how hard my heart is pounding.

  I shut the door, crank the engine, and drive away. Though I don’t look back, I feel his eyes on me until I turn the corner. Even then, he lingers in my mind, and I can’t help wondering if there was another reason he wanted to meet at a hotel.

  I lift my foot from the accelerator for two seconds, but then get hold of myself. Get home. Pack for Australia. Forget about Merrick. I have a story to chase.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Journalistic observation: Flying for twenty-six hours straight sucks. And it’s insanely expensive. I had to borrow the eighteen hundred dollars from my parents, which was horrifying because they are so against handouts. I get it. I do. I’m all about paying my own way, carving a path through the jungle of life, stampeding down the highway of opportunity on my own two feet—okay, you get the point. But I’ve been working part-time, taking out student loans left and right, and working my ass off in school. It’s going to take time to catch up financially, so I had no choice but to ask for help.

  If they’d said no, my next stop would’ve been my brother, and that would have hurt even worse. He’s three years older, owns his own house near Houston, and has been working doing some pretty hush-hush stuff over at Homeland Security. If I’d had to go to him for help, he would have rubbed my face in it, big time! He’s a good guy, but he’s insanely competitive. For example, when we were little, he’d brush his teeth one minute longer just to brag to my mom. Thankfully, however, my parents said yes to helping me with money for this journalist expedition, but not before giving me a one-hour lecture about the importance of an emergency fund and making me sign a legally binding contract—Ugh. Lawyers!—promising to pay them back once I make more money off one of my stories.

  Unfortunately, the better-paying magazines and newspapers will repeat a story from the wire but won’t buy anything from an unknown freelance journalist whose credibility isn’t established, no matter how juicy the tale. I’m not surprised, but it does make it extremely important to keep going. I have to build my reputation. Anyway, my Ripley story was published by Newsly.com, then picked up on the wire from there, so I did get some pretty major publicity. This next story might just put me on the map.

  After an excruciatingly long flight in coach, I grab my camera and backpack from the overhead compartment, make my way off the plane and through customs, and then head straight to my hotel on foot. It’s some budget place not too far from the airport that looks like all of the furniture was purchased at the Jetsons’ section of Ikea—lime-green molded plastic chairs, sherbet orange couches, and a lot of frigging bright white stuff. Obviously, I couldn’t give a rat’s ass if the hotel were a doghouse and I had to sleep on a flea-infested blanket. I am literally that tired.

  I check in, find my room—all a blur—and plop facedown into my soft queen-sized bed. It’s just past two in the morning, Sydney time, and two days later than when I left Houston. I plan to sleep for a few hours, head over to this Albert Hofer’s place, and then see if I can’t persuade him to tell me more about the photos from his late father, George.

  The weird part is, this Albert guy is related to Mitch Hofer, the four-time Olympic gold medalist who’s best known for his…eh-hem, huge pen. Or maybe because he’s a swimmer, I should call it a rowing oar and two buoys? Or his sharknado? Aquatic creamsicle? Fun flipper? Friendly meat-fountain?

  I roll onto my back. What am I doing lying here thinking of stupid names for penises? I am seriously exhausted. I close my eyes and finally drift off.

  A loud knock on my door wakes me up later that morning. Groggy as hell, I peel my head from the pillow and glance at my phone.

  Two o’clock. In the afternoon! But I set my alarm for five a.m.

  I inspect the settings and realize I didn’t turn the thing on. Dammit. I get to the door and thank the maid but turn down service. I need to get over to see Albert Hofer.

  I shower, change into jeans and a light-pink sweater—for a casual, nonthreatening look—and summon an Uber, but not only does the hour drive to North Curl Curl turn into two hours due to an accident, it’s a complete waste of time. Nobody’s home.

  Dammit! I knew I was taking a risk coming here without talking to Hofer first, but I just couldn’t see him agreeing over the phone to talk to a nobody. He needs to see I’m a real person with a real interest in this story. The way I see it, either the photo is real, which means the story is about how the Kemmler corporation makes things right, or the photo is a fake and the story is about who’s out to get the Kemmlers. Either way, I’m here for the truth.

  Standing on the front porch of this two-story house, one block from the most amazing beach, I decide that the day is too darn beautiful to waste—blue skies, turquoise water, and a perfect seventy-five degrees.

  Okay, one tiny trip to the beach, then I’m off to the library to do research. There’s also that museum downtown, whose curator belongs to my online group.

  As for Albert, I’ll come back tonight and hope I can catch him then.

  But I don’t. I spend the first day in a long, long time doing nothing but enjoying myself. I take a cruise around the Opera House, spend a few hours at the Taronga Zoo. (Hello, roos! Good day, koalas. What the hell animal are you, creepy thing with too many legs?) I meet a little lamb at the petting zoo named Leland and try not to blame it for having such a stupid name. I speed walk through the Royal Botanic Gardens. (Ooh…Australian flowers. I bet they’re deadly.) And finally, I scarf down a macadamia-encrusted ahi burger on a damper bun—kind of like a buttermilk biscuit shaped like a regular bun?—from some place recommended on Yelp. Delicious. Tomorrow, I’ll pay Albert Hofer a visit.

  The interesting thing, however, is that while I spent this entire day playing tourist and soaking in my first real trip to anywhere, I realized how much I love being in an unfamiliar place, exploring and learning. This has been the best day of my life.

  Except!

  Except for the fact that I cannot get that turdbowl of a stupid-ass Brit out of my ever-loving, dumb-as-
a-bucket-of-petrified-shit-for-brains head!

  I mean, pa-leez! Here I am in this beautiful city, the weather is perfect, people are friendly, and I’m living my dream of chasing down an exciting story that involves all of the major food groups for a juicy, epic exposé (WWII history, a wealthy family’s empire at stake, a scandalous war crime cover-up), and I’m thinking about that crappy little inn and how I left Merrick. Those eyes. Puppy dog meets Thor meets steaming hot pile of “Yes, please!”

  I sigh as I enter the lobby of my too-colorful hotel. I am officially stupid for wasting one minute of my time on that man, and I know it. But if he walked in here this very second, I’d be climbing him like a randy koala during mating season.

  I take the elevator up to my floor and, screw me, but that feeling is back—like Merrick’s eyes are on me. The feel of him lingers in my head long after I’m lying in bed.

  I don’t know what it is about Leland Merrick that makes me so damned crazy—I’m too grounded to be swept up by looks alone—but I am definitely getting sucked in by his magnetic force, like a moon to its man-planet.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Six a.m. sharp, I am up, dressed, and on my way back to Pearl Pearl or Putt Putt or whatever that beach town is called. The Uber driver is quick to give a lesson on Australian slang, but I only catch that Aussies are the masters of abbreviating words and ending them in vowels to make them sound super cute: choccy, lappy, footie, ambo. (Chocolate, laptop, football, ambulance.)