Insta-Hate (Instant Gratification #1) Page 2

  Maybe if Hansel let me write about rabid chickens, I’d find some inspiration. Unfortunately, they wanted the quintessential shirtless hottie with airbrushed abs on each book, followed by the same plot rehashed through a dozen different characters and iterations. Change up the sex scenes and you’ll have the readers in your pocket, Margaret said on the phone last week. But Margaret was short-sighted and money-hungry, and she underestimated the power of the fangirl. Fangirls would figure that shit out in a heartbeat; then they would devour me alive, and I wouldn’t even blame them. Who wrote the same shit twelve different ways?

  “You’re fidgeting with your scarf. Take it off,” Margaret snapped.

  What was she, my mother? I unwound the pretty noose from my neck and hung it on the hook behind the door—but just because I was hot. Not because she told me to. Margaret started eyeballing my bag, so I gave her my sharp, no-way-in-hell look. I never left it laying around. If the laptop was stolen, my life would be screwed. It had everything on it. Every cover, every manuscript through each stage of editing—rough to polished, my contacts, finances. Basically my entire life hovered on the tiny microchips safely nestled within the machine.

  “Come and sit down, we have three minutes.” Margaret’s dark hair was streaked with what she called glitter. My mom called it gray and had Clairol’d the hell out of her dark hair from the ripe age of thirty. Every two weeks like clockwork. Or at least she used to. I hadn’t seen her in a long time. Pushing those feelings aside, I eyeballed the seat beside Margaret. I preferred to stand. My nerves were standing up like hairs on my arm during a horror flick.

  “They may be running late,” I offered.

  She patted the seat beside her. “They won’t be. They are professionals.”

  I didn’t miss the jab, but chose to swallow it down instead of making an “unprofessional” scene. I sat next to her, my back stiff as a board. Relaxing meant chill, and I was not chill at all. I was on fire. When Margaret’s posture began to mirror mine, her beady dark eyes fastened on me. She knew. Damn it.

  The door across from us swung open in a wide arc, revealing a peppy blonde with taller heels than mine and a perfectly applied red lip. I was jelly. Every time I tried to wear red lipstick, I wound up looking like the clown from Stephen King’s It. “Welcome to Hansel Publishing, ladies. If you’ll follow me, I’ll show you to the conference room.” Saved by the assistant.

  We followed her perfectly pressed, black pencil skirt up a narrow flight of stairs to the second floor, where she opened the door to a spacious room that held a table that would easily seat twelve. The windows weren’t smudged and the view up and down the residential street was nice. Tiny, bright green leaves and flowers were budding on the trees that lined the road, and people walked this way and that, smiling contentedly or nodding at one another. This was the land New York forgot.

  When the young woman left the room and gently closed the door behind her with a smile through the glass panel, the vulture, better known as my literary agent, descended. Her talons were sharp and pointed at my jugular. “You’re insane if you turn this down,” she hissed, trying to hide her anger behind a bland facade and failing miserably at it. Her finger quaked in my face.

  “I’m here to listen. I’ll make the best decision for me based upon what they offer.”

  “You know the offer. I laid it out for you over the phone.”

  Then why are we even here? There had to be more than this. I looked back at the street below. The bustling, smiling people looked happy, for the most part. They weren’t in a cage of stone, glass, and pretention. I let my fingers slide down the pane, mussing the perfection, while inwardly smiling at my tiny act of completely erasable vandalism.

  Margaret seethed from her seat across the table from me. Screw her. Screw her and screw Ren, his dick pics, and his hairy monster balls. Screw these shoes—they hurt my feet—and screw this fucking building.

  “Sit,” Margaret barked, as if I was a child she was in charge of chastening.

  “No. In fact, Margaret, you’re right. I’ve heard the terms of this agreement.”

  “And?” Mr. Hansel questioned from just inside the door. His voice was strong and masculine. It filled the room; the booming word hanging in space as though there was no gravity to pin it to the ground.

  I looked from Margaret’s stoic face and back to him, standing taller. “I’m not interested. I’m sorry to have wasted your time, Mr. Hansel.”

  He smiled warmly. “I’ve read your work and I think you’re an incredibly talented young lady. I don’t make many offers of this magnitude. Do you understand what we’re offering?”

  “I think my agent explained it well, but I’m not sure it’s what I want to do at this time.”

  Hansel was probably in his fifties; sharply dressed in a tailored gray suit and matching eyes that danced with mischief. If the circumstances were different, if I needed this deal, I might have enjoyed writing twelve of the same stories for him. He grinned as if reading my mind. “If you change your mind, the offer is good for six months. We’d love to have you on our team.”

  “Thank you. I’ll keep that in mind.” And I would. But for now, six months sounded like the perfect length of time to try something new—something that didn’t involve ball sack text messages and agent harpies from hell.

  TWO

  Favors and Friends

  Arsen

  The phone had been ringing off the hook all morning, and now the annoying ring tone was blaring into the office yet again. Our secretary was on maternity leave for five more weeks, plus two more of vacation time. “Cody, can you get that?” His muffled rebuttal filtered through the wall across from mine. Asshole. I grabbed the phone and answered, “Daniel.”

  “It’s good to hear a familiar voice,” came a voice from my past.

  “Josh?”

  “Hell yeah. Who else you know with an accent like this?” It was true. His was thick and southern, and he drawled every syllable until it was stretched as thin as it could go.

  I laughed. “None, man. No one can match yours.”

  “Damn straight,” he replied, although the words were uttered like Day-um St-uh-ray-eeet.

  I leaned back in my chair and took my glasses off, tossing them onto the pile of papers covering the desk in front of me. “What are you into now?” Rubbing the bridge of my nose, I smiled. It had been too long since he and I last spoke.

  “You know I moved to the Big Apple, right?” Josh asked. Kids yelled in the background and I could hear him cover the receiver. “I’m on the phone, heathens. Take it upstairs!” The laughter faded into the distance and my buddy came back on the line. “Sorry ‘bout that.”

  “I had no idea you were living in the city. Why didn’t you call sooner?” Why didn’t I call him? I’m a bad friend, that’s why. “Congrats on the baby. Boy or girl?”

  “Little boy. He’s chubby and he’s startin’ to laugh a little. It’s fun watching ‘em grow,” he cooed. “The older ones wrestle him everywhere. We have to watch ‘em like hawks, but it’s worth it.”

  “I bet it is.” The whole thing reminded me of my mother, who was constantly reminding me that I needed to ‘find a nice girl and settle down’ so she could have grandbabies to bounce and spoil.

  “I’d love to say I was callin’ to catch up, but I’m not. I know you’re busy, but I need a favor and it’s a big one.” Josh wasn’t one to ask for anything, so those words caught my attention and made me sit up straight.

  “What do you need?”

  “Well, I’m working in the psych department at Columbia now. Actually, as of a week ago, I’m the department head. And I was wondering if you’d consider guest lecturing for us this fall.” Josh spoke slowly and sounded like a hick, but he was brilliant at what he did, which was delve into the human psyche. Columbia made a good decision in making him their department head. Every college with a psych program worth any weight at all wanted Josh to be a part of it.

  Why me? “Uh, I’d love to hel
p out, man, but I’m not sure this is my area of expertise.” What on earth would I talk to psychology students about?

  “The topic’s right up your alley. We want to offer a course on ‘The Psychology of Love’. I’ll help you with anything technical if you need it, but you’ve got this down to a science. I doubt I could be of much help to you anyway. And you’re popular. Your site is making headlines all over the damn place. After the Falkster/Tate wedding, your face is everywhere. It could draw a good crowd, I think. And the president is always pushing each program to produce guest instructors; to broaden the students’ horizons, or some bureaucratic bullshit like that. You know the deal.”

  People in power wanted their names in the paper, their schools, too. “Yeah. I do. How much time are we talking?”

  “Couple hours once a week. I can get you an evening slot if you’d rather teach after your office hours.”

  “That would be ideal.” I had a lot on my plate, but this might be a fun distraction. “Freshmen?”

  “Probably some.”

  I absolutely did not want to add more to my to-do list, but there was something about Josh—his accent, his charisma, and the fact that he respected me enough to ask—that made me accept his offer. “I’ll do it.”

  “If you want to take time to think about it-”

  “No, I’ll do it. E-mail the details and I’ll do the rest. Thanks for the opportunity, Josh.”

  “Thank you for helping me out. I’ll send the information.”

  We said our goodbyes, both on a high from anticipation. That high didn’t last long. The new client information sitting on the desk in front of me was lengthy. I had a hell of a lot of homework to do for this one. He had very peculiar and particular tastes in women and sex. Truthfully, we may not be able to match this one. Rubbing my temples, I blew out a long breath, picked up my glasses, and went back to work.

  I had a few months to worry about the class. Procrastination was my specialty.

  ***

  Mr. Wells was a rotund man with more facial hair on his lip than on the whole of his head. It was coarse and silver and cascaded down like a wiry waterfall parted by a rock. To be honest, the man quite resembled a walrus. It was disturbing. He hovered just outside my office door, hitting on my newly-returned secretary. Another sure sign that my time would be wasted on him.

  I agreed to speak with him in person after calling him last week and telling him that he wasn’t accepted as a client and we were dismissing him from our client list. Our company was extremely selective regarding which clients we took on. I’d done my homework after reviewing his application, and his goals didn’t fit our program.

  For one thing, we spent a lot of time with the person, so we had to like the person on some level. I didn’t like Wells. From his entitled attitude to his dismissive, abrupt tone, he grated on my nerves every time I spoke with him.

  With our company, there was no simple multiple-choice personality test taken online and run through a database. We met in person, asked questions, analyzed their needs, and then asked more questions. The process took weeks, if not months. But to date, not one of our clients had been dissatisfied with our service. Not a single one of the pairs we’d made had ever complained.

  What else did we do? Well, InstantGratification.com wasn’t your typical online dating website. It was exclusive, and in all honesty, nothing about the process was instant. It was, however, guaranteed to be gratifying for both parties involved. Our services weren’t cheap because our time wasn’t cheap. Our client list was selective. We only took a tiny fraction of those who applied through our website.

  Because of the nature of our work and the clients we served, our databases were encrypted to within an inch of their lives. Security was important to people with money, and we made sure that their information never ended up in hacker hands. Additionally, the website was just a jumping-off point. If we decided to take on a client after completing our battery of psychological assessments and other tests, we would give them access to the website. The person would only able to view the profiles of people who were at least eighty percent compatible with his or her personality, needs and wants. It was up to the client and the paired to arrange to meet and see if the relationship would proceed further. While we could find a person whose personality and needs mirrored their own, we couldn’t create chemistry and we couldn’t predict it. No one could.

  Wells waddled into my office and sat down on one of the leather chairs across from me, deflating the cushions with a shrill squeaking noise that resembled a slow-leaking balloon. He shifted his ass cheeks until all of the air was gone and he was comfortable. “Thank you for agreeing to meet with me,” he said ponderously.

  From old money, Wells wasn’t one to take no for an answer, especially over the telephone. He’d called my private line and demanded to speak with me in person. I agreed, but already knew that I wouldn’t budge on this one. Wells wanted sex. It was as simple as that. InstantGratification, as kitschy as the name might sound, wasn’t a hook-up service. It was a description of the emotion that came from connecting with a paired partner on another level, and the instant intimacy that pairs often found.

  Shaking his limp hand, I settled in my seat and pushed my chair back, crossing one leg at the knee. I’d need to be comfortable for this conversation. “You’re welcome, but I’m really not sure that we can help you further. I explained why earlier.”

  “My tastes are unusual, but not singular. Surely you can find someone with similar passions. They say you’re the best.”

  Fuck yes, we are. I smiled. “Thank you for the compliment, but we don’t search for sexual partners. If we just hooked people up for sex, we’d be no better than a Madame or pimp, Mr. Wells. We pair individuals who are compatible for long-lasting relationships that are mutually beneficial for both parties.” No doubt there were people in the city with more peculiar appetites than Wells had, but we weren’t in the business of prostitution.

  “You sound like a lawyer,” he scoffed, his eyes narrowing and taking me in. I didn’t budge or take my eyes off of him. Standing your ground in front of rich assholes was important. Let them see you falter or sweat, and they’d go in for the kill. “But I suppose I understand. There’s no chance that offering to triple your fee would persuade you?” His eyes narrowed to see my reaction to his proposal. Men like him loved to flaunt their money as bait and see if any sucker was stupid enough to take the bite. Too bad I wasn’t a sucker.

  “No, sir. Our decision is final.” As I explained on the phone.

  He snorted and rocked forward, pushing himself up onto his feet. The cushion took a deep breath and slowly filled with life again. “You will keep my application discreet.” It wasn’t a question. Wells, a wealthy and influential businessman, would be raked over the coals if the press found out about his racy proclivities.

  “Of course. I’ll shred it myself.” And with that brief yet pointless meeting concluded, having to turn down a man who obviously wasn’t accustomed to hearing the word ‘no’, I escorted Mr. Wells to the door and his file to the industrial shredder. The sound of metal buzzing through paper was sweet relief to my ears.

  Another email pinging on my phone? Not so much.

  THREE

  Meltdown

  Alexandria

  My sister’s children were feral. At seven, her oldest daughter Natalia was the mildest and even she was using the couch cushions as a springboard to swan dive into the carpet, which was piled high with every pillow and blanket the munchkins could find. I caught her around the waist, mid-jump. “Whoa! You’re an airplane now, Tally.” And you don’t have any broken bones. Aunty Lexie for the win.

  She paused for half a beat before holding her arms out straight and making zooming noises while I whirled her around in circles. Crisis averted. My older sister Megan popped her head into the living room, mouthing the word thanks. I winked and kept spinning, getting dizzier with each rotation. Suddenly the pile of blankets and pillows didn’t seem like such
a crazy idea. My niece and nephews were obviously geniuses.

  Her youngest boys ran into the room, plowing into my legs. I lost my balance and the two ghost hunters went down with the plane and the aunt in a tangle of kicking legs and flailing arms. “Get offa me!” Will shouted. He was only five, lean and lanky on his best day, and had unfortunately landed at the bottom of the pile-up. Chase, his younger Irish twin, screamed for help.

  “Okay, munchkins. I need to talk to Mom for a few minutes.” I lifted Tally off of my spleen and sat up. All three of them groaned as I left them on the living room floor pounding at each other playfully.

  “Hey,” I said to Megan, poking my head into the kitchen. She was busy chopping salad for dinner. The marinara on the stove was simmering and the water for the spaghetti was beginning to boil in its metal pot. “Smells delicious.”

  Her eyes widened, brows bowing deeply. “You’re staying, right?”

  I eyeballed the back door. If I played my cards right, I could still escape. “I should go. I have a lot to do.”

  She frowned at the lettuce she was attacking. “I miss you. We never spend time together anymore.” A tear escaped her eye. Holy hell. Defcon Four.

  “What is this?” I hugged her shoulders. She shook her head back and forth, stifling the tears that clogged her throat. I pulled her against me as quiet sobs wracked her body. Is she pregnant again? She always gets crazy-emo when she’s preggers.

  “Nothing. I’m just being stupid,” she cried, pulling away from me and grabbing a tissue from her pocket. The fact that a tissue was at the ready meant that she’d been in breakdown mode all day. She blew her nose loudly, emitting a honking sound at the end.

  I couldn’t help but smile. She’d done it her whole life. The middle school boys were relentless once they heard it. She cried a lot then too, according to her stories. Meg was always a crier. Me? Not so much. Even before my accident, I didn’t cry. Mom said that I was a content baby, a happy child, and a quiet pre-teen. Something must have gotten knocked loose when I hit my head, because I was none of those things as an adult—on the days I chose to adult, anyway.