“Like the universe is out to get you for a simple accident? I don’t think so.”
“Yeah, you’re right. It’s stupid. Forget I said it.”
* * * *
Later that morning, the elevator door opened to the offices of Smith & Roland, people sprinting around, every one with armloads of papers and boxes. The place normally resembled the theater a few blocks down that only showed nature documentaries—quiet and boring with most of the audience half asleep. Something was definitely up.
Val’s office looked like a battle had just taken place. I stepped around cardboard boxes as she popped up from behind her desk.
“What’s going on?” I asked.
“Oh, Lexi. Everything is a mess! I don’t even know how to tell you this. You better sit down.” Her gravity-defying hair looked a bit more frizzed out than normal. “I’m not gonna be your editor anymore.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
She sighed and sat in her chair. “It’s true.”
“I don’t believe it.”
“Here, look.” Val brought up the email sent to her the afternoon before, from Mr. Smith’s secretary no less. A short and simple “Please clear out your office within twenty-four hours and report to Human Resources for your new job assignment.”
After reading the single line of text that so swiftly changed Val’s career, I wanted to scream and cry and throw myself on the ground in a toddler-esque tantrum yelling, “No! No! No!”
“Your last royalty check—it wasn’t a mistake,” she said and looked to me with glossy eyes. “Your book sales have dropped. So have some of my other authors. They say it’s all my fault.”
She stood and began placing some things in a box as she told me about her replacement—an outsider. This supposed miracle-worker of an editor had been lured away from another publishing house. Mr. Smith and Mr. Roland needed to make some major changes for the good of the company and hoped the big bucks they threw at this new woman would save it.
“She’s here already,” Val said, stifling her tears. “You’re meeting with her today in her temporary office. As soon as I’m cleared out, she’ll be moving in here.”
My relationship with Val far surpassed the editor-author marriage. We were also friends. She’d established my career and walked me through my first publishing experience. She’d given me my first big break and now she was my rock. How the hell would I do any of this without her?
As she reached to pull one of her photos off the wall, she broke down crying. I did the only thing I could think of.
“These assholes can’t fuck you over like this! This is unacceptable! If they don’t give you your job back, I’ll walk!”
“Lexi, no. They mean business. For the sake of your career, you need to stay put.”
Our eyes met. She was serious. I’d trusted Val on every aspect of my career in the past, no questions asked, and had no reason to doubt her advice now.
“Fine. I’ll meet with her. But if I don’t like her, she can go to hell. They all can.”
I walked down the hall confident as my Manolo Blahniks click-clacked on the marble, ready to raise some hell. A hand-written sign had been plastered to the door: Sheila Brown— Editor. The scent of a black Sharpie wafted into my nostrils as I pounded on the door. I heard a screechy “Come in” and found a middle-aged woman sitting behind the desk.
She flipped through a manuscript and didn’t look up when I strode through the door.
“Sit, Ms. Marshall.”
“I didn’t tell you who I am.” I wanted to show off my tough side.
“I already know,” she said and finally looked up at me. A fluorescent shade of pink lipstick decorated her lips, doing nothing to improve her ghastly pale skin and salt-and-pepper bob. “I’ve read all your books, including the latest.”
“Oh, I see.”
She was well prepared for only being on the job one day.
“Marisol Takes Manhattan, your newest and first in a series.” She paused to push her glasses up on her nose, and I awaited her praise. “It absolutely sucks.”
Feeling like a vacuum had sucked all the air out of my lungs, I struggled for oxygen. Everything around me went gray and the words “absolutely sucks” echoed in my brain over and over. I’d slaved over this book for the better part of six months, making every sentence perfect.
A shrill laugh blared into my ears. It sounded familiar. I couldn’t place it, but knew it didn’t come from Sheila. She sat emotionless.
“What do you mean? Are you sure you read the whole thing?”
“Yes, every boring, plotless, cliché-filled word.”
The room started to spin and a tingle radiated throughout my legs. Fearful that I might black out, I moved a box of office supplies from a chair and sat down. I breathed slowly and deeply, staring at her, wondering if I’d heard her right. How could she possibly say that? I was Lexi Marshall—a multi-published author. Women adored my books. They devoured them. This malicious statement insulted every fiber of my being.
My temperature began to rise as bewilderment changed to anger. Ms. Editor handed me my disc, then ripped some sheets from a legal pad and shoved those at me, too. They were filled top to bottom with chicken scratch.
“I made notes for you. Revise and have it back to me in two weeks.”
Finally finding the confidence and attitude I’d possessed before entering her office, I asked, “And what if I refuse?”
“Then you can try and sell your garbage to another publisher.”
* * * *
I left the office, stomping down the street with my jaw clenched tight like a pit bull’s. I expected the pressure to crumble my teeth, but instead it gave me a massive atom-bomb-like headache.
How could this happen? Women everywhere loved my books. This Sheila had no friggin’ clue. Who the hell was she to tell me how to write my novel? An archaic, styleless shrew couldn’t possibly know what today’s fashion forward woman wanted to read.
I seethed and walked on, remembering my massage appointment. The thought of hot rocks being rubbed on my skin sounded excruciatingly painful. I just wanted to go home and drown myself in a bottle of my favorite cabernet. The fact that it was only ten o’clock in the morning meant zero to me.
I keyed into my apartment and Cha Cha ran up to me, jumping around, her tiny painted nails scratching at my leg. A hyper dog was the last thing I needed to deal with. Pushing her away, I grabbed the wine from the kitchen and walked toward the bedroom. My body yearned for the high-powered jets of the whirlpool tub.
As I approached the door, high and low pitched moans sounded from behind it like a porno flick on full volume. Were Betty and Floyd screwing again? My eighty-year-old neighbor’s bedroom butted up against mine. It wouldn’t be the first time I’d heard them getting it on mid-day, but they’d never been this loud before. I walked into my bedroom and found Brenda spread eagle on top of my velvet duvet wearing my black hooker boots. Zak’s hairless, perfectly tanned ass pumped up and down and neither of them even noticed me there. I threw the bottle of wine on the floor, shattering it on the hardwood.
“Oh my God, Lexi!” Brenda exclaimed, covering up her pierced nipples with a purple beaded bolster pillow. My boyfriend lay naked between her thighs and her first thought was to cover her flabby tits?
Zak jumped off the bed. “It’s not what it looks like.”
“Oh, so you weren’t fucking