The Siren
“How much are they paying you for this?”
Zach chuckled and gave Nora some concrete suggestions for where to take the next two or three chapters.
“And I want five more chapters by tomorrow morning,” Zach said even though he knew that was an almost impossible challenge.
“Slave-driver,” she said.
“Nora, we’ve lost a lot of time—”
“Zach,” she said and he heard the smile in her voice. “Relax. It’s me. Slave-driver’s a compliment.”
They said their goodbyes and Zach hung up the phone. He looked up and saw his assistant standing in the doorway of his office holding a box in her hands.
“Oh, God. Another one?” he asked.
“Afraid so, boss.” Mary came inside his office. She put a book-size flat box on his desk.
“Have we figured out who is sending this nonsense yet?”
Zach picked up the box and warily tore off the plain brown paper wrapping.
“I think I know who it is,” Mary said. “Wonder what it is this time.”
“It was, what, anal beads two days ago. And a blindfold before that. And what was it last week?”
“Lube,” Mary supplied. “K-Y Jelly specifically, I believe.” Zach eyed Mary and suppressed a grin. Mary was his second favorite woman he’d met since coming to New York. “If you keep working with Nora Sutherlin, you’ll be able to start your own sex shop.”
“Anything would be preferable to this. I thought only adults were allowed to work in publishing,” he said. Turning the box over in his hands, Zach considered just tossing it in the trash. Ever since he’d started working with Nora, a new “gift” would arrive in his office mailbox or on his desk every couple of days.
“Come on, you know better than that. I’ll bet you anything it’s Thomas Finley. He thought he’d get the job in L.A since he’s been here the longest. He’s been pretty pissed ever since J.P. promised it to you. But everyone knows he’s still here only because he sucks up so much to the big bosses. He’s doesn’t edit books. He just spit-shines shit.”
Zach laughed and decided Nora and Mary needed to meet if they hadn’t already.
“I appreciate the loyalty as well as the imagery. But let’s get this over with, shall we? Lovely,” Zach said as he pulled out a pair of bright silver handcuffs with a set of tiny keys hanging off the middle link.
“Nice. Very shiny.” Mary took them from him and examined them closely. “You have the right to remain silent,” Mary began and slapped the cuffs on his left wrist. Zach gave her a dirty look. “Sorry. Too many Law & Order marathons, I think.”
“Far too many.”
Mary took the key and slipped it in the lock. She turned it but the cuffs didn’t pop open.
“Shit,” she breathed in shock. “The key doesn’t work.”
“Surely not.” Zach took the key and tried it himself. Nothing happened. “Bloody hell.”
“Boss, I’m so sorry,” Mary said. “I’ll call a locksmith right now.”
“That bastard. If it’s Finley, I’ll kill him. Whoever it was wanted this to happen.”
She raced from his office and headed to her own. He could only imagine how long it would take to get a locksmith here during the lunch rush hour.
He glanced down and saw Nora’s manuscript in front of him. And then he looked at his door. He picked up his phone again.
“Ian McEwan’s Cement and Incest Emporium—”
“Nora, really.”
“I love caller ID. What can I do you for?”
“I have a small problem involving handcuffs,” Zach said, glancing down at his wrist. “Do you know anything about locks?”
“If you knew how much of my life I’ve spent chained up, you wouldn’t ask that question.”
Zach paused a moment and said five words that were surprisingly difficult to get out.
“I need your help, Nora.”
Zach waited for her to laugh or tease him. Instead, she gave him a small piece of advice that he decided to take and hung up the phone.
“I called the locksmith,” Mary said, coming back into his office. “He said he’d be here in a couple of hours.”
“Cancel him. I called Nora. She gave me a suggestion.”
“What did she say?”
“She said, ‘Three words—come to me.’”
Zach stood up and pulled on his long gray coat; he stuffed his hands into his pockets so no one could see the cuffs dangling off his left wrist.
“And I think I will.”
Walking toward the elevator, Zach stiffened in fury as Thomas Finley strolled past him wearing an oily smirk on his face.
“Your jokes are not amusing, Finley,” Zach said as he continued toward the elevators.
“That’s because they’re not jokes, Easton.” Finley ducked into his office and Zach resisted the infantile urge to personally show Finley what was and was not amusing. Finley on the floor coughing up blood—that would be amusing.
Still fuming, Zach momentarily forgot about the handcuffs on his left hand when he stuck his hand out to hit the down button on the elevator. He heard a throat clearing and looked to the right.
J.P. stood at the receptionist’s desk with his eyebrow arched in disapproval.
“Long story,” Zach said. As much as he wanted to rant to J.P. about Finley’s torments, he was no schoolyard tattletale. He’d handle it himself when the time came.