If I Say Yes (2 page)

I can hardly recognize my mother’s soft, delicate face; she was a natural beauty, one that everyone wanted to star in their next movie
at the height of her career. Her face is mangled with large, jagged cuts
that run across it. The blood is already starting to dry. Examining the
rest of her body, I see she is covered from head to toe with multiple
stab wounds. Under the cross-hatch of wounds, faint bruises form from
the multiple contusions she has suffered as well.

“Mom,” I whisper. I scoop her body into my arms and pull her close to my body. Her head rests against my chest as I begin to rock back and forth. “Don’t be dead… please, don’t be dead.” I know my plea is useless; she is already gone. The amount of blood throughout
the house and pooling around her and the blank expression in her blue
eyes is proof enough. Tears form in my eyes. “You can’t be dead.”

I cry out loud, and my body begins to shake involuntarily. “I didn’t
mean what I said… I forgive you.” My voice breaks and barely comes
out. I think back to the last conversation we had. Which, honestly,
wasn’t anything outside the norm, since we fought constantly the little
time we were around each other. We had a toxic mother-daughter
relationship. If there’s an award for worst parents ever, mine would win, hands down. But today, today’s argument was different. It had been the final straw in her attempt to break me down. I had yelled at
her, uttering all the same obscenities and same ‘I hate you’. I had told
her that she was the worst mother in the world, and that I would be better off if she would just die. I never really meant that last part. No
matter how unloving, cruel, and horrible they were, neither of my
parents deserved to die, at least not like this.

I shake my mother slightly, but she doesn’t stir. Of course she
doesn’t; she is long gone. “Please… please… just come back.” I choke out the last three words. It doesn’t matter that I have spent a lifetime
hating her, nor does it matter that she took the one thing that made me
happiest in the world right out from under my nose. At the moment, I could care less about all the horrible things she has said and done. Nothing, I repeat:
nothing
, she has done warranted her death. I begin to cry, sobbing uncontrollably. I cry because however rotten she was, she is gone, and I never got to say goodbye or to take back any of the things I have ever said to her.

“It’s a shame things had to end like this.” I snap my head up and
find my father leaning against the door frame. His dark brown hair is
a tousled mess. He is still wearing the charcoal suit I last saw him in, minus the jacket and tie. His forehead is creased, and his dark brown
eyes, the exact same shade as mine, narrow. In one hand, he is holding
a large, white, terry cloth towel stained with blood. In the other is a
large butcher knife, dripping blood. His lips quirk up into a sinister
grin that sends a chill down my spine. “You can’t really be sad, can
you? Not after what she did to you… to me… to us.”

His words linger in the air.

“Y-Y-You did this?” I ask weakly.

He struts across the room toward me, and I pull my mother closer,
as if I can protect her from any further harm. I glance up at him hovering
over me, and my eyes flicker to the knife in his hands. My father follows
my gaze and smiles. He tosses the knife onto their oversized poster
bed and wipes his hands off with the towel before tossing it onto the bed as well.

“Of course I did,” he sneers. My father smiles, not showing one ounce of remorse for what he did.

“Why? Why would you do this?”

“The bitch had it coming.” He smiles again and sends another wave
of chills down my spine. “I did it for us. But more importantly, I did it
for you, Elizabeth.” Then he lunges for me…

Present Day

DULL. BORING. PATHETIC.

I exit out of the email screen on my computer and push away from
my wooden desk. A frustrated groan escapes my lips. It’s the same thing, over and over again. An author wishing and hoping to land an agent, to be published, to become the next big thing. Me, and about a million other people in this world. If one thing is lacking from being
involved in the world of books, it’s imagination. No one has it anymore.
Most books are all the same. The only books that can both thrill and
excite me are the books that belong in the Horror/Thriller genre. That
is where the real art form of writing lays, the books that truly hang
on the verge of being genius. Everything else is wretched, worthless. Simply put, everything besides horror is mundane.

And the reason why being forced to work on the Romance floor of
Harder’s Literary Agent House is the worst job I can possibly have.

I shouldn’t complain. I’m lucky to even have such a prestigious job
fresh out of college, especially since I only spent the last year interning
here for experience. When I interned here, I worked alongside one of the biggest agents representing authors in the Horror/Thriller genre. Nothing like a good thriller keeps me on the edge of my seat, turning
page after page, trying to figure out what is going to happen next, and
who is behind it all. Trust me; it’s a much better alternative than sitting
in the dark, wiping away tears, rooting for the guy you want to win
the girl’s heart, and waiting for that happy ending. Nonetheless, when
Lawrence Harder hired me full time, it came with one condition: “I had to spread my wings and fly.” His exact words. Either work in Romance,
or try my hardest to land a delivery job at another literary agency and
work my way to the top. Which could take years, if I succeeded at all.
I
couldn’t risk that, since it doesn’t fall in line with my list. So I took the
job, regardless of how much I despise it.

Three months ago, I took the coveted agent position here, and I
haven’t signed a single author yet. Mr. Harder assures me that it takes
time to shift into a new genre, and that I will eventually adjust and
find the perfect author. Let’s be real for a second; not many authors
are flooding the email of a twenty-four-year-old agent just starting out
in the world. Then we have Viola Harder, my boss’ most recent wife.
She is problematic in the most ridiculous ways. The only things she has
going for her is that she is strikingly beautiful and in the best shape
any woman of twenty-five can be. Other than that? Nothing, absolutely
nothing fills that stupid, bottle blonde head of hers. She walks around
the floors, strutting around like she is God’s gift to earth, and she is large and in charge. All because she is married to the man who owns
the company. Viola’s had it out for me since my first day at orientation
over a year ago, for who knows whatever reason, and she has been
trying her best to get me fired ever since.

Viola’s newest arguments are that I bring absolutely nothing to the
table and that my place in the company is a waste of space, time, and
money. I’m easily replaceable. As if she can hear my thoughts from six
floors above, my email screen pops up on the computer, flashing with
a new message from the devil herself.

From: hotblonde69

To: [email protected]

Ms. Winter,

Tick-tock. Tick-tock. Tick-tock.

Do you know what that is the sound of? That is the sound of the clock ticking, a reminder that your time here is quickly running
out.
You still have yet to sign anyone, and it’s only a matter of time before
LJ takes notice and rids the company of you, once and for all. I,
unfortunately, cannot say that it would be with the utmost sadness
to
see you leave HLAH. I will be absolutely thrilled when that day
comes. Believe me, that day will come. Sooner than you think.

Signed,

Viola Harder

Vice President of HLAH

I shake my head and laugh at the sheer lack of professionalism in her email. First of all, who has an email account with the screen name
hotblonde69? Seriously, how old is she again? Sixteen? Her threat,
however immature as it may seem, is quite valid, though. I hate to agree
with the woman, but it’s only a matter of time before Mr. Harder decides
to get rid of me. Am I going to sign an author anytime soon? Especially
if I can’t even get through a single sentence of a query letter? I have
to do something to fix this. I have to get out of here and back to where
I belong—in Horror/Thriller. I quickly grab the phone resting on top of my desk.

“Heidi,” I say into the receiver. Heidi is my assistant, a year younger
than me, and an intern with the same aspirations I have. She has been
a
godsend
. “I need to talk with Mr.
Harder
. Can you
see
if he is
available
?”

“Right away, Ms. Winter.” Her voice still holds a trace of a southern
accent. I look up from my desk, out the panel of windows in front of me, to see her sitting at her small oak desk and shake my head.

“How many times do I have to remind you to call me Liza?” I hate
being called Ms. Winter. It sounds too formal and makes me feel older
than I am.

Heidi runs a hand through her long, strawberry blonde hair and releases a sigh into the phone. “Yes, Ms. Win— I mean, Liza.” I smile
and see her return the smile through the window. “I’ll call up to his
office now.”

“Thank you.” I hear the receiver click, indicating that she hung up,
and watch her dial Mr. Harder’s secretary. A few seconds later, a smile
spreads across her face, she nods, and hangs up the receiver. I pick up my phone on the first ring.

“Mr. Harder can meet with you for a few minutes. But you must
hurry,” Heidi says quickly. I nod my head, acknowledging her through
the window, and hang up the phone.

***

The elevator opens up to a small desk just outside a set of large
wooden double doors. Jennifer smiles at me as I step out of the elevator.
Her sleek blonde hair is pulled back into a tight bun, and she wears a black skirt suit. Mr. Harder has a thing for blondes. Luckily, I have a
head of unruly black, wavy hair. It’s reassuring knowing that I was
most likely not hired on for some sick, perverted idea of his. The man
could be a pig, but he is the best businessman out there. Jennifer nods
at me as I walk past her desk and push open one of the doors. The
door swings inward into a large office, with nothing but windows
overlooking the bustling city below. Near the furthest wall is a large
modern desk with steel legs curved into arches and a glass tabletop. The
oversized, overstuffed leather chair behind the desk is facing towards the
window, blocking my view of the man.

“Mr. Harder?” He doesn’t turn around. I clear my throat and take
a deep breath. “Mr. Harder, I really appreciate the opportunity you have
given me to work for your company, but my particular skills would
best serve you and the company outside of the Romance department.
Each query letter I read leaves me wanting more, and I fear that we’ve
lost a number of potential authors due to my misplaced skills. I believe
a transfer to Horror and Thriller would serve the company best, as my
talents lay in that area.”

The words spill out of my mouth in a frantic rant. When I finish,
I stand glued to the floor, waiting for what is about to come. Nothing.
The room is quiet. My body is shaking, and I am still trying to wrap
my head around the fact that I really just said all of that to Mr. Harder.
I probably just secured my name at the top of the next-to-go list. I am
finally able to move and turn to leave. I might as well start packing up
my office now, what little I do have in there. “What is it about romance
that
you don’t like?” The voice
doesn’
t belong to Mr. Harder. The l
eather
chair turns around and reveals that it is definitely not him, but a much
younger, more handsome man.

“I-I-I’m sorry,” I stutter. “I thought you were Mr. Harder.”

“Of course you did.” The man stands up, walks around the desk,
and leans back on it with his arms supporting him. He crosses his legs
out in front of him, and he smiles. His is the kind of smile that is utterly
alluring, one that melts a girl’s heart and sweeps her off her feet. He’s
gorgeous, with his dark brown hair and nearly black eyes, and he
knows it. His white button up dress shirt tightens around his chest
with his arms extending behind him, showing off the curves of his
muscles. His black dress pants aren’t tight in the way that he should be humiliated, but rather in a way that conforms to his legs. I’m sure the view from behind is just as nice as the view from the front. “So… what about romance novels is it that you don’t like?”

My heart flutters. His voice is smooth and deep, one I could sit
and listen to for hours.
What is going on with me?
No man has this kind
of effect on me. Not anymore. “I just don’t,” I say sharply.