Teach Me (28 page)

“A
kiss?” I gulp. Callie
never said anything about kissing.

“It
never goes farther, hon,” Rob
reassures me. “His hand
on your knee, leaning in to whisper in your ear. Any of that. Look,
just do your thing. I’ll
text you as soon as I have what I need, and we’re
out of here.”

I
swallow and nod. Rob nudges me. “I’ve
been hovering around that empty seat next to him, so hurry over there
before some skank grabs it. I’ll
be right back here.” He
indicates an empty table in the back. It’s
somewhat shadowed, perfect for him to snap his evidence.

Running
a hand down my hair, I square my shoulders and take quick steps
towards the bar. Nope, too quick. I’ll
face plant at this
rate, and that’s
no way to make a first impression. With a breath, I slow my steps,
focusing on the feel of the dress swirling around my bare legs, how
my breasts bounce a little as I walk in the nude kitten heels. Sexy.
Confident. It’s
like playing a part, I decide. Acting in a play. I just have to
pretend to be the kind of girl who picks up men in bars.

Easy.

I
slide onto the stool beside the target and set my clutch on the bar.
Then I glance over for the first time at the man I’m
supposed to entice.

He’s
hot.

Not
just hot, but smoldering.
Oh
shit
. My insides flip. I
wasn’t
prepared for hotness. He’s
facing away from me and I can only see his profile: rich brown hair,
a strong jaw, and the kind of sexy, arrogant expression that makes me
think of one of those guys in a British costume drama: the kind with
a massive country estate who looks great wading out of a lake.

Tonight,
he’s
all alone, sipping something that looks like whiskey. I look away,
wanting to stay casual, but when I glance back, he’s
looking straight at me.

My
heart slams into my chest.

His
blue eyes are cool, assessing. His suit is clearly tailor-made, or
just expensive as hell, and the white button down molds to his
muscular torso like threads of the gods.

I
don’t
dare look down to see how his pants fit.

He
turns away and so do I, my cheeks burning as I grapple for something
to say.

Not
that it matters, really. Not with the way he looked at me just now,
like I was uninteresting, mundane, plain, not worth a spark of
interest. I reach for my clutch, wondering if I should give up and
leave right now, when suddenly, fingers brush over the back of my
hand.

“What’s
your pleasure?”

My
stomach clenches and my pulse quickens. Am I really going to do this?

*

What happens next? Discover the rest of the story in
THE HOTEL
.

Available now
!

If you thought Jack was a sexy book boyfriend, turn the page and meet
Jackson Ford from Roxy Sloane’s upcoming novel
EXPLICIT
!

The manuscript was delivered to
Denton Rifkin
that
morning by messenger. To the annoyance of my assistant Carolyn I’d
been asked to sign for it personally, so I rode the gleaming steel
and glass elevator down eleven floors to the lobby as the rain tapped
against the glass, blurring my view of bustling New York City below.
Immediately I opened the envelope, withdrew the manuscript, and read
the title page: Untitled
by Jackson Ford.

Yes,
that Jackson Ford. Creator of “Garrett Addison,”
arguably the best spy character since Jack Reacher, and author of my
all-time favorite spy thriller, Lions and
Lambs. The man behind a dozen novels, four
movie adaptations, and a hundred “Page Six” listings.
That Jackson Ford. My newest author.

Believe
me, I was as shocked as anyone when Louise Hayden called me into her
office to announce that Jackson’s former editor, Sol
Braunstein, was retiring and I’d be editing Ford. My mouth
dropped open. This was either an opportunity to join the literary
big leagues, or to fuck-up royally.

“Thank
you, Louise,” I’d said when I regained language. “But,
why me? There’s six other editors who’ve been here
longer, who are better suited --”

“Ellie,”
she’d interrupted, “there’s no one better suited to
Jackson Ford than you.”

Yet
that morning, as I paged through the first three chapters of Ford’s
latest, still-untitled work, I wasn’t so sure. It had none of
the meaningful storylines, memorable action sequences and stunning
dialogue that had launched Jackson Ford into the literary
stratosphere a decade before. It was more of the same formulaic,
overblown “super-villains and sex kittens” crap that
Louise and Solly had allowed him to produce for the past few years.

“Oh
God,” I sighed as Carolyn entered with my Earl Grey. “This
is not even physically possible! At one point he has Addison jumping
from a private jet onto a speeding train!”

“Does
his shirt get ripped off?” Carolyn quipped.

“By
an astrophysicist. With double D’s.”

“I’m
sorry, Ellie,” she said when we stopped laughing. “Too
bad you can’t do anything about it.”

For
a moment we were silent, as the rain drummed gently on my office
window.

“Why
can’t I?” I challenged.

“Come
on, El, get real. Ford is the cash cow. No one wants to mess with
that.”

“But
his numbers are declining,” I reminded her.

“Yeah,
but even his declining numbers pay for half our staff.”

“I’m
thinking just an email, to suss him out. This man is capable of
brilliant work,” I said. “We can’t let him become
a parody of himself. This is a chance to create something great.”

“Listen
Ellie,” said Carolyn. “He was with Sol Braunstein for ten
years. You’ve been his editor for, like, two minutes. You
haven’t even had a proper sit-down. He’s probably pretty
skittish. And need I remind you, there are plenty of other
publishers who would love to have Jackson Ford on their list. I’m
just saying, tread lightly.”

I
value Carolyn’s advice. I do. So the day went by and I didn’t
send the email. But that evening, once she had gone and the halls
were quiet, I gave it a second thought. And I wrote him:

Evening Jackson. I’m so excited to be working
with you. I had a chance to look at the first three chapters of your
manuscript this morning. It’s a good beginning, though I think
it could benefit from some of the nuance and depth of Lions
and Lambs. So far, the action sequences
strain believability. Also, the women are underdeveloped. This is
most evident in the sexual encounters – they don’t
reflect reality. In general, the balance between fantasy and reality
needs a rethink. I look forward to working with you to reinvigorate
the brand.

Warm regards, Ellie

And
I hesitated. I understood Carolyn’s caution, but this was my
first interaction with him about his work, and I wanted him to know I
wasn’t going to settle. I wanted his best. It was a risk, but
the editors with the enviable lists didn’t get there by playing
it safe. I hit “send”.

A
half-hour later, after skimming a pile of agent submissions and
getting ready to leave, my computer pinged.

Congratulations Ellie! You work fast. You’ve
been my editor for less than a month, and you’re already
qualified to tell me how to write a novel. But what do I know? I’ve
only sold 400 million books over the past ten years while you were
learning how to operate the Nespresso machine. But I know I’m
in good hands because now I have an editor who speaks for all women.
What a bonus!

Maybe you don’t understand the women in my books
because you’re nothing like them. The women I write about are
willing to take risks to be with a man because they value physical
pleasure. They know that a great fuck – sex that leaves you
sweaty and panting – that kind of sex gives a woman power and
energy. And peace. It’s what the human body is for.

But you don’t understand that, do you? You don’t
understand how the full exploitation of the senses can affect your
ability to enjoy life, to laugh, to connect. For you it’s all
about the brain. You need to stop thinking and start feeling.

Do you even fantasize? You have to be able to imagine
it to do it.

The hair stood up on the back of my neck. What a
presumptuous asshole.

I’m fantasizing about you right now. We’re
alone in the elevator at DR. You’re wearing a skirt and
blouse, no bra or panties. I know you did that for me. I press the
“stop” button. Put my hands on your face and kiss your
lovely lips, the hunger building. My tongue enters your mouth, and
at first you hesitate, but then you let go and our tongues explore.
Now I know you’re ready. I unbutton your blouse – fast –
and I moan when I see your gorgeous tits. I need to taste your dark
nipples; now I’m biting them, losing control. I turn you, a
bit too rough, shoving you against the glass wall of the elevator. A
shiver goes down your spine as your hot breasts press against the
cold glass. Now you’re exposed for all New York to see, dirty
girl. I press my incredible hard-on against your ass, grinding
against you. Now I reach down, fumbling to free my cock, to yank up
your skirt. I’m biting your neck as my fingers enter your wet
pussy. I rub your juices over my cock, lubricating. I’m rock
hard. Your pussy is aching for me but I know what I want. “I’m
going to fuck your ass,” I say. Then I position my cock, and
with a few desperate thrusts I enter your ass. It’s so tight.
You cry out, over and over, as I fuck you. Your breath ragged. I
reach down and my fingers gently vibrate your clit making you climax.
And I fuck you and I fuck you till I can’t hold back, my cock
pulsing inside your tight ass.

“What
the fuck,” I whispered. I was kind of stunned. It was totally
inappropriate. What made him think he could talk to me like that? I
was so offended. What was even more disturbing was the fact that I
was also incredibly turned on.

Of
course I’d seen Jackson Ford, at book launches and readings.
With his physique and those blue eyes, it’s kind of impossible
not to stare at the man. He looks like a taller, more rugged Ryan
Gosling, with blondish-reddish hair and a neatly trimmed beard and
mustache. He radiates intelligence. Jackson Ford is commanding,
charismatic, and totally GQ, but still.

What
was he thinking? Writing something so explicit to a colleague? Did
he think himself untouchable? With his money and his influence. How
could I work with this man?

Suddenly
I began to panic. Was he firing me? I reread the email, assessing
his tone for clues. He was arrogant. And inflamed. But also
passionate.
“I’m fantasizing
about you right now.”
That was surely
a fabrication. A provocation.

“I’m
your editor, not a fucking groupie,” I said aloud.

I
hit “reply” and began to type.

Jackson,

Congratulations to you. There is more passion in the
email you just sent than in your last three books. Perhaps the lack
of emotion in your recent writing is the reason your female audience
has declined 17% since 2013. But that’s just one woman’s
theory.

I’m unafraid of you.

I want to make your work better than it has ever been.

If you want the same thing -- and you feel you can work
with me, let’s have a sit-down Monday at 8:00 a.m. Just tell
me where.

All the best, Ellie

And
I hit send.

Then
I printed all three emails before deleting them from my hard drive.
I packed up my things. On my way out, I stopped at the printer on
Carolyn’s desk to retrieve the copies I’d made, noting
the tremble of my hand as I slipped the pages into my bag.

Come hang with me on
Facebook

Subscribe to my Newsletter for loads of exclusive goodies.