I hastily write down as much of what is said as I can, trying to fight back tears of embarrassment. No one is saying it explicitly, but each comment that follows the Professor seems dangerously close to the point that I have no idea how guys think, which is painfully clear. I’ve been on exactly two dates in my life and had exactly one and a half boyfriends--it’s a long story.
When the critiques have finished thirty minutes later, I just want to go back to my room and take a sledgehammer to my laptop. They’re all right. Of course they are. My male character does sound like a woman, because I have almost no experience with guys, especially romantically. I don’t meet anyone’s eyes as they hand me their copies of my chapter before leaving, each one marked in red, black, or blue ink with corrections and comments.
“Have a good weekend, everyone,” Professor Barlow calls over the commotion as everyone gets up to leave. “Don’t forget I need to see your letters from Pierce Publishing by next week at the latest. And Donna, remember you need to make copies of your short for next week.”
His reminder is the last thing I need right now. I actually still have the letter from the publisher in my backpack, unopened, waiting. We were supposed to send in a chapter of our work and his fancy publisher friend was going to give us the kind of feedback we’d get if we had submitted it for real. I never would have gone through with it, but my grade depends on having the letter.
My grade, and my future. I’m running out of time to declare a major, and I can only use so many elective credits for creative writing before I can commit. I thought I’d be finished with a book by my freshman year. I thought at worst I’d still be waiting on acceptance letters from publishers by this time sophomore year. Instead, I’m still sixty pages into the book. I’ve lost count of how many times I re-wrote those first chapters, hoping maybe a different start would give me the momentum to tackle the rest. I just don’t have the personal experience. Forget the sex scenes, I don’t even know what it feels like to love a guy or be loved. I might as well be writing fantasy for all I know about love.
I have to read the letter from Pierce Publishing sooner or later, because we’re supposed to write a reflection on how we can use it to improve as an author. I only had to send in one chapter, so I was able to pick the chapter I was most confident in. It’s a small comfort though.
I plop down on a bench outside the building. The weather is nice enough for sitting outside, even though winter doesn’t seem ready to make way for spring, and I really don’t feel like going back to my dorm right now. I know my laptop is sitting there, on my desk, waiting for me. While my spirits are already low, I pluck the letter out of my backpack and look at the unassuming envelope. All around me students are leaving their classes, excitedly talking about their plans for the weekend or what parties they’re going to go to. Parties where there will probably be lots and lots of sex.
I mean, I’ve never exactly been the type of person who gets invited to them, but that’s what I imagine. I’ve seen the movies too. Every door you open at a party leads to a bedroom where people are humping like rabbits. Every stairwell is littered with naked couples going at it. Something like that, at least. I’m not saying I want to get humped like a rabbit or anything, I’m just tired of being on the outside looking in.
I’ve spent my whole life finding reasons not to talk to the guy, to go to the party, to accept the invitation. I’ve made an art of saying no, and I can hardly be surprised where it has left me. My only friend is Lacey, and I can’t help wondering if it’s too late. Too late for my writing, my social life, maybe even my career--whatever that ends up being.
The letter in my hands looks innocent and harmless. There’s a single, folded sheet of paper inside and when I hold it up to the light, I can see there is barely any ink printed on the page. What could the editor say about my sample in so few words?
Best thing I’ve ever read. Let’s sign a contract tomorrow!
Probably not.
Amazing! I can tell you are an individual with extensive life experience, especially in the romantic sense.
Definitely not.
I decide to stop being a baby. I run my thumb under the crease and crack open the envelope, carefully pulling the paper free. I unfold it and let it rest on my thighs as I read the contents.
Author,
Your work was prudish and unmemorable. Consider another career.
Chief and Executive Officer of Pierce Publishing,
Jackson Pierce
2
Jackson
I open the drawer of my desk and pull the delicate necklace free. I run my thumb over the sapphire pendant slowly, watching the light catch and bounce from the seemingly endless edges of the stone. Touching it re-ignites the icy pit in my stomach. It’s an old ache, and I never let it grow numb. I keep the pain fresh because I deserve the fucking pain, every ounce of it.
The old question rises up. The familiar, maddening question. What if I hadn’t left her? Maybe none of it would have happened to her. Maybe she would’ve been okay. Maybe. But I’ll never know now, because I was a selfish asshole, and I put my needs before hers, like so many before her.
I take one look at the pile of manuscripts stacked on my desk and sigh. Only the upper crust makes it to my desk, that, and the occasional pile of garbage I agree to look at for Barlow. My editors know not to waste my time with shit, so by the time it reaches me, it had better be worth my time, or there will be hell to pay.
I skim the first few lines of the top manuscript, still grasping the necklace in my hand, idly rubbing the stone with my thumb and savoring the way touching it burns right through me like black ice.
I grimace. I’m not in the mood for this. I drag my forearm across my desk and push all the manuscripts into the wastebasket. Fuck them. My publishing company is the biggest in the United States. We contract tens of thousands of authors, and while other publishing companies are hemorrhaging money during the rise of e-books, we’re flourishing because we don’t use the same, tired old approach to publishing. We’re primarily an electronic publisher. That cuts the costs of printing and distribution to nearly nothing, which dramatically increases our profit margins. The author sells a book for four dollars, they get a buck, we get three, end of story.
So if I don’t feel like reading the latest pile of shit that lands on my desk, I can afford the luxury. I place the necklace back in the drawer and sigh, massaging my temples to push back some of the headache that has been growing behind my eyes all day.
I get up to draw the blinds to my office so I have complete privacy.
In the past, when I would get stressed, it was easy to release the tension through domination--my less-than-secret guilty pleasure. I pull up DomsList on my computer and look through the most recent postings. Even though I’ve been absent from the scene since Karen, I find a small amount of comfort in checking the listings. I used to use the site to find willing submissives whenever I needed them. I found the site through a connection I had at a BDSM club I used to go to.
The club scene wasn’t really for me, though. I prefer a more private relationship, and DomsList offered the opportunity to get exactly that. At first glance, the site looks like a dating service. It’s not though. The submissives on the site put themselves up for auction. A meeting is arranged, and if the submissive agrees to the dominant’s terms, he pays an initial sum, and then when the contract has been fulfilled makes the final payment finishing the transaction.