When I wasn’t working, sleeping, or fucking Nate, I was at that computer. I took Nate’s advice and began sending out other stories as well, to
Libido, Playgirl, Penthouse, Yellow Silk, Playboy
. Basically, every publication that seemed an even remotely possible match for my work, I hit with a story.
And then I started—well—hitting with my stories.
One magazine rejected my first piece because there was too much S/M throughout, but the managing editor wrote a personal letter asking me to send in something else. I was elated. I’d read my first copy when I was seventeen, and I was a true fan. Even better, I’d been aiming for the hundred-dollar fantasy section, but when the editor bought the second story I wrote, she used it as the featured story. I made more money from that one piece than I did in a week of working at the salon. But even more exciting to me, the magazine hired an artist tocreate original work to accompany my words.
Nate was as busy as I was, working on an indie. He didn’t seem impressed or even all that surprised by my positive mailbag. Sure, there were more rejections than acceptances, but the stories I sold allowed me to bank a bit of green for the first time. He and I were in an odd place now. I’d turned in my manuscript and was waiting for notes from the editor. I had no need to jam out ten pages a night. Did this mean he had no need to sleep with me? We avoided each other during the daylight hours, still occasionally finding ourselves in bed late in the evening. But I sensed a rift, and I didn’t really know why.
That’s when Jody called. He was the screenwriter I’d worked for with Byron, and he asked me out for drinks. I was curious about how he’d found my number and what he might have to say, so I agreed to meet him. He was waiting, which was odd—Jody always ran a good twenty minutes late—and there were two drinks on the table. Martinis.
“First off,” he said when I sat down in the booth, “I want to apologize. I felt awful about what happened.”
I think I nodded. I didn’t really know what to say.
“I truly didn’t want to let you go, but Byron had been with me so much longer. I actually thought you did the right thing.”
“Sleeping with Connor?”
He smiled. “Who wouldn’t?” he asked, joking. “No, breaking off the engagement. You would have been miserable with him, always trying to live up to an impossible set of standards.” I was surprised that Jody was so easily able to read Byron, to sum him up in a single sentence.
“But that’s not why I wanted to see you,” he said, “Not really. I would like us to be friends. I always felt you weresort of worth more than him. And I want to apologize for the abrupt way you had to leave. So I’m offering you the chance to use my apartment in New York this spring, as a kind of peace offering. Whenever you’d like. For as long as you’d like.”
I hesitated. “What would Byron think about that?” I asked, because there would be no way he wouldn’t find out.
“Byron no longer works for me.”
I didn’t press, even though I was curious. Had he quit, or had Jody fired him, too? Before I could accept his offer of the apartment, though, I had a more important question.
“I’m sorry to be so bold,” I said, “but did you get Connor fired?” I had never spoken to Jody like this before. My job had been to make sure his life ran smoothly. If his shoes were uncomfortable, I’d run out and buy new ones. If he felt a hair out of place, I got him an emergency booking with his favorite stylist. I responded to his primal needs. I didn’t ask questions or provide him with counsel. And I was never, ever rude.
“Why would I do that?” He looked horrified.
I shrugged. “As some sort of punishment.”
Now, Jody laughed. “You ran my datebook for a year. You know what I have going on. Do you really think I would penalize you for doing something so similar to what I do?” He said this as if I might have
Libido, Playgirl, Penthouse, Yellow Silk, Playboy
. Basically, every publication that seemed an even remotely possible match for my work, I hit with a story.
And then I started—well—hitting with my stories.
One magazine rejected my first piece because there was too much S/M throughout, but the managing editor wrote a personal letter asking me to send in something else. I was elated. I’d read my first copy when I was seventeen, and I was a true fan. Even better, I’d been aiming for the hundred-dollar fantasy section, but when the editor bought the second story I wrote, she used it as the featured story. I made more money from that one piece than I did in a week of working at the salon. But even more exciting to me, the magazine hired an artist tocreate original work to accompany my words.
Nate was as busy as I was, working on an indie. He didn’t seem impressed or even all that surprised by my positive mailbag. Sure, there were more rejections than acceptances, but the stories I sold allowed me to bank a bit of green for the first time. He and I were in an odd place now. I’d turned in my manuscript and was waiting for notes from the editor. I had no need to jam out ten pages a night. Did this mean he had no need to sleep with me? We avoided each other during the daylight hours, still occasionally finding ourselves in bed late in the evening. But I sensed a rift, and I didn’t really know why.
That’s when Jody called. He was the screenwriter I’d worked for with Byron, and he asked me out for drinks. I was curious about how he’d found my number and what he might have to say, so I agreed to meet him. He was waiting, which was odd—Jody always ran a good twenty minutes late—and there were two drinks on the table. Martinis.
“First off,” he said when I sat down in the booth, “I want to apologize. I felt awful about what happened.”
I think I nodded. I didn’t really know what to say.
“I truly didn’t want to let you go, but Byron had been with me so much longer. I actually thought you did the right thing.”
“Sleeping with Connor?”
He smiled. “Who wouldn’t?” he asked, joking. “No, breaking off the engagement. You would have been miserable with him, always trying to live up to an impossible set of standards.” I was surprised that Jody was so easily able to read Byron, to sum him up in a single sentence.
“But that’s not why I wanted to see you,” he said, “Not really. I would like us to be friends. I always felt you weresort of worth more than him. And I want to apologize for the abrupt way you had to leave. So I’m offering you the chance to use my apartment in New York this spring, as a kind of peace offering. Whenever you’d like. For as long as you’d like.”
I hesitated. “What would Byron think about that?” I asked, because there would be no way he wouldn’t find out.
“Byron no longer works for me.”
I didn’t press, even though I was curious. Had he quit, or had Jody fired him, too? Before I could accept his offer of the apartment, though, I had a more important question.
“I’m sorry to be so bold,” I said, “but did you get Connor fired?” I had never spoken to Jody like this before. My job had been to make sure his life ran smoothly. If his shoes were uncomfortable, I’d run out and buy new ones. If he felt a hair out of place, I got him an emergency booking with his favorite stylist. I responded to his primal needs. I didn’t ask questions or provide him with counsel. And I was never, ever rude.
“Why would I do that?” He looked horrified.
I shrugged. “As some sort of punishment.”
Now, Jody laughed. “You ran my datebook for a year. You know what I have going on. Do you really think I would penalize you for doing something so similar to what I do?” He said this as if I might have
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