I lie, which seems to be coming second nature to me lately.
I make my way into the restroom and try to pull myself together.
I take a moment to sit on a bench in the restroom and try to gather my wits as I contemplate what to do about the diary.
Giving it back would be tantamount to admitting that I stole it and used it to write my story. It meant confessing that my novel, which has now become a worldwide best seller, is nothing more than a hoax. It seems people enjoy reading about sexually deviant gangsters; I know I sure did. It was what gave me the idea for the book. Hell, I’m no phenomenal writer; I just know a good story when I read one and that guy’s diary is a good story.
This creates a grave problem for me. It means losing a lot of money and, worse than that, it means my reputation as a writer will be ruined. I have no choice. I will have to try and charm this snake somehow, someway, into not ruining all that I have worked for.
Before I ever wrote fiction, I started writing for a hip, upcoming, online magazine. I can’t afford to lose my reputation as a writer where I work now, so it isn’t just the book issues I am dealing with.
Shit, shit, shit, I have no way to reach this man. Though I had picked up his diary when he left it at our offices, there had been no contact information in it. Had I seen his edgy look, I never would have taken it. The guy looks like walking danger. The piercings, the tattoos, along with his suited attire, all give him a sinister look. I just happened across the diary after he had already gone. That was six months ago. The fact that he is just now turning up to retrieve it tells me he knows about the book… not good. Men like him don’t take too kindly to being stolen from and the fact that I’ve made quite a bit of money off of him without his knowledge is going to be perceived as thievery. I never counted on any of this. It is as if this diary has taken on a life of its own.
He had been smart enough not to leave any details about his identity in his writings. I’m starting to wish I had done the same or, at the very least, written under a pen name.
My thoughts return back to the day I found it. I had meant to take it to the lost and found but, being the avid reader that I am, once I started reading it, I literally could not put it down.
Yes… it was that good.
The man’s story read like an exciting crime story. It had everything, including descriptions of his ties to the criminal underworld and all the danger that comes with them. The most interesting stories though, and those that held my rapt attention, were those about his sexual escapades.
I could not wrap my brain around why in the world anyone, in this day and age, would keep a diary. Oh my goodness… The things that he did to that girl…
“Hey girl,” I jump, as a coworker enters the restroom.
“You better quit daydreaming. The boss is looking for you. He has some client in his office that he wants to introduce you to.”
Great, now I get to go meet some bigwig while I’m barefoot. This day isn’t going well at all.
Chapter Two
Katrina
I scurry up the stairs and into my boss’ office. My jaw drops when I look up and see none other than Mr. Tall, Tattooed, and Dangerous himself. He is just standing there, waiting for me and glaring, as he swings my shoes in between two of his fingers.
Well, the thug didn’t waste any time, did he?
“Katrina, I swear you will be late to your own funeral, girl,” my boss chides. As my brain scrambles for an escape route, he adds, “and you’re barefoot.”
I reach out, trying to grab my shoes, but he jerks them out of my reach. “No, no, no,” he chides me, as if speaking to a child.
My clueless boss doesn’t even seem to notice the exchange going on between us. “Well, here she is. You two can go right back there into her office and I am sure that she’d love to hear your proposition.”
Proposition for what? A slow, excruciating death at the
I make my way into the restroom and try to pull myself together.
I take a moment to sit on a bench in the restroom and try to gather my wits as I contemplate what to do about the diary.
Giving it back would be tantamount to admitting that I stole it and used it to write my story. It meant confessing that my novel, which has now become a worldwide best seller, is nothing more than a hoax. It seems people enjoy reading about sexually deviant gangsters; I know I sure did. It was what gave me the idea for the book. Hell, I’m no phenomenal writer; I just know a good story when I read one and that guy’s diary is a good story.
This creates a grave problem for me. It means losing a lot of money and, worse than that, it means my reputation as a writer will be ruined. I have no choice. I will have to try and charm this snake somehow, someway, into not ruining all that I have worked for.
Before I ever wrote fiction, I started writing for a hip, upcoming, online magazine. I can’t afford to lose my reputation as a writer where I work now, so it isn’t just the book issues I am dealing with.
Shit, shit, shit, I have no way to reach this man. Though I had picked up his diary when he left it at our offices, there had been no contact information in it. Had I seen his edgy look, I never would have taken it. The guy looks like walking danger. The piercings, the tattoos, along with his suited attire, all give him a sinister look. I just happened across the diary after he had already gone. That was six months ago. The fact that he is just now turning up to retrieve it tells me he knows about the book… not good. Men like him don’t take too kindly to being stolen from and the fact that I’ve made quite a bit of money off of him without his knowledge is going to be perceived as thievery. I never counted on any of this. It is as if this diary has taken on a life of its own.
He had been smart enough not to leave any details about his identity in his writings. I’m starting to wish I had done the same or, at the very least, written under a pen name.
My thoughts return back to the day I found it. I had meant to take it to the lost and found but, being the avid reader that I am, once I started reading it, I literally could not put it down.
Yes… it was that good.
The man’s story read like an exciting crime story. It had everything, including descriptions of his ties to the criminal underworld and all the danger that comes with them. The most interesting stories though, and those that held my rapt attention, were those about his sexual escapades.
I could not wrap my brain around why in the world anyone, in this day and age, would keep a diary. Oh my goodness… The things that he did to that girl…
“Hey girl,” I jump, as a coworker enters the restroom.
“You better quit daydreaming. The boss is looking for you. He has some client in his office that he wants to introduce you to.”
Great, now I get to go meet some bigwig while I’m barefoot. This day isn’t going well at all.
Chapter Two
Katrina
I scurry up the stairs and into my boss’ office. My jaw drops when I look up and see none other than Mr. Tall, Tattooed, and Dangerous himself. He is just standing there, waiting for me and glaring, as he swings my shoes in between two of his fingers.
Well, the thug didn’t waste any time, did he?
“Katrina, I swear you will be late to your own funeral, girl,” my boss chides. As my brain scrambles for an escape route, he adds, “and you’re barefoot.”
I reach out, trying to grab my shoes, but he jerks them out of my reach. “No, no, no,” he chides me, as if speaking to a child.
My clueless boss doesn’t even seem to notice the exchange going on between us. “Well, here she is. You two can go right back there into her office and I am sure that she’d love to hear your proposition.”
Proposition for what? A slow, excruciating death at the
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