Confidential(69)

“That’s time theft. You could be fired for much less.”

Should I deny it? Apologize and throw myself on her mercy? I didn’t want this job, but I didn’t want to start looking for another one, not when I was halfway through my book, when it and Dr. Baylor/Michael were all that mattered.

“But you’re very lucky.”

“Why’s that?” I finally managed, since she was obviously waiting for me to draw my good fortune out of her. She was enjoying this, having me on the hook, in the same way she’d always enjoyed rejecting my suggestions. Now that was an abuse of power.

“Because I’m going to allow you to complete the book—not on company time, of course—and submit it on an exclusive basis. As in, I have the right of first refusal. There are obviously significant structural problems, and sometimes it’s a bit overwrought. Melodramatic, even. But it has potential, I’ll give you that.”

She read my book, without permission. She read my life.

She must have been able to see the pure hatred in my eyes, because she shut the fuck up for once. It was her turn to be startled.

“You had no right,” I said.

“It was on your work computer.” She said each word slowly to emphasize my stupidity.

“But you knew it wasn’t a work product. You knew it was mine.”

“I have every right to know what my employee is doing on my time.”

“Once you realized it was my private property, you should have stopped reading.”

Her eyes widened. “Are you actually questioning my ethics? You’ve been caught red-handed! I could fire you right now!”

I dropped my eyes. I needed to look ashamed, and I had plenty of practice at that. “I’m sorry,” I nearly whimpered. Be subservient. Beg for mercy. It was what she wanted. Well, that and to have the first crack at my book. But I knew she’d give me some shit offer. Those were the only offers she was authorized to make. This wasn’t a major publishing house, and if I sold it to her, I’d get basically no publicity or marketing support. It’d be like flushing all my hard work down the drain.

And Christine would be my editor. I couldn’t even . . .

But I needed to keep the job. I’d just say what she needed to hear and work the rest out later. I could tell her I got writer’s block and wasn’t able to finish. Meanwhile, I’d be shopping for a literary agent, and then my agent would shop for a publisher, and once I had a deal in my hand, I’d throw it in Christine’s nasty blackmailing face.

Because that was what this was, essentially. She was saying that she wasn’t going to fire me, and in exchange, I’d let her have my firstborn. That’s if she wanted it.

Of course she’d want it. It was a hundred times better than anything she was currently publishing, and even she must have been able to see that. Not that she’d admit it. Oh no. There was no use paying me a real compliment when she could insult and extort me all at once.

“Why do you hate me?” I asked her. I made my tone pitiable, pitiful, even, but it was a genuine question.

“Hate you?” She couldn’t have been faking shock like that. “I barely think of you!”

It was about the most rotten thing anyone could say, and it was obviously true. She hadn’t had time to calculate a dagger. “But you like my book.”

“I’m willing to consider your book. That’s if you stop writing during the workday, and that includes lunch.”

“I can’t write on my lunch break?”

She shook her head. “You have to earn my trust back, Lucinda. Don’t you see that this is a huge violation?”

Like she knew anything about violation. But I kept my eyes averted. Shame, think shame. Portray shame. “I do,” I said, sotto voce. “I’m really sorry, Christine.”

“That’s not really good enough.” She sighed. “But that’s all for now.”

I was being upbraided and dismissed. And I had to take it. For now. I stood up. “Thanks for giving me another chance. You won’t regret it.”

“I hope not.” Then her face changed, practically liquefying with sympathy. “You’re Cassie, right?”

I hadn’t thought she could say anything worse in this conversation, but there it was. “No. She’s a character. It’s a novel.”

She didn’t believe me. “Well, then,” she said, “good work. She’s very realistic.”

I thought she’d said it was melodramatic.

“Thank you,” I said again, and as I started to leave, my limbs threatened to buckle. I couldn’t tell if I was more scared or angry or humiliated. It could have been an amalgam of all three.

It was hard to drive home, but the alternative was staying in the lioness’s den, and that wasn’t going to happen. Before I left, I emailed my latest draft to myself, and then I deleted it from the computer. But I was sure it was stored somewhere else, that IT could recover it, or that Christine had taken the liberty of saving a copy. I didn’t think she’d post it anywhere or share it with my colleagues, but I couldn’t know for sure.

She’d used the word violation, like she had any fucking idea.

I’d been writing my life, and now it was in the possession of my narcissistic boss. She must have printed it out, and it was sitting there in one of her paper stacks. It was in her brain. She knew it was me, and I couldn’t do anything about that, short of giving her a lobotomy, and with the way I felt right then, it seemed like a very real and tempting option.