Thoroughly Whipped

“Thank you,” I said, refusing to let him see me shaken. “It appears people get a kick out of it.”

“Some people apparently do.”

“But I want to eventually move on to feature stories too,” I said, trying to lead us out of dangerous territory. “I love my column, and Visage, and always want to keep it. But I also want to showcase my writing beyond answering the many ‘Mr. Smiths’ that write in.” Harry placed a finger to his mouth, listening. “Sally knows this,” I said. “We’re just waiting for the right story to come up for me to cover.”

“You can write features?” he asked, doubt and a patronizing tone laced in his voice. That just pissed me off.

I painted on my fakest smile. “I graduated top of my class with a degree in creative writing from Harvard and a master’s in feature journalism from Columbia. I assure you, Mr. Sinclair, I am more than qualified to write features.”

“Then I look forward to reading your first masterpiece, Miss Parisi. Until then, sex advice for the masses it is.” He focused on his computer, tapping at the keyboard. When I didn’t move, he glanced at me and said coldly, “We’re done.” Harry gestured toward the door.

Keeping my forced smile firmly fixed on my face, and my hands beside me so I didn’t lash out and slap him upside the head, I rose from the chair. I felt his evil eyes on me as I walked out of his office and toward the elevators.

“Hope that went okay, Faith!” Theo said from behind his desk as I tried to keep my shit together.

“Awesomely!” I said chirpily and stepped into the elevator, my hands shaking with anger. Just as the doors were about to close, I shouted, “What a fucking dick!” Someone’s hands caught the doors and they began to open. I held my breath. It couldn’t be. Surely nobody was that unlucky. I sighed in relief when a man in a suit, probably in his mid-fifties, stepped in, staring at me like I was insane. “Tourette’s,” I said, laughing and pointing to my mouth. “Not a direct slight toward you, I promise.”

The man gave me an awkward nod and faced the doors, keeping as far away from me as he could. Pulling out my cell, I texted my roommate, Amelia, and our neighbor, Sage.

Code 5! We’re going out tonight. I need to drink and dance. No excuses.

Within seconds I had confirmation that both of them were in. Back at my desk, I got a thumbs-up that Novah was in too. Knowing I had a night to unwind, I relaxed in my chair and opened the latest email:

My husband came home late last Friday night and when he undressed and came to bed, I saw lipstick marks around his penis. What advice do you have?

I cracked my hands, flexed my fingers on my keyboard, and swiftly typed my reply for this week’s column: Wine and dine him, take him to bed. Smother his cock with Nutella, then nibble off his pubes like you’re tearing corn off the cob. Watch the fucker scream then Lorena Bobbitt his ass! Badda bing, badda boom—no more lipstick on his cheating dick!

Screw Harry Sinclair and his cold blue eyes. I was damn good at my job.

Chapter Four

“Shit, Faith, this is him?” Sage asked as I sat beside Amelia on our green velvet couch. I grabbed the large glass of red wine she had poured for me. Sage sat opposite us on the edge of our thrift store coffee table.

“That’s the prick,” I said, shaking my head at how perfect someone so freakin’ awful could look in photographs.

Novah sat on my other side. “Yep, that’s him, Henry “Call me Harry” Sinclair. Bachelor of the century and Faith’s archnemesis.” Novah nudged me and laughed when I hissed at her like an angry cat.

Sage went back to searching his phone. “Well, well, well,” he said and held out his cell again. “Who is this bit of candy on his arm?” I squinted, trying to fight my way through the wine haze that had descended over my eyes. I saw a tall blonde with green eyes, arm firmly linked with Harry’s. He was in a black suit, top and tails, and a mustard cravat, while she sported some monstrosity on her head that appeared to be two cocks fighting—of the avian variety, not the phallic. Although seeing two actual dicks thrashing it out on a bowler hat would have been a vast improvement on this feathered shitshow, which had no place as head decoration.

“What the hell is that on her head?” Amelia tipped her head to the side, trying to work it out.

“The trainee duke and his lady friend are at the Cheltenham races, dahling,” Sage mocked. “It’s where the who’s who of England go to show how money and fashion proves you don’t have to have taste. And where they drop ungodly amounts of money on horse racing to disguise how small their teeny-tiny members are.”