Thoroughly Whipped
“You think he’ll bring up ‘the incident’?” Novah asked quietly as we walked past the journalist’s cubicles, in the Journal office, to the small Visage quarters at the back of the building. Once in the safety of our two-man cubicle, Novah sat beside me, waiting for my reply. Novah Jones was a red-headed bombshell. Curves out of every 1950s pin-up fantasy and a face that would make a priest throw away his dog collar and bow at her feet begging for a spanking. She was not only a colleague but also one of my best friends. She was Visage’s beauty editor. The title suited her well. There wasn’t anything that this woman didn’t know about makeup and skincare.
“I don’t know if he’ll bring it up. It was three years ago.” I leaned back in my chair and stared at the generic white-tiled ceiling. “He never has before. Then again, I have only seen him once since, and it was in passing. A very awkward passing.”
“But he was never directly your boss before. He had no official power over you then.” Novah leaned over me. She took an unopened PR tube of lipstick off her desk, ripped off the packaging, and began to paint my lips. “He was the son of your boss, who you crossed paths with a few times. Now it’s entirely different. You’re his bitch now.” She smiled widely at my painted lips. “Oh, I knew this would be your perfect shade of red. More orange and less blue in its undertone.” Novah stepped back and held up a mirror in front of my face. “With your olive skin, dark hair, and espresso eyes, I knew this color would make those full lips pop, you gorgeous tanned bitch!” I rubbed my lips together. It felt nice on my mouth. Not too drying and I loved a good red lipstick.
“Love it,” I said absently; then I proceeded to dramatically drop my head to my desk with an audible thud. I groaned at the memory invading my mind. “I called him an overprivileged cockface, Novah. An overprivileged cockface who needed nothing but a good spanking and a thorough fucking. And he heard my every word. And now he’s my boss.” I peered to the side. “Help me!” I cried pathetically as Novah sat on the end of her desk.
“I can’t, gorgeous,” she said and took her place at her desk chair. “This is one hole you’re going to have to crawl out of on your own. Or should that be a cave? And you know I’m claustrophobic.”
Novah patted my head like one would a puppy, moved to her computer, and began writing her column for this week’s press. I stared at the grains of wood in my desk and thought back to last year and the moment I’d shoved one of my size-eight red Jimmy Choo rip-offs into my big, stupid mouth. I had interned at The New York Journal one summer, when I was twenty-two. Everything had been going great until I’d met a man with bright blue eyes and silky brown hair. Then everything went wrong. So completely wrong.
Chapter Two
Three years ago…
“You got this, Faith,” I said to myself as I stepped through the door to the conference room where the interns were meeting. About ten interns were already present. Smiling at the mix of boys and girls as I passed, I moved to the back table, which offered coffee and muffins. I poured myself some coffee and took a seat in the back row.
“Hi, I’m Faith,” I said to the girl beside me. Luckily, I wasn’t shy. It always helped in situations like this.
“Jayne,” she said and shook my hand. I introduced myself to the people around me. In minutes, my nerves settled. Too busy talking to Jayne and a beefy jock type named Blake, I didn’t see who sat beside me until I turned my head, and I had to clench my jaw to hide my reaction. Fuck me…the guy was beautiful. Tall and dark and those blue eyes… He was wearing a ridiculously nice suit and was rubbing his eyes like he hadn’t gotten a lot of sleep last night. Or maybe he was nervous.
Feeling like this day had improved immensely, I extended my hand. “Hi, I’m Faith.”
I held my hand out for so long that my muscles started to ache. The man eventually stopped rubbing his eyes and glared at my outstretched hand. His lip curled as if my fingers were covered in shit. I pulled my hand back with rising anger. Blue Eyes reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out some Advil. He dry swallowed a couple of pills and folded his arms across his chest. Ah, he had a headache. That explained things.
“Rough night last night?” I asked. I pointed to the beverage table behind us. “There’s coffee and muffins there. Caffeine and sugar might help you feel better.” Blue Eyes kept facing forward, not even acknowledging me. “Hello! Did you hear me?” I said, my hairs standing up on the back of my neck in irritation. Was he sick, or was he really this rude?