iambeagle does her best to spot typos. You know the drill.
I don't own Twilight. No copyright infringement is intended.
10. Wednesday, January 4, 2012 at 7:0AM
At Home
When I check my BlackBerry the next morning, I see about twenty new e-mails sitting in my inbox—all of them from Heidi.
I read the first two and panic. She's clearly in a particularly pissy mood this morning, asking me about things I took care of over a week ago.
I make it to the train in records speed without spilling my coffee, only to come to a grinding hold on the platform with nowhere to go.
"Attention all passengers, due to a signaling problem, there is currently no train service on the F Line between Prospect Avenue and 9th Street and Smith."
After several train-switching-maneuvers and two sprints, I barge into the office at 9:05 AM.
"It's five past nine. You do know that your normal working hours start at 9:00AM?" Heidi is standing near my desk, tapping her foot.
"I'm sorry-"
"You know what? I really don't have time to listen to this." She sighs melodramatically and takes a step into the direction of her office. "I swear, sometimes I don't know what I pay you for." Pausing in the door she seems to remember something and turns around. "And before I forget, since when are you accepting mail for Charlotte?"
"Um, it was just this once. She had to run-"
"Never mind. I trust it won't happen again unless she wants to chip in for your salary."
I hurry responding to her repetitive e-mails without coming off as rude. It's hard when all my replies consist of "please see my e-mail from the prior week."
The second I'm done, Heidi emerges from her office with a big white box in her arms.
"Here," she says, as she dumps the box near my desk. "These should be all my expense receipts. I need you to sort them and enter them into a spreadsheet."
Ten minutes later, she walks past my desk with her coat slung over her arm. "I'm heading out for meetings and won't make it back to the office today. I'll see you tomorrow. I'd like to hand those," she adds, pointing at the box I haven't dared to open, "when they're all sorted to my accountant by the end of this week. So make sure you're done by then."
By eight o'clock my stomach is growling (lunch consisted out of a bag of chips washed downed with a diet coke) and my head hurts, so I decide it's time to call it a day. I've barely put a dent into the box stuffed to the brim with receipts and shudder when I think of the task still ahead. Who knew you could deduct the cost for mani- and pedicures?
By pushing myself on the train without waiting for passengers to exit first, I win the seat lottery and pull out another manuscript I snatched out of Heidi's closet before I ran out. After roughly ten pages, it becomes painfully obvious to me that what I'm reading is a schmaltzy romance novel, complete with misunderstandings, possibly tortured pasts of the main love interests—as forebodingly hinted at in the prologue, and a gorgeous villain whose one mission in life it is to keep the star-crossed lovers apart. The heroine of the tale is the model damsel in distress—always in need to be rescued and so utterly lacking in self-confidence that she can never stand up for herself. The man of her dreams is, of course, dashingly handsome, rich and brooding.
It's a train wreck—and a predictable one at that—I realize after reading the first couple of pages. Albeit, one I can't tear my eyes away from. I'm so engrossed indeed that it only registers on the periphery of my consciousness when someone sits down next to me, shoving me pretty hard with his elbow while his legs are pressing against mine. Sue me. I can't stop reading because right on that page the couple has a rather intimate encounter on a dance floor. He's about to confess something while she's still wondering whether he finds her attractive even though his boner is poking her neatly in the stomach, when the guy next to me starts chuckling loudly.
I stare at the words in front of me—large, virile, erect member—and wish I were invisible. Obviously whoever is sitting next to me finds my reading material humorous. Carefully, without daring to look up, and as if his laugh isn't a contributing factor at all, I start closing the folder.
"Fascinating reading material you have there." I hear an oddly familiar voice say and look up. "Don't put it away on my account."
There's no mirror anywhere near to check my reflection, but judging by my heart rate and my general level of embarrassment, the color on my cheeks must be bright red when I notice it's no other than Edward, the former Yeti, sitting next to me.
"Umm, yeah," I admit lamely. "One of the manuscripts we got in."
"We got in?" He corks his eyebrows up in amusement—clearly at my expense, which annoys me a little, I'm not gonna lie.
"I work for a literary agency."
"With really high standards, huh?"
"Oh, shut up. I dug it out of the closet. I've been searching for something worth while to bring to my boss's attention so I can finally argue for a promotion."
Finally, he stops laughing.
"I'm sorry then. That's what they sent in?" He furrows his brows and then smirks. "Wait, what kind of literary agency are you working for? Are most of your clients harlequin authors?"
"Oh, shut up. Not funny. The three writers Heidi reps are boringly highbrow and she never takes on anybody new, which really sucks for me because at this rate my career is going nowhere."
"Sorry?" he offers, but I think I can still see the left corner of his mouth twitching up.
"Not your fault," I say. I'm still slightly embarrassed, but that's just really my own fault for reading the stuff openly on my lap while sitting in the subway, leaving half of the car to read with me. And now that I've had more than a fleeting moment to inspect him, I do notice how really cute he is, which really doesn't make it better.
"I know. Still, I understand."
"What?"
"The desperate feeling you get when you notice your career is going nowhere."
"Oh. So I gather working as a barista isn't your chosen career?"
He chuckles. "Jeez, that's what they call people who work at coffee shops? That doesn't sound virile." Then shakes his head. "Not at all."
I can't help it, I laugh. "I couldn't put it down. The story was just too … powerful?"
"You tell me. You read how many pages of this?"
"I don't know. What stop is it?" I glance out the door. Chambers Street. Still a couple of stops from home.
"Don't even try to change the subject."
"Really? Why not? Now I'm wondering who's more obsessed with that lovely piece of fiction—you or I?"
"Okay, I admit it." He pauses and bites his lip. "I'm really enjoying your pink cheeks every time you get flustered."
"Ugh. Awful."
"I have to disagree. Quite charming actually." He winks.
"Don't wink at me. And compliments won't get you anywhere."
"Who says I want to get anywhere?"
"You're not fooling me." I shake my head in disapproval, before looking at him with the sternest expression on my face I can muster. "We've already established you want to be somewhere other than the coffee shop. So spill it. What's your ambition?"
"I used to say my ambition was to have ambition, but now I'm slowly starting to realize that that might not be true after all."
"What made you change your mind?"
"Living in New York, I guess." He lifts one shoulder in resignation. "Everybody here always seems to be on the go, ready to start the next big thing or be the next big thing. Being a slacker might no longer be my style."
"No, but seriously? What do you want to do?" Usually people volunteer freely what they want to do for a living, so his reticence to talk is new to me.
"Music. I play the guitar, piano, some harmonica. And composing. I do that now, just not as much as I'd like and nobody pays me."
"I see. Are you any good?"
"My mom thinks so." He smiles at me. It a big smiles that makes me smile too. "No, kidding aside. I play next Wednesday with some friends of mine at a bar on Ninth. You should come."
"Mmm. Maybe I will." The train stops on 7th Avenue. "This is my stop. Fuck." I jump up and sprint to the door. "I'll see you around," I yell and hear him laugh.
Ever gotten caught reading a particularly smutty story in public … or maybe even on your own sofa? Please feel free to share.