What the fuck is going on?
"I need you to be her." He taps the author name on the cover.
NATALIE MCBRIDE.
"I…" This time, my whole brain shuts down for a moment. "Be her?"
He nods, once. "It's simple enough. Get to know the books well enough that you could plausibly pretend like you've written them. Trust me, the readers won't be asking in-depth literary analysis questions."
"The…readers?" I echo, noticing that he hasn't really answered my question.
"Natalie McBride is going on tour," he says, with a smile that's strangely subdued, by his standards. "Signings. Conventions. You've even been invited to a panel discussion on Feminism in Romance Literature. Doesn't that sound like it's right up your alley?"
His eyes glint with amusement, but he's still holding something back. I can feel it.
"Why can't she do it herself?" I ask him.
This isn't even close to the first thing that needs to be addressed right now - panel discussions? - but it feels like something important to ask. My head's swimming, trying to remember if Mr. Risinger's company is somehow the parent conglomerate of the book group that publishes Natalie's books, but how can I be expected to keep track of these things? And even if it was, why the hell would someone on Mr. Risinger's level be involved?
"Because," he says, his grin breaking through again. "You're looking at her."
Chapter Two
The shock hits me first, like a bucket of cold water. Then my heart drops through my stomach.
Then, I start remembering the emails.
Oh God, oh shit. He must be toying with me. There's no way he wouldn't recognize me. Not with everything I told her.
Him. Told him.
Oh God.
I'm pretty sure I'm going to vomit, but I feel like that's not going to make my situation any better.
And that's when I look at the ashtray, and then at his head.
This fucker. He's wormed his way into every part of my life somehow, ruining everything - except this. This was all I had, until now.
It's improbable. It's nearly impossible that he'd somehow be involved with the one series of books that's been able to make me smile in the last decade of my life.
Make me smile. Make me come.
Oh Jesus God, I have masturbated to words that this man wrote.
I'm going to need something heavier than an ashtray.
"You look pale," Mr. Risinger muses, opening another desk drawer. "Bourbon?"
It's fucking eleven o'clock in the morning, but I nod.
I watch him, with the one part of my brain that doesn't feel like it's on fire. And he doesn't seem like he's fucking with me. He really, truly doesn't. Mr. Risinger relishes fucking with me, so unless this is some kind of long con, he genuinely doesn't realize that I've read the books. Could he really be that dense?
Or…someone else answers his emails. But who else knows? Who else could he possibly trust with this information?
"I don't get it," I say, finally. "You're a romance novelist?"
He shrugs, setting the glass of bourbon in front of me. "I had an idea one day. I told a few authors I know, they all laughed it off. So naturally…I took that as a challenge." There's that predator smile again. Oddly, I feel more comfortable with it back in my life. "New York Times bestseller. Suck it."
I take a long swallow of bourbon, and relish the burn going down. "So…obviously, you can't show up as Natalie, looking like…that." One hundred and ten percent male, is the part that I don't say - I just leave it implied. Which, honestly, isn't all that much better.
"Obviously," he agrees. "But I've got you."
"But…why do the conventions at all?" I clear my throat. I'm trying, desperately, to project a normal level of curiosity until I can work my way around to asking who handles his correspondence.
"My publicist insists I've reached a tipping point," he says, looking bored with it. "And honestly, I wouldn't care that much, but it means a lot to her. She's invested a lot of time and energy in me, and the more successful I get, the more successful she can be."
That's…not the Adrian Risinger I know. Frowning at him, I swirl my glass. "This seems like an awful lot of hassle just to throw your publicist a bone."
He lets out a little snort of laughter. "Just to head this one off at the pass - no, I'm not fucking her. And no, I don't want to. Well - I mean, I wouldn't say no. But it's not urgent. It's not mandatory."
His eyes glint, and I briefly wonder what measures he would take if he considered it mandatory to fuck someone. I'm not sure I want to know. Except that I definitely do.
I'm picturing her already, the kind of girl that Mr. Risinger would want to fuck, but not urgently. Long blonde hair flowing down in waves, probably. Very willowy. Very put-together. The polar opposite of me.
"It just seems like the thing to do," he says. "Cultivating some goodwill in the world. God knows I've done enough strictly for me."
I take another sip. "You're being very candid, Mr. Risinger."
He leans forward a bit. "Please," he says. "We're going to be spending a lot of time together, Meghan. Call me Adrian."
I can feel my lips drawing into a thin line. "Doesn't it bother you, having to act like a woman all the time when you post on Facebook, or answer emails from your fans? Mr. Risinger?"
It's a pointed question, but I don't care anymore. I have to know.
And no, I am not going to start fucking calling him Adrian.
He frowns a little. "No, I don't even look at that shit." He's making a dismissive gesture. "My publicist handles all the fan interaction."
I exhale, slowly. So it's possible - likely, even - that he has no idea. Never even saw those emails, has no idea that I've read his books.
His books. Shit.
I am so not equipped to deal with this.
He's added one more thing to the pile of books, I realize - a printed manuscript, not bound, just held together with loose rings.
"That's the book you'll be promoting," he says. "I've just finished it. Please excuse any typos, my editors haven't had a chance to attack it yet."
"Of course," I say, faintly. I can't let on that I'm basically plotting his murder, because I can't give him the ammunition. He can't know how devastated I am.
It feels like I've lost a friend.
Deep down, I know how ridiculous this is. How ridiculous all of it is. I'm so lonely and pathetic that I let myself get unnaturally attached to fictional characters, and then I transferred that attachment onto the person I thought had written them. But it was a lie. All of it was a lie.