-----HARVEY1
I couldn't believe what I was hearing. I stood in the dark office of Kat Z. Sprunghaft, editor of Opa Quintegra, my publisher. The rather amorphous man himself sat upon a chair that must have committed some unspeakable atrocity in its past life, chomping on an unlit cigar and absently scratching his ample gut through his stained dress shirt. And he had just delivered the most dreaded news a horror writer can hear.2
"Your contract is binding. You owe us one last story, and the label's already finished the format switch. You're gonna have to give us a romance."3
"I write horror, Kat. I don't do..." I rolled my right hand a couple of times, then pointed at a draft of cover art sitting on the editor's desk. It depicted a stubbled, well-tanned, muscular man in pseudo-pirate garb, holding a long-haired woman in a silky dress as he kissed her on a sunset beach. More than likely, there was a LOT of tongue.4
"That. That is exactly the opposite of what I do, Kat. I kill people like this for a living."5
"Not for this one story, you won't." Kat said, scratching at his head with the end of his unlit cigar. His combover was thin to the point of abhorrence. "'Passionate Hearts of Fiery Longing' was the best-selling book Opa Quintegra has ever put out, and its sequel, 'Longing Hearts of Passionate Fire' is cleaning up, too."6
"What the hell is 'passionate fire' Kat?" The phrase had the approximate taste that I imagined one could experience by licking the glass at a peep show.7
"I'll tell you what, Harvey," Kat said, lifting his malleable form from the condemned chair, "we got another author on the payroll with the same problem as you. You get together with her, churn us out a romance story, and then the both of you will be free as birds to seek out a new publisher. Two heads can surely get the job done faster than one, right?"8
I looked once more at the cover art that, apparently, was a picture of longing hearts. I silently prayed to Beelzebub that a less-than-passionate fire might tear through the office at that moment and kill me very, very slowly.9
I sighed. "Fine," I said, "but I'm using a goddamned pen name."10
Kat smiled the way the SS must have smiled when sorting new arrivals to Auschwitz.11
"Deal."12
Rachel--13
“…Monica struggled against the bonds that held her; marks were already forming against her wrists.14
‘Please let me out,’ she begged, ’I’ll do anything you want me to.’15
‘You WILL do anything I want you to,’ David sneered, ‘but I won’t have to let you out.’16
Monica’s eyes widened as she watched him unzipping his pants…”17
The white screen swallowed the words I had typed, mocking me as I tapped delete. My publisher, Opa Quintegra, had suddenly switched from being a reputable publisher of dark works to an abomination featuring fluff romance novels. 18
I rubbed my tired eyes and continued staring at the blank page. Kat’s phone call earlier was enough to clear out any ounce of creativity left in my body--him and his “deal I couldn’t refuse.” 19
Couldn’t refuse? He could stick that deal right back up his portly ass. I had told him that I would think about it. He had laughed his loud, syrupy-fake laugh and said, “Of course you will, Rachel.” 20
I smiled as I pictured telling him no. The thought of his face scarlet and scowling in anger made me chuckle. He seemed like a man who was very used to getting his way; and I wasn’t about to indulge him. 21
His secretary, Ms. Stuart, had given me the contact information of the other cursed soul--Harvey Swift. I had begrudgingly logged the number in my cell. And lost myself in a book for the remainder of the day.22
I looked down at my phone; 2am was way too late to call. I stared at the screen for a few seconds, wondering what he looked like. It was supposed to be a trashy romance novel, after all. The phone snapped closed with a flick of my wrist and I turned to my imposing laptop screen. Grimacing at the expanse of white light, I tried typing a few sentences of free association. 23
“I hate Kat Sprunghaft. I don’t see how they expect me to write anything of such low quality. Especially not on an empty stomach. I’m hungry. I wonder when the last time I’ve eaten is. I really need to work on writing something. This isn’t getting me anywhere.”24
I closed my eyes and exhaled slowly. When I opened my eyes, the screen was still there, bearing the same ridiculous string of disjointed words. 25
I opened a word document. I hardly felt the words flow out of me as I watched the cursor move across the page. The thought of the darkness was enticing, I missed the excitement. My thoughts returned to my previous story as the scene played out in my head.26
“…As David approached her, Monica flinched and turned away…”27
I was uncertain about where to take the story next. The bloodlust in my mind called to kill her. She was the weak damsel-in-distress that passion-ridden, sappy romance novels thrived on. But it would be much more fun for him to do other things first. 28
Frustrated, I closed the window again. The internet beckoned, with all of its innumerable pleasurable distractions. There was no way that I was going to write a romance novel. I shook my head and laughed as I searched for an outlet to relieve the tension that was building inside of me. 29
After looking at a few pictures and reading part of a story, I decided to do a search on this Harvey Swift. Who was he, anyway? Google didn't bring up much. He had a few horror short-stories in an online magazine. After scanning the titles of his stories, I checked Opa Quintegra's site. He had four novels with them, but nothing that had sold many copies. Seems his luck was just as bad as mine was. No wonder they weren't cutting us any slack.30
I was happy to discover his profile on a networking site. He had a few promotions for his stories, but I was surprised to discover, after reading the rest of the profile, that he seemed like an interesting person. Nothing like what I had expected.31
At the bottom of the page, he had listed his instant messenger information. Curious, I signed on and added him to my friends. My heart-rate increased a bit when I saw he was online. 32
I wrote, 'Hey, it's Rachel, Opa Quintegra's other cursed soul,” then hit enter.33
A few seconds later, he replied, “Hey. They giving out screen names now?”34
I laughed. My stomach tightened, trying to figure out how to explain tracking him down. “They gave me your number, but I figured it was a bit too late to call, so I found you online.”35
“Nice,” he responded, “So what's up?”36
“It sucks how they're treating us,” I typed, “What do you want to do about it?”37
“We don't have much choice, I think we should just give them what they want.” he typed.38
“Egh, it feels so degrading,” I replied.39
“It doesn't have to be,” he responded.40
“What did you have in mind?” I asked.41
“I thought about it a little today, and I think that I'll be okay with it so long as I don't take it seriously,” he replied.42
“I don't know how I can get in the right frame of mind to write that stuff,” I complained.43
“I don't know,” he wrote.44
“Do you want to meet somewhere soon?” I asked.45
“I'm free tomorrow,” he replied.46
“Awesome, me too,” I typed.47
“So they gave you my number, but they didn't give me yours,” he wrote.48
I laughed and typed my number for him. “You can call me after 3, and I'll give you directions to my house.”49
“Ok, I'll talk to you then,” he said. 50
“K, night,” I replied.51
I shut off my computer feeling very giddy. What was I getting myself into, inviting a man I didn't know to my house? Something about the whole situation left me feeling very out of myself. 52
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