(We Are Never Ever) Getting Back Together by evergreenwriter83
Part One: Chapter 1 by evergreenwriter83
I stood before him, naked and vulnerable as he scrutinized me with an intensity in his eyes that made me light headed. His large palm slid over my shoulders, down my arm, and back up again. His breath was hot on my neck.
"You still have a chance to run," he said huskily. I shook my head, a few tendrils escaping from the bobby pins tucked strategically in my hair.
"You're making a deal with the devil," he purred. Poker white heat shot straight to my stomach, twisting, curling, and boiling from the force of the kinetic energy that was being produced between the two of us. Suddenly he caressed my right breast, then my left, and I moaned as the heat plummeted south.
"I can handle it," I gasped.
In a split second, my cheek pressed against the mattress as my body was bent forward. His hands left my chest and pressed my own much smaller hands deeper into the down. I was practically panting.
"I don't think you can," he taunted.
"But I'll ask you again in the morning."
"But I'll ask you again in the morning."
I groaned. Yet another Fifty clone. When would this trend end? I put the manuscript in the "Reject" pile and
sat back. I lifted my glasses and rubbed the pads of my thumb and forefinger forcefully over my burning eyes.
"Holy sha-mo-mo," I muttered.
My office, if you could call it that, was a little slice of the tenth floor of one of the most elite buildings in NYC. I
was sitting in a space that was barely bigger than a coat closet. No windows. No fancy wooden business card holder. Hell,
my desk was elevated using three poker coasters.
I was living the dream. The dream called reality.
For the last three hours I had done a swan dive head first into the newest pile of manuscripts that had languished on my
desk for the past three days. I was looking for a hidden gem, that fabulous story that was so original and enticing that
it was guaranteed to be a New York Times Bestseller.
So far all I had found was more spread-legged smut. Smut that unfortunately would probably make the NYT list just for
being mommy porn.
With knots of tension in my neck making me feel much like the Tinman, I opened my bottom drawer and pulled out a Hostess
Cupcake. I bit into it and savored the first chocolate cream-filled bite. I glanced at the remaining scripts. I needed
to give myself a pep talk. I needed to lower my expectations.
Lord help me, I needed to pick one of these pieces of Fiftylight fuck fests to publish.
Never in my wildest dreams did I think I'd end up in this position. In college, my head was filled with dreams of
becoming the next Bronte. Then, when I realized that my writing left a little bit to be desired, my dreams switched to
thoughts of discovering the next F. Scott Fitzgerald.
Instead, I spent my days drowning in different ways middle-aged women devised of describing a blow job.
"Find anything good yet? Did one of those weak weeping chicks get so overzealous they bit the thing off yet?"
I laughed and took another bite of my cupcake. A pair of black leather boots entered the room, the owner of which slung
herself into the only other chair in my tiny space. Black rimmed eyes sparkled in amusement.
"And what have you discovered this morning?" I said.
"I got this great book about this guy who was lost in the woods and had to eat part of his own leg to stay
"Gross is in the eye of the beholder Miss Harlequin."
I scowled. The owner of the boots, the racoon eyes, and a mop of long jet black hair grinned and picked up one of the
books in my discard pile.
"She ran her tongue over his rigid member and his fingers dug into her scalp. She could tell his release was eminent and
she exploded in a blossom of feminine pride," she recited, her voice thick and syrupy. I groaned. The cupcake wasn't
enough to save me. I buried my head in my hands.
"Kill me, Clo."
Clo, full name Cleotilde Spenard-Veeser pressed a hand against her chest. "Refusing to let go of her power she took him
deeper, her pride increasing with the realization that she was part of a small percentage of people without a gag
"That's the fifth female character this morning that has no gag reflex. Send it to the gallows!" I cried, pointing to the
reject pile. My friend burst into laughter.
"It's fucking sad when I can go online and read better fanfiction," she said.
"That's how Fifty Shades started," I countered. "I blame those books for putting me in this position."
"What position are we talking about? Missionary? Doggy? S--"
I flicked my pencil at her. "Shut up. How'd you end up with the good job? I'd kill to be reading about people
She caught the pencil mid-air and tucked it behind her ear. She let out a low whistle. "Wow, I never thought I'd hear
that come out of your mouth. This is really getting to you isn't it?"
I signed. "Maybe I'm the delusional one. I thought being an editor would allow me the chance to discover literary
gems. I want to discover the next To Kill a Mockingbird or Harry Potter."
"And instead," Clo said templing her fingers beneat her chin. "You're reading about hairies of another sort."
"You could go all day couldn't you?" I said smiling.
"Of course. Just like most of the chicks in these stories, I'm guessing."
"You know what you need?" she asked.
I glanced at the clock. It was a little after eleven. Five o'clock was eons away. I wasn't going to make it.
"We can't drink on the job," I said.
"Sure we can," Clo bounced up. "It's the only way you're going to let one of these," she pointed to the stacks, "get
through to the next round."
"None of these deserve to get to the next round."
"How many stories have you approved this month?"
I blanched. "None."
"I can't help it! This stuff is crap! I love romance stories, but these are...are..."
"These are your paycheck."
I scowled. She was right but my personal standards were standing in the way. I glanced back at the clock. Twenty after
eleven. I opened my bottom right hand drawer and yanked out my purse.
"Let's get that drink."
Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters and settings are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. No money is being made from this work. No copyright infringement is intended.