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Interview with the Dom
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There’s just one condition to this interview… Will I survive the heat when we come together?
When the respected newspaper I work for changes owners and becomes nothing but a gossip rag, I quit. Bad idea. Three months later, I’m still looking for a job, watching my savings dwindle down into nothing.
Then a miracle happens… Glam magazine needs a journalist for their World column. I couldn’t be more perfect. Except that their idea of news is vastly different from mine. Instead of writing award winning editorials about world hunger and sex trafficking, I’m assigned to interview Master X, the handsome owner of a sex club.
The Dom agrees to the interview… on one condition. He won’t answer my questions about his lifestyle. He wants to show me instead.
***Interview with the Dom is a standalone novella guaranteed to steam up your Kindle. No cliffhanger and a very happy ending.***
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“Fine… I quit.”
Oh my god. Did that just come out of my mouth?
Shit. It did, and from the look in my boss’s eyes, I’m not sure who’s more surprised, me or him.
Did I mean it?
Hell yes I did.
No… I’m very serious. No way in hell am I staying here. Not if my integrity is going to be challenged, my talent used to dirty the world instead of helping make it more transparent. Not if my word isn’t good enough. My beliefs. The lines I draw in the sand.
Even though I want to throw myself across the desk, snatch back the words, this is the right thing to do, my heart and gut knows that at least. But there’s also a part of me — the part with gray matter and in-depth knowledge that security is important — is hoping that the pencil dicked man before me will be the one who throws himself across the desk, that he’ll beg me for forgiveness, beg me to stay.
After all, I’m one of the hardest working journalists at this newspaper. I’ve won awards, for goodness sakes. Sure, they were local and state awards, but I’d been the one who freaking won them… because I research the shit out of assignments and make sure my sources are sound. While I realize we’re not The Wall Street Journal or the Times, we’re well respected by New Yorkers…
No. That isn’t true. Once upon a time, we’d been well respected by New Yorkers. Not anymore.
Lifting my chin, I stare at Russ, who is staring right back. “Fine,” he says without even blinking his eyes. He leans back in his chair. “You know, if you’d be a little bit more…” his eyes flick to my mouth, “nice, we’d be able to work something out. Licking balls is always better than breaking them.”
I stiffen. It isn’t the first sexual reference the prick has tossed in my direction, but it’s certainly the most overt. I’ve been called a man beater, man hater, and my favorite, the ice queen. That’s just fine. I’d much rather be thought of as icy than some warm, ooey gooey pile of doormat.
“I’m reporting you to human resources.”
He laughs and leans forward, picking up his phone and punching a button. “David…” he says to the HR Director and punches another button for the speaker phone. “I’ve got Caroline Murphy here. She wants to report me for harassment.”
A chuckle comes over the speaker, and I pat my pockets, searching for my cell. I’m going to record this conversation. I’ll get proof. I need proof. This asshole is going down.
Then David chuckles. “I told you to stay away from her. You’ll get frostbite on your prick.”
Russ raises an eyebrow to me and smirks. “Yeah. She’s currently hunting for her phone, I think. If she finds it, I’m betting she’ll try to record our little conversation. Want to bet? I’ve got ten dollars for it.”
David chuckles again. “Keep your money. It’s a sure thing. Just let me know if she finds it. I prefer to keep these types of conversations in the he-said, she-said realm.”
With an internal groan, I stop searching because I know my phone is on my desk, still in my bag. I hadn’t thought to grab it prior to storming in here. Apparently, my realization is evident in my expression because Russ leans forward. “I think we’re safe. Just wanted to warn you that she’d be in to see you soon… one way or another.”
Without a word, I stand and turn away.
“Well, you and your sweet ass will be missed,” Russ says, David still on the line. “The place won’t be as pretty now that you’re gone.”
The verbal punch in the gut is tremendous, and if my lips hadn’t been pressed together, air would have probably whooshed out of my lungs. I swallow hard, pushing down the panic and insecurities, the disappointment. The anger. I know how this works. I did an article a couple years ago on why women didn’t report this type of harassment. Not a single source would allow me to print her name.
Now I know why.
I’ve heard other people say it, but I’ve never thought it would pertain to me. And not just the harassment. They say that it didn’t matter how much effort you put into a job, or even how well loved you are to your co-workers or even bosses, that you’re just a number and your dead body wouldn’t even be cold before you were replaced.
Still silent, and with as much grace and dignity as I can muster, I walk out of the door. I could throw a fit, stomp and scream and curse. They’d just laugh, I know. And I hate being laughed at. More than anything, I hate that.
I will not cry. I will not cry.