Page 3 of Her Reclusive Beast

With that invitation in mind, I finish my breakfast quickly and prepare to explore. Maybe if I understand him better through his environment, I’ll find the key to motivating him to finish the now overdue book. It’s supposed to be the final book in a series of thrillers. I’ve edited the last two, and they kept meup at night jumping at shadows. I wanted to edit romance or maybe women’s fiction, but when Max Behr’s manuscript was literally plopped in my lap, I wasn’t stupid enough to complain. He’s a brilliant writer and the human foibles of his characters lingered with me long after the scary parts faded away. But the man behind them is still very much an enigma. He refuses to come to New York. Ever. And he won’t do video calls. Only email or old-fashioned phone calls. I think that’s partly why I got him. The more senior editors were tired of coordinating around that. And also his popularity isn’t as strong as it was initially. Maybe because he won’t do things like book tours, but I harbor a sneaking suspicion that he doesn’t care what people think and might just be over the whole author thing, anyway. And that can definitely show up in a book and turn readers away without them really knowing why.

I need to fix that too.

Deciding to explore upstairs first and work my way down, I head off. The top most floor is completely empty, and it smells musty, like it hasn’t been properly aired out in decades. The floor boards creak under my hesitant footsteps. There is no furniture or boxes, but it gives me a chance to admire the architectural details and quaint old fireplaces even though these clearly weren’t the rooms ever meant to be on display. The next floor down has the bigger bedrooms. Some have empty bedframes but the one on the end with views out over the meadows and the adjacent trees is clearly Max’s. Heavy red silk drapes hang at the windows and the bed is large and sturdy. Something stops me from entering past the doorway. Almost like I don’t want to get to know him this intimately without him being here.

You’re being silly,I tell myself, but I still turn and head quickly downstairs. There’s yet another wing with separate stairs to explore but that too is empty except for some old furniturestacked for storage. It’s becoming evident that Max doesn’t entertain much.

Back on the main living floor, I find a comfortable living room with a big screen TV over the carved marble mantle and then his office, along with a few bathrooms and another study and a library that would make Belle weep with envy. But I’m here for work — and Max — so I head into his office to get started.

Max’s office is very tidy. Far too neat for an author experiencing creative flow. It even smells slightly too clean. I frown as I rifle through the notebooks stacked at the corner of his pristine desk. Idly, I tap the mouse and the elevated computer screen flares to life. He did tell me I could look everywhere…

A thorough perusal reveals no manuscript in progress. That can’t be right. He told me he had ten chapters at least completed the last time I talked to him before leaving New York. I pull back the chair and sit down, prepared for a forensic investigation. Except then I find it. I think.

There’s a folder in the desktop trash bin. Carefully, I make a copy and save it to a new folder buried seven layers down in the directory. Max could still get rid of it, but he’ll have to do some searching around to do so. Breathless, I open it up. My eyebrows elevate to new heights. The book is nearly done. He typically writes about thirty-six chapters and this manuscript has twenty-eight. I start reading, hoping to find the problem.

It’s not difficult to locate. By the end ofChapter One,I dislike the protagonist intensely and have significantly more sympathy for the character I’m sure is being set up as the bad guy. This is going to need a complete overhaul. No wonder he binned it.Although I don’t think it’s past the point of redemption. But when Max gets frustrated, he can have an overly dramatic bent. It can be a bit overpowering in the moment, but I’ve always appreciated that he has that depth of passion. I simply imagine redirecting it when he’s yelling at me over the phone. Being here in person… I shiver a little, thinking about what it would be like to be lifted up in his massive arms and claimed by those lips hiding behind that horrible beard.

My phone pings with an incoming text. Diana.

I sigh and pick up the handset for Max’s landline. This is his business in a way, so I’ll explain it to him later when I remember to ask for the wifi password.

“Well?” she barks before I can even announce myself.

“There’s a nearly completed draft, but it won’t work. It needs to be rewritten.”

She sighs like she expected that. “Is he working on it now?”

“Noooo,” I stutter. “He went out to run errands.”

Her snarl has me holding the phone away from my head and staring at it with suspicion.

“I need that manuscript in ten days, Jenna.”

My heart sinks. “I don’t see how that’s doable.”

“Clearly. And certainly not if he’s not even writing! Do I have to teach you how to do everything, you silly girl?”

My own ire begins to rise. “What should I be doing then, Diana? Chaining him to the keyboard?”

“If you have to. Did you suck him off like I told you to?”

I blink. “E-e-excuse me?”

She sighs like I’m a particularly slow and dim-witted employee. “Did you get down on your knees and suck his dick? A computer can do what you do in the office, Jenna. In a fraction of the time. The one thing it can’t do yet is blow a man. Authors like Max Behr need an extra push now and then. How do you thinkhe got all those earlier books done? I told you to do whatever it takes, didn’t I?”

My stomach twists in embarrassed agony and I can’t speak. I have no idea what I would say to that if I could form words. Diana doesn’t have the same problem. “Ten days, Jenna. I want you back in New York with a fully edited manuscript on the fifteenth or don’t bother coming back. If you don’t think you’re up to it, tell me now so I can send someone else there to finish the job.” Thankfully, she hangs up.

Like a zombie, I rise from my chair and walk into the kitchen and then just stand there. What do I do? I’m an editor, not a prostitute. Did I miss something critical in the interviews? Was I too naïve to catch some hidden phrasing?

No, I’m fairly certain I didn’t. I was given a grammar and punctuation test, after all. One that I passed with flying colors. Why would they bother with that if all they wanted was someone to pimp out? Plus, I’ve been working there for two years without hearing anything like this before. Not even gossip in the breakroom. But Diana? Maybe this explains a few things about her and her fast climb up the ladder.

Quitting is the obvious answer, but I barely have enough in the bank for this month’s share of the rent. And Diana will make sure I don’t get another job in publishing in New York. She’s very well connected. My gut churns again when I realize how she probably built that network. And then there’s Max.

I’m shocked by Diana, but I’m genuinely hurt that my image of Max has been so thoroughly shattered. Ilikedhim.

Angry and feeling all mixed up and slightly betrayed by this new perspective, I race up and down corridors, trying to find my room again. The house is quiet except for the odd groan and crack from old wood adjusting to the increased dryness of the atmosphere, which somehow makes it worse because I feel so entirelyalone. When I calm down slightly, it’s easy enoughto find my room. I simply had to take the second turn off the hallway instead of the first. Angry tears are streaming down my face as I stuff my belongings in my suitcase and zip it closed. It’s about five miles to the town with the bus station. I can save a few dollars if I walk instead of calling for the taxi.

Moisture continues to blur my vision as I hoist myself over the low wall by the front gate and spare one last glance back towards the house that I was so eager to visit less than twenty-four hours ago. Now the quiet and emptiness seem to mock my earlier sunshiny vision. Maybe that’s why I completely miss the vehicle pulling up to the gate behind me.

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