Page 22 of The Bodyguard Affair
Gretchen opens yet another tab and my gut curdles.
A partial image of a dapper man in a suit with a shadowedoutline of Parliament in the background takes up the entire screen. It’s my second book, to be exact.The Prime Minister & Me, about an affair between a prime minister and his assistant. It’s my steamiest book—as in 11/10 eggplants on the heat scale, a departure from the low-heat, angstier vibe of my first book. It was probably the most fun I’ve ever had writing.
At the time, work was starting to take over my life. Escaping into a made-up world about a fictional silver fox of a PM and his assistant having hot sex on various surfaces around Parliament proved an excellent escape. A far cry from the gritty, bureaucratic world of real-life politics. It was also easy to write, because inspiration was all around me.
I open my mouth to speak, but my shock mutes me.
Before I can cobble together a sentence, Gretchen cuts in. “After the photos leaked this morning, the media naturally did some digging on you and found this…erotic novel.” The way she says “erotic novel,” as though it were written by the devil himself, is exactly why I used a pen name to begin with.
“It’s speculated to have been penned by you. A memoir of sorts. Look familiar?” Bethany asks. “The media have called, requesting comment for their follow-up story.”
“Memoir? Follow-up story?” I cringe, heat emanating from my cheeks, throat, and entire body.
“Linking you to the book,” Bethany explains. “They see it as added proof of the affair. They’ll be publishing the story tomorrow.”
I want to throw up. Even under all my layers of polyester and wool, I feel naked. Entirely exposed. That’s why Noella and Ann were looking at me sideways. Everyone thinks I’m some sex-crazed freak who’s having an affair with Eric, or at the very least,fantasizing about it. And worst of all, my boss thinks I’ve written a self-insert erotica about her husband.
Her. Husband.
The prime minister of Canada.
Fuck my life.
Death may be a welcome alternative.
“You know the opposition is already popping bottles in their offices, hoping this and the Kirkwood scandal will be the catalyst that shifts public opinion. So please, please make my day easier and tell me this isn’t you. That the photos mean nothing,” Gretchen says. The anger hardening her face has softened slightly, replaced by what looks like a plea.
I mentally assess my options. The photos are completely innocuous. But the book isn’t. I did write it.
I could admit it, explain that the story has nothing to do with Eric or me. That it merely served as a setting for two completely fictional characters who bear no resemblance to me or Eric. Nothing more, which is the cold, hard truth.
But would Gretchen and everyone else actually buy it? Would they really believe it was simply a work of fiction? Regardless, I could never be Gretchen’s PA as well as a romance writer whose books include some seriously scorching face-sitting scenes by chapter 3. Not to mention, my mom would burst into flames and disintegrate into ash if she ever read a single word.
My second option is to deny it all. Aside from the initials, the pen name isn’t linked to my real identity in any tangible way. I’ve gone through painstaking efforts to keep the two identities separate.
“Andi, was it you who wrote this book?” Gretchen asks again, growing increasingly uncomfortable with my silence. “Idon’t want to accuse you of anything, but there are things in here that only an insider would know.”
“You read it?” I ask, my jaw ticking.
“Well, I skimmed it, of course, but had to stop aterect peach nipples. God knows I’ll never get that half hour of my life back,” she continues, not bothering to hide her distaste.
“No. Of course I didn’t write it.” I twitch when the words come out, just waiting for her to call me out like she always does.
She watches me for what feels like an entire year.
My body feels like it’s ready to burst into flame under the pressure. But what other choice do I have? If I admit to being A. A. Zed, I might as well kiss my job goodbye. My entire reputation would be tainted as a mistress / smut memoir writer.
Even if I could prove I’m not involved with Eric, everyone would think I’m creepily obsessed with him. That every sexy scene in that book is based on my real thoughts, even though it’s not. No one would take me seriously, ever again. And worse, it could cause even more tension between Gretchen and Eric. The last thing I want to do is make her feel like she can’t trust me around her husband.
Bethany continues through my silence. “Given the security situation around Eric, it would be a conflict of interest. If you did write it, now is the time to fess up so we can fix this.”
Conflict of interest. No shit.
And so it’s decided: Nothing positive can come from admitting it. Denial is my only option.
“I did not write it, and nothing is going on between me and Eric,” I repeat, careful not to let my voice waver under Gretchen’s searing gaze. I feel like Bill Clinton saying hedid not have sexual relations.God, I hate lying.
Gretchen shifts her elbow onto the armrest, staring at me, waiting for me to crack. A millennium passes until she finally says, “Okay. I believe you.”
