The Original Sinners: The Red Years

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

“Mary, her books aren’t the only thing she sells.”

“Yeah, I heard she was the real thing. I can’t believe I’ve been working for someone who was working with a real live Dominatrix.”

“Not simply a Dominatrix. The Dominatrix apparently. I can’t have it. She’s just supposed to write about it. She’s not supposed to live it.”

“She doesn’t write murder stories, boss. She doesn’t kill people on paper and in real life. She just…”

“Beats them on paper and in real life,” Zach finished for her.

“But they like it. Slightly lower rung on the ladder of horror than murder and rape, don’t you think?”

“Mary, you don’t mind your husband had other lovers before he met you, do you?”

“Of course not. I had my fair share, too.”

“Now, would you mind if you found out these other lovers had paid him for sex?”

Mary laughed at the idea. “I see your point. But still—”

“I can accept it as a private practice between consenting adults. But to do it with strangers for money?”

Mary exhaled and rolled her eyes.

“Boss, do you really think her personal life means she doesn’t deserve to be published? That’s a little harsh, don’t you think? Is this really about her book?”

Zach looked at Mary.

“Please don’t share this with anyone—”

“Jesus, Zach, I’m not J.P. You can tell me anything.”

“Nora and I… It wasn’t strictly business.”

She nodded her head. “Well, obviously. Your mood definitely improved when you started working with her. Is that why you’re so pissed?”

“She lied to me. That’s what I can’t get over. I cared about her. For the first time since Grace and I separated I could vaguely imagine myself happy again. Or at least not miserable anymore.”

“Maybe she was imagining the same thing with you. Maybe that’s why she was afraid to tell you. Or maybe she just wanted you to see her as a writer and not as, I don’t know, a character.”

Zach sighed. He knew Mary had a point. He just didn’t want to admit it yet.

“Tell me something, boss. What do you think is the highest form of art?”

“Literature,” he answered without hesitation. “Painters and sculptors require elaborate supplies and tools. Dancers must have music. Musicians must have instruments. Literature needs nothing but a voice to speak it or sand to scrawl it in.”

Mary walked to his office bookshelf and pulled down three Royal House titles. She laid them facedown on top of his desk. She pointed one by one at the UPC barcodes on the back.

“Even the highest form of art is for sale, Zach. And you, editor extraordinaire, help up the price.”

Zach met her eyes. “You think I’m a prude.”

“Prude…ish. Poor J.P. was heartbroken when you told him it wasn’t going to work out with Nora.”

“I know. He looked like a boy whose puppy just died. But he kept his promise.”

“He trusts you. If you say the book shouldn’t be published, he won’t publish the book. Do you really think the book shouldn’t be published?”

Zach stared at Mary. Twenty-eight years old and she was far wiser than he. She was right. At least Nora deserved a chance to tell her side of the story.

“You deserve a raise.”

“For what? Bringing you coffee?”

“And telling me off. And coming in on a Sunday to help me clean house a little.”

“It’s Easter Sunday. You and I are both members of the tribe. Might as well. Besides, you’re the best boss I’ve ever had.”

“And you’re by far my best assistant ever. Here.” He dug in his messenger bag and pulled out Finley’s most recent gift to him. “Would you like to have these? Finley’s last gift. Earrings, I think.”

Mary opened the box and burst out laughing.

“What?” Zach asked.

“Nice nipple clamps, boss.”

Heat rushed to Zach’s face. “Nipple clamps? I should have known.”

“Well, they do look a lot like clip-on earrings,” she said.

“But you knew what they were immediately.” Zach raised his eyebrow at her.

Mary looked up to the heavens in feigned innocence. “I don’t know. Maybe I am of that persuasion.” She stood up and headed for the door.

“You think I should call Nora?” Zach asked. Mary turned around.

“I think you should think about it,” Mary said as she left his office.

He picked up the phone and dialed Nora’s house number, but there was no answer. He called her cell phone but it went directly to voice mail. He sent her an email that said only, Will you call me please? but got an automatically generated away message back from her. All it said was, To Whom It May Concern: Fuck off. I’m busy.

He sighed and gave up. He could only imagine what she was so busy doing. Even on Easter Sunday, a day that meant nothing to him but he knew was very important to Catholics, she was clearly hard at work at her other job.

He’d tried to call her. It just wasn’t meant to be. He considered calling Grace. He picked up the phone again, stared at it, then put it back down.

* * *

He sighed, knowing he was caught. It amused him to think that while he was ostensibly in charge of every aspect of her life, Caroline still believed she could control his choice of reading material. Her benign feminine disapproval trumped any act of dominance he could muster.