A Bitch Named Karma. Stephanie Haefner

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      “Finito!” I screamed, not caring if the entire building heard me.

      I’d just typed The End on my latest manuscript and that meant another Lexi Marshall masterpiece was ready for the printers. Val would be ecstatic. As friend, confidante and editor extraordinaire, her job title usually included “nag” as well. But for once, I was two weeks ahead of my deadline.

      Dressed in satin pajamas, I sprawled across my purple velvet duvet, marabou-covered slippers on my feet. My chocolaty rich curls were twisted on top of my head, held in place by a jewel-adorned clip. I stretched my arms above my head and pointed my toes, feeling a tingle throughout my body. The deep stretch loosened everything. Man, that felt great!

      My laptop lay in front of me, glowing with accomplishment. She was my faithful friend who stuck by me through writer’s block and bad metaphors. Even when I’d threatened to pick her up and throw her across the room, she never gave me even a moment of spiteful malfunction. This was just as much her success as it was mine.

      I clicked Save and copied the file to disc. This first installment, Marisol Takes Manhattan, was the beginning of a three book series. Book two would follow my heroine as she searched for Mr. Right. Of course it wouldn’t be easy. I’d throw all kinds of bumps in her road. And the final book, the piece de resistance, would be my first ever wedding-themed novel, a journey down the aisle complete with bridesmaids from hell and one wedding disaster after another. I’d been waiting forever for a three-book deal!

      I closed the computer and hopped off the bed, pressing Play on my favorite 80’s CD. I did a happy dance around the room, belting out the lyrics at the top of my lungs. Not only was I delirious with joy, but the feeling of accomplishment put me in a horny mood. My boyfriend, Zak, and I had spent most of the previous month buried in our own workloads, rarely having the energy for a quick missionary, let alone any fun kinky stuff.

      Finishing this book gave me a sense of uninhibited freedom and a delicious thought crossed my mind. I could dress in my black hooker boots—as Zak affectionately named them—and trench coat, absolutely nothing underneath. A little nookie in his office would be quite a surprising way to spend the afternoon. It sounded completely insane but also quite fun. I just had to do it.

      The sexy office tryst had to wait a bit, though. I shimmied into a black lace thong, classy pinstriped pants and said hooker boots, then finished the rest of my primping. Cha Cha, my Chihuahua, scurried after me as I headed toward the door. I gave her a little kiss on the nose before dashing out.

      I found Val hidden behind a pile of manuscripts. She took one look at me and sighed.

      “Please don’t tell me you need some coddling today. I’m drowning in alien love stories and super-spy dramas. And if I have to read one more teen vampire knock-off, I might just roll up the pages and fashion them into a noose!”

      “Val, I know you thrive on drama, but isn’t this a little much?”

      “If you had to read through as many of these as I did, you wouldn’t think so.”

      “Well, I have great news! Marisol Takes Manhattan is finished.”

      “You’re kidding. Please don’t joke with me, not today.” A pencil sat behind each ear and in her hand, another half-chewed one.

      “No joke. Here she is.”

      I handed her the disc, her eyes suddenly widening.

      “I’ll leave you to your, uh, noose,” I said with a smile then turned to leave.

      “Did I tell you I love you?”

      “Not today!”

      I headed to Accounting to pick up my latest royalty check. After being handed a perfectly plain number ten envelope—something I had become quite infatuated with over the years—I carefully placed it in my purse. As much as I wanted to tear it open and kiss its beautiful figures, I had other needs to attend to.

      Inside the bathroom at Smith & Roland Publishing, I shed my pinstripe pants and silk cami. After stuffing them into my silver metallic Fendi bag, I wrapped my sleek black trench around me tightly. Every button had been slipped through its corresponding hole while the belt sat in a secure knot at my waist. My lips were painted with a shade of M.A.C. lipstick appropriately named Eager. The twenty-dollar pout screamed “kiss me now.” My body emanated Zak’s favorite perfume, its sweet yet sensual mix of aniseed, violets, vanilla and musk. The day we’d bought it, a tester bottle in a Martinique gift shop led to hours of love-making in a tropical paradise.

      I walked the five blocks to Zak’s office, the satin lining of my coat rubbing on my thighs. Riding the elevator to the tenth floor among businessmen in suits and secretaries in conservative blouses and skirts, I felt quite naughty. If they only knew what lay under my simple black coat—barely a square foot of transparent fabric covering only my most intimate body parts.

      Thoughts of what I could do when I walked into Zak’s office swirled through my brain and brought a goofy smirk to my face. Just thinking of my finished manuscript made me a little wet. If I thought of all the Kama Sutra positions we could do in his desk chair, I’d be dripping by the time I actually made it to his office.

      Zak’s secretary Ruth sat manning her post outside his office picking at an over micro-waved lasagna in a cardboard tray. Her graying hair and decades-old wardrobe made her a prime candidate for a makeover show, one where the victim is ambushed at work, their friends and family waiting in the СКАЧАТЬ