Bombshell. Jody GehrmanЧитать онлайн книгу.

      I’d attached a picture Wanda took of me during her “fantasy photography” phase last summer. She wanted to start her own studio, and she’d employed me as her guinea pig. We’d taken it one Saturday night well into our second shaker of martinis. Dylan’s Bettie Page comment was spot-on; that’s exactly what we were going for. My thick, dark hair was cut in Bettie’s trademark severe bangs, and the black satin corset strained to contain my D-cup cleavage. The garter belt, thigh-high silk stockings, long satin gloves and patent leather pumps gave it that retro pinup girl flavor, but the pièce de résistance was the leather riding crop I held above my head, dominatrix style.

      My hand flies from the keyboard to my mouth. I feel my stomach lurch, and the pasta salad I ate for lunch threatens an encore. This stupid message went to everyone on the creative team—all twenty-five of us! By now it’s no doubt been forwarded to everyone else who works here.

      Simon Tork, my art director, leans over my shoulder and whispers in my ear, “Honey, if I liked girls I just might fall in love.”

      More titters and guffaws ripple across the office. I have to think fast. I look at the clock. Seven minutes till two. My boss Felicity, aka The Stick, always returns to her desk by two. Assuming she didn’t check her phone during lunch, there’s still the narrowest chance I can save my job.

      It’s a long shot, but I have to try.

      Launching myself from my desk, I ignore the laughter and catcalls all around me and pound up the stairs to IT. It’s mostly guys up there, and they all stare openly as I sprint for Gopal’s desk.

      “Did you see it?” I pant without preamble.

      His dark eyes meet mine, puzzled. “See what?”

      “I sent an email.” I pause to catch my breath and wipe the sweat from my forehead. “I meant to send it to my friend Wanda, but I must have gotten distracted and hit Reply All instead. Oh god, she’ll fire me. She’s been looking for an excuse. Please, you’ve got to help!”

      “Calm down.” His face scrunches up with concern. “You’re going to have a heart attack if you don’t—”

      “I’m serious! This is an emergency. I’m doomed.”

      He turns to his computer screen. In a low voice he says, “What do you need me to do?”

      I look around, aware now that stealth is called for. There’s a chair near his desk and I yank it closer, lowering my own voice to match his. “Can you delete it?”

      “I can’t hide it from those who have seen it.”

      I look at my watch: 1:55. “Please! She’ll be here any second.”

      He bites his lip, his face conflicted. I’m asking him to do something that could get him fired. It’s highly unlikely—Gopal’s too good to be expendable—but it’s possible. I know it’s selfish of me, but I figure he’s got about a 9 percent chance of losing his job over this. I, on the other hand, have at least a 99.9 percent chance of losing mine if Felicity sees that email in the next five—no, four—minutes.

      I implore him with my eyes.

      He sighs and spins in his swivel chair to face his screen. His fingers fly over the keyboard. He squints. He mutters to himself. I hold my breath. Finally, at 1:58 p.m., I see the beautiful glowing words on his screen: Are you sure you want to delete this message from the server?

      He casts a glance over his shoulder at me. “You owe me, Sugars.”

      “I know! Forever!”

      He hits a couple more keys, and the screen says Message deleted.

      “You’re the best!”

      “Mmm-hmm,” he agrees. “I expect a steady supply of gratitude for the rest of my life.”

      “You’ve got it.”

      * * *

      When I get back downstairs, Felicity’s just stepping out of the elevator. Her sleek, closely-cropped hair sits like a dark helmet on her head—not a single strand out of place. Her navy skirt hugs her slim hips and her cream silk blouse is immaculately pressed. Her brown eyes meet mine; the pencil-thin eyebrows pull together as she frowns. No creases appear, though. She’s in her early thirties, tops, but she gets so much Botox her face is as smooth and plastic as a Barbie doll’s.

      “Ah, Ruby. You’re here. Can I have a word, please?”

      My heart, which is still running laps inside my rib cage, takes a flying leap for my throat. “Sure. Right now?”

      She gives me a smile so cold it freezes my blood.

      I manage to mumble, “Always have time for you.”

      “Great.” She marches toward her office as I trail along in her wake.

      Navigating the desks of the various copywriters, graphic designers, art directors and copyeditors, several snorts of muffled laughter reach my ears. Felicity stops, nostrils flaring. She’s obviously noticed, too. She looks at Dylan, who has just managed to bite back a guffaw.

      “Something funny?” Her bird-like eyes search his face.

      Dylan nudges Matt, who pretends to be engrossed in a report. “No! Nothing’s funny.”

      Felicity turns to me, studies me briefly, then shrugs and glances back at Dylan. “Production meeting in an hour.”

      “Roger that,” Dylan replies.

      As she ushers me into her office and shuts the door. I try to get my sweat glands under control. My pulse is still racing, and I can feel big wet patches of perspiration soaking through my blouse. If there’s one thing Felicity can’t stand, it’s sloppiness. If she had her way, the entire world would be as sleek, cold and modern as her office, which resembles a futuristic Swedish hospital. Sitting in her deeply uncomfortable chrome-and-leather chair, I’m terrified I’ll sweat on the flawless suede.

      “I suppose you got my email?”

      I squirm, then force myself to sit still.