Unabridged Read online

  Dear Reader,

  The world has had enough of drama. We need laughter and escape. We need some light-hearted fiction to relax and brighten our days.

  This is why I wrote The Job Blower, a comedy that will blow your socks off. At the end of this book you will find an excerpt from The Job Blower, and the chance of reading it for FREE if you subscribe via email to my website, melindadeross.com.

  I hope you have as much fun reading it as I had writing it!

  Fondly,

  Melinda

  Unabridged

  Melinda De Ross

  Dear Reader,

  I always like to surprise you, to experiment with words and genres whenever I write a new story.

  With Unabridged I decided to try my hand at Romantic Comedy, and the result is a chick-lit hybrid abounding in humor, but which doesn’t lack introspection.

  Personally I adore this story, not only because of the mega-sexy hero, Blade Spencer, but also because of the hillarious incisiveness of some of the more spicy theories of Angelina’s and of the mysterious character Zorro Kalashnikov. You may not agree with their opinions, but I’m sure you won’t be able to resist their charm.

  Enjoy!

  Fondly,

  Melinda

  Table of contents

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Excerpt from The Job Blower

  One

  Everything started with a popular book about BDSM.

  I strolled to my office building—located in a skyscraper in downtown Seattle—at ten a.m. holding my briefcase, which sheltered the precious article I thought would make my career. When I first got the idea, it occurred to me I’d probably make enemies for life by mocking the subject treated in said book, which seems to have more partisans than the Bible. But I waved that thought away. I have the right to express my opinion freely and to hell with anybody who doesn’t share it. After all, it’s a free country, right?

  I hoped Howie would share my views; as a plan B, I had prepared an entire speech on why this satire feature should appear in Unabridged—the literary magazine I worked for. Howie Stewart was my boss—a fact that never failed to annoy us both. He was a small, paunchy man with bad breath and shoulders forever sprinkled with dandruff. The only reason he hired me was because I had excellent writing skills and useful connections all over the city and beyond. That didn’t diminish our mutual dislike for each other or his opinion of me—that I was an overachieving overly-feminist hunting his job.

  Well, it was true up to a point. I didn’t want his job. Being editor-in-chief wasn’t my life’s ambition at the moment. I was contented with being a simple editor, because that gave me the chance to make my own schedule most of the time and freelance whenever I had something interesting to pursue.

  I glided through the glass doors and headed straight to the elevators, miraculously finding one that was empty. I pressed the button for the seventh floor, then turned to study my reflection in the sideway mirror. My black, smart business suit had absolutely no wrinkles. Combined with the magically deceiving powers of a class A pushup bra, it made me look like a bombshell. My rather ordinary light-brown-dark-blonde hair had finally grown past my shoulders. The temptation to dye it was still strong, but I kept it under control by remembering my last attempt to add blonde streaks at home. That resulted in smoke literally coming out of my head and a very short haircut—enough to keep me satisfied with its natural color and currently healthy appearance.

  My eyes are green, but most people mistake them for blue, especially when I use dark-brown eye shadow, like that morning. All in all, at twenty-five I didn’t look half bad, if I did say so myself. My nose is a bit long and my chin is a tad pointy, but I thought my nice lips and white non-bleached teeth compensated for them.

  When the elevator doors opened, I took a deep breath and headed straight to Howie’s office, not giving myself time to reconsider approaching him. Isabelle, my coworker and best friend, had left her office door ajar. I could see her on the phone through the crack—a tiny, five feet frame of curly, blonde cuteness—but I didn’t pause to say hi. I continued down the hall to Howie’s office and stopped right in front of the door.

  I cleared my throat, took another cleavage-expanding gulp of air and knocked twice. Without waiting for a reply, I burst in and said in a sing-song voice, “You’re gonna love me!”

  “I did, once.”

  I stopped dead in my tracks, only by a miracle managing to stay on my feet and not stumble ridiculously to end up face down on the floor, like the book heroine I held in such contempt. Behind Howie’s desk, in his chair, sat my nemesis. And suddenly, as I stood in the doorway and stared at him, the memories rushed behind my eyes, flashing through my mind with the speed of lightning.

  Blade Spencer had been the only man I’d ever loved. He’d been my first love and my first lover. The brief time we’d spent together had been the most beautiful period of my life. I remembered picnics in the forest and walks in summer rain, strolls in the park and stolen kisses, hours of making love and promises of eternal bliss. But our relationship hadn’t ended in eternal bliss.

  “Hello, Angelina,” he said in his deep, husky voice, startling me out of my reverie. He almost never shortened my name. As though barely now realizing this scene was real, my body started reacting to this unexpected situation. My heart was pounding so hard I was afraid he could hear it from across the room, and I felt heat rising fast into my cheeks. Though I liked to say I never blush, I bet my skin tone made synthetic blusher seem pale right at that moment.

  “Blade, what are you doing here?” I asked, my voice sounding breathless and shaken.

  “I work here.”

  This had to be a joke.

  “Work here? In this building?” I repeated, gripping tighter the handle of my briefcase.

  “In this office. I’m your new editor-in-chief.”

  His face spread into a smile that made my stomach sink. His mouth was beautifully shaped. His lips weren’t full, but not overly thin either—a perfect balance of mobile, velvety curves and textures. He was unshaven and that made his mouth resemble an alluring, soft island in the middle of the dark stubble covering the lower part of his face. I could still recall his taste and the incendiary kisses we’d shared years ago.

  I swallowed and lifted my gaze to his eyes, which were the color of rich, dark chocolate, same shade as his short cut hair.

  “You have to be kidding.”

  The intensity with which he watched me made me aware of every inch of my body, making the jacket of my suit feel uncomfortably tight.

  His expression turned serious.

  “No, Angelina, I assure you I’m not. I’m your new boss. Howie moved to San Francisco. Didn’t you know that? He retired early. But then, I gathered you don’t honor this office often with your presence. Please, come in and sit down. I want to talk to you,” he added and gestured to the chair facing his desk.

  I advanced into the room, still not convinced this wasn’t a b
ad joke. It was true it had been more than a week—or was it two?—since I’d dropped by the office, but Belle would have told me if we had a new boss. I sat and was just about to point that out when Blade said, “This is my first official day and I plan to do some revamping around here.”

  “Revamping? What exactly does that mean?”

  Suspicion began to replace my previous state of astonished stupor. Having Blade Spencer as a boss was bad enough, but having him fire me was unconceivable. I would have to kill him first.

  As though reading my mind, he said, “There are some people who don’t deserve their paychecks around here. I won’t fire anybody yet, but I plan to make sure everyone has enough to do and that they complete their assignments, from editors to proofreaders.”

  As he spoke I looked at him closely, trying not to stare. I hadn’t seen him in more than three years, since our breakup. He was nearly six years older than me and looked his age. Fine lines were etched around his eyes and around his beautiful mouth, though that didn’t diminish his attractiveness in the least. In fact, he was even sexier than when I’d last seen him. A maturity he didn’t possess then was now reflected not only on his face, but in his entire demeanor. His gestures, his speech were those of a man in charge, on whose shoulders pressed imperious matters.

  His white, summer shirt had one button open at the neck. His gray tie was loose, revealing a few inches of tanned skin. I wondered if the body under those classy clothes was the same I used to worship. He’d never been the Arnold Schwarzenegger type, but then I never did like that kind of bulky six packs prototype. Contrary to what most men think, personally I’ve always preferred a man like Blade—tall and broad-shouldered, but with a supple frame and subtle muscles finely outlined.

  “Why were you so excited?”

  My eyes jumped up to his face. “What?”

  Is he psychic? How the hell can he read my thoughts? I wondered flustered, hoping I succeeded in displaying a cool exterior, when I was actually struggling with a disconcerting inner turmoil triggered by this unexpected encounter.

  “When you got in, you seemed excited about something,” he said patiently, not taking his eyes away from me.

  Who was this stranger, with his professional manner and steady gaze, behind which I could read nothing of what he felt? I shifted my briefcase on my knees and took out the folder containing my article. In the heat of the moment, I’d even forgotten why I was there. I handed him the sheets of white paper.

  “Um, I had an idea about an article last night. I think it would be great for my column.”

  He reached out to take the sheets and his fingers brushed mine. I looked up quickly. For a split second, I thought I could read in his expression the same deep yearning that had burned in me during the three years since I hadn’t seen him. I’d never stopped longing for him. Now I wondered if it was just my imagination, or if his eyes truly mirrored the same feelings as he looked at me.

  But then he withdrew his hand, and the spell—if indeed had been one on his side as well—was broken. He counted the three sheets, then proceeded to read aloud, a hand absently rubbing his chin.

  “Billionaires, BDSM and Blah-blah-blah.” He raised an eyebrow, glancing at me before he resumed reading. “It was one of the trendy BDSM erotic romances that started everything. I heard about it from a couple of friends who were head over heels excited about said book, so naturally I was intrigued. First I read the reviews, and was even more intrigued by such contradictory opinions. Some said the book was brilliant; others said it was a literary catastrophe. After reading a few pages I was inclined toward the second category, but went on reading, still curious. After another dozen of pages or so, I forced myself to read strictly as research, to see what exactly it is about this kind of literature that has inspired a mass phenomenon. With all my good intentions, I abandoned the book about halfway. Not even the holy purpose of research could force my brain to go on absorbing that read. Why? I asked myself that, and plan to make an analysis right here, one that every woman should make. To my amazement, I noted that BDSM-related books have become a trend, one that sells billions of books annually, most of them enjoyed by women. The first thing that occurred to me during this study is the fight women have carried for thousands of years to be emancipated, ever since Eve’s proverbial appearance on Earth. So why in the world—I wonder—would women enjoy, even want to be submissive to men in any way? When has this regression from women to females taken place, and why? We fought for liberty and respect, we fought to have our opinions, votes and rights equal to those of men, to be independent in every way possible. Yet now, in the secret corners of our dirty little minds, we dream of perverted billionaires who want to cuff us, whip us and use us as inflatable dolls. You want to be dominated? That’s just fine. It’s the law of nature. Every woman likes the man to be on top, more often than not. But from this very natural feminine instinct to lowering yourselves to the status of collared submissive it’s a road of thousands of years of evolution.”

  Blade’s eyebrows went up another notch, making me squirm in my chair. He cleared his throat and went on reading, “Even this word, ‘submissive’, personally gets on my nerves. True, I am a militant feminist and I’m very proud of that. That is what brought us where we are and that will make women heads of states. Can you imagine a powerful woman, a woman in control who knows she is smart, strong and capable enjoying BDSM? Can you imagine Cleopatra—one of the most representative female figures in history—with her ass in the air in front of Caesar, getting a whipping or wearing a leash? If there has been any whipping going on in that royal tangle, I bet she was the one to do it. A woman like that would never dream of being anybody’s submissive. Isn’t that the model we should all follow, instead of the young, stupid, helpless bimbo who actually likes to be bound and trampled by a man? And do you think a real man would feel the need to subject a woman to BDSM practices so he’d be able to dominate her? Do you believe real men need that kind of sick artifice to feel strong and confident? I don’t. I, like many women my age or older, have grown up with the classical heroes and heroines of Jane Austen, Mary Stewart, Sandra Brown, Jilly Cooper and so on. Can you picture one of the dashing men we all dreamed of smacking our asses with a whip? Because I can’t, and honestly I wouldn’t want it. I don’t understand what it is about the so-called ‘art of domination and submission’ that turns on normal people, healthy men and women with healthy fantasies. As for what I call ‘the billionaire factor’ I suspect that is what actually makes this kind of literature appealing. Every woman dreams of becoming the human accessory of a kinky CEO, and that is supposed to be romantic? I guess your opinions on this matter make the difference between women and cavewomen, men and cavemen. It’s your choice which side you’d rather be on, ladies, but first I felt the obligation to the feminine race to spread some light and thoughts over the world, to make you all see what exactly you like, or think you like, so much. –Angelina Jameson.”

  Well, hearing it aloud certainly helped me get a perspective on things. Blade fell quiet, still absorbed with the pages. I wondered if I hadn’t been too harsh. After all, Unabridged is a literature magazine with high standards. If I said ‘ass’ and ‘fuck’ it might be because I got a little carried away. They could be replaced, right? I looked at his face, nervously waiting for a sign, a reaction, anything.

  Finally, he lifted his gaze to me. “You don’t actually expect this to appear in Unabridged, do you?”

  Two

  “Why not?” I bristled, trying to look innocently scandalized, though I knew the reasons very well.

  “This is practically an attack directed at this book and its author,” Blade said, arranging the sheets and placing them on his desk. “It’s too harsh and it may very well turn the public opinion against the magazine.”

  “It’s not an attack,” I protested irritably. “It’s my personal opinion and I, like any other citizen, have the right to express my opinion freely. I’ve read tens of thousands of reviews that a
re much worse than what I wrote there. One of the reviewers stated, verbatim, that she thought this book was written by a couple of sixteen-year-old teenagers and she was sick of the sexy guy with an incredible body, an extremely large penis and billions of dollars, who appears to never work and spends all of his time fucking the incredibly imbecile heroine,” I quoted from memory, lowering my briefcase next to my chair. “That’s why we’re called Unabridged, because we express our opinions freely and don’t grant favors to anybody.”

  His mouth was twisted in a thoughtful grimace while he listened to me building up my case. A trace of a smile stretched his lips.

  “I thought all women dreamed about billionaires with large penises.”

  I snorted.

  “Shows how much you know. That is one of the ridiculous convictions women can’t get out of men’s heads. We don’t care about the size of the equipment, but about the technique. As a matter of fact, a large penis can be a liability. It has to fit somewhere, and women haven’t got cow-sized vaginas. But what do I know?”

  I shrugged and looked away, barely now realizing what turn the heated discussion had taken. I didn’t dare meet his stare, but I could feel him watching me as I glanced through the large window behind him.

  “You’ve also used the words ‘fuck’ and ‘ass’,” he remarked, picking up the pages again.

  “And your point is?”

  “I don’t recall anyone using that kind of language before in this magazine.”

  “They haven’t,” I admitted. “But there’s a start for everything. People use that language all the time. Writers who won the Nobel prize use it, so why not us? We’re not a magazine for children.”

  He stared at the sheets for several moments, then looked up at me.

  “I’ll think about it. It’s all I can promise right now,” he added, raising one hand to stave off the protest on my lips. “Meanwhile, we have a staff meeting at three o’clock. Make sure you’re there.”