Page 107 of Remember Me
“Sweetheart, it’s party time. Zip down my fly.”
“Please don’t make me do this.”
He snorts with laughter. “Sweetheart, trust me, I’ll be way more receptive to your pitch.”
“No!” I shout out.
“Stop wasting my precious time. It’s not every day you’re gonna get this chance of a lifetime.”
I hear him unbuckle his belt. My heart races as bile rises to the back of my throat. I don’t think I can suck his monstrous organ, let alone stomach the sight of it. Besides, I need more than sexual assault. At most he’ll get a few years in prison at some upscale white-collar penitentiary and then early parole if he’s on good behavior and agrees to rehabilitation. Then, he’ll be sent to some ritzy rehab joint in Malibu or Scottsdale withluxurious accommodations—complete with a deluxe suite, spa, pool, and gourmet dining.
I need to prove he tried to kill me. The thought of him getting away with murder is unfathomable. The bastard! He needs to suffer as much as he made me suffer. I take that back. Make that more!
Rage livewires through me. It’s time to go in for the kill. Pun intended though my mental double entendre makes me shudder. I need a confession. As risky as it is. I can’t let Jim’s presence throw me off. Or a pending blow job. I need to stick to my plan. The script.
“Listen, Sheldon, why don’t you let me pitch my story and I’ll do anything you want.”
“Maybe you can fuck it out of her,” chortles Jim. In my mind’s eye, I can see him laughing at his own joke.
It’s not funny. In fact, it horrifies me. I manage to cast my eyes upward. Creasing his forehead, Sheldon weighs his options. My heart thudding, I remain silent with anticipation as the monster scrunches his bulbous nose.
“Nah. Let her get her pitch off her chest.” He snickers. “Then she can getmeoff. Who knows... maybe she’s got something good besides a hot little pussy. I’m desperate for something to sell.”
I inhale a breath of relief. Things are back on track.
Sheldon orders Jim to take a seat. Releasing my head, he grabs his bourbon and folds into an armchair. I stand up as Sheldon plops down on an opulent couch. His potbelly is so big he can’t close his legs. He scratches his balls.
“Go ahead, sweetheart. Don’t take too long. Give me the elevator pitch.”
I know what that means. Jim, with his short attention span, taught me that term when it came to pitching news stories. Itmeans summing up your story in a couple of pithy lines. Making it high concept.
“I’ll try. It’s a complex story.”
Sheldon scratches his crotch again and huffs out a frustrated breath. “C’mon, sweetheart. Make it fast. My balls are itching.”
I suck in a steeling breath and make eye contact with my audience. My pupils ping-ponging between Sheldon and Jim. Ultimately landing on Sheldon, I begin. My voice is strong, my expression animated. My hands sweep the air dramatically.
“Imagine . . .Dark PassagemeetsBrenda Starr. . . meetsMadeline. . . ”
The two men furrow their brows.
“Who the hell is Madeline?” grumbles Sheldon.
Jim informs him. “Some ballsy French kid. My wife used to read those books to my daughter when she was a toddler.”
“Whatever.” Sheldon juts his double chin. “Go on.”
Not having the luxury to waste time, I continue.
“What happens when a young investigative reporter at a major news network learns from an A-list actress that one of Hollywood’s major players sexually assaulted her?”
Sheldon narrows his eyes. “What d’ya mean?”
“What I mean is he raped her.” Having Sheldon and Jim’s full attention, I don’t stop. “Against her boss’s wishes, the reporter decides to prove that the actress’s accusation is more than an allegation.”
Jim squirms and takes a long swig of his bourbon. “Sheldon, I don’t like where this is going.”
Swiping his greasy comb over, Greenberg dismisses him. “Let her finish. This has potential.” Inwardly breathing a sigh of relief, I pick up where I left off.