The Dirty Truth, page 2
“No comment, Mr. Maxwell,” a woman coos. “Just wanted to offer my congratulations. I think I speak for all of us when I say we’re beyond excited for Made Man’s new chapter.”
Through my peripheral vision, I manage a quick peek at the bold brownnoser, only to find it’s a former intern who wanted my job back in the day.
“Thank you . . .” West pauses and squints, as if he’s attempting to recall her name, and then, without wasting another precious second, turns on his heel and waves it away. The former intern shrinks into her seat, her humbled face curtained by a wall of glossy honey-blonde hair. “Anyone else feel the need to waste my time?”
Silence blankets the room.
“Ah. Nothing from you?” He saunters back to the head of the table, hands sliding into his pockets ever so casually while a serious expression paints his beautiful face. “After missing the first fifteen minutes of this meeting, surely you have a question or two?”
I attempt to swallow, only to choke on my own spit for half a panicked second. Clearing my throat, I shake my head. After the morning I’ve had—on top of the bizarre two months I’ve already endured—getting publicly ridiculed by West Maxwell would only add insult to injury.
“None from me, thanks. I’ll find a colleague and get briefed when they have a chance.” I flash my editor a look.
Tom lifts his hand. “I’ll fill her in after this, sir. No worries.”
“Good answer.” West folds his cognac leather folio in half and clicks off the projector.
A handful of choice words lingers on the tip of my tongue. I could understand his rudeness if it were warranted. I click my pen and flatten my lips to keep from saying something I might regret.
Besides, a king has no need for the opinion of his peasants, and he’d have no qualms about knocking me off my proverbial high horse in two seconds flat. Not only that, but a man with his kind of influence could take it a step further and have me blacklisted from the entire industry with a single email.
If he wanted to.
I don’t know if he’s the vengeful type, because at the end of the day, I barely know the man.
And I’m not alone.
For someone under such a spotlight, his personal life is under strict lock and key. Nothing but rumors too outlandish to fact-check contrasted with details too vague to matter. While I have an impressive knack for finding just about anything about just about anyone on the internet, any and all searches on this notorious mystery man lead to a sea of red-carpet Getty images (he’s always alone, never with a date) and a handful of carefully curated Made Man interviews.
Through picking apart bits and pieces online, I’ve been able to glean three personal truths about West Maxwell: he grew up in some blink-and-you’ll-miss-it Nebraska town; his favorite restaurant is Il Postino on East Sixty-First Street, where he has standing Thursday-night reservations at a private table in the kitchen; and he wears a size 13 shoe.
But what I want to know—all I’ve ever wanted to know—is what made him so cruel.
“If there are no further questions or comments, you’re all free to leave,” West drones under his breath as he checks his phone. Peering up at me, he adds, “Except you.”
I press a finger into my chest, my heart ricocheting at warp speed. “I’m sorry?”
“Sorry for what?” He delivers his response with a sarcastic sneer as he watches the room clear out.
“You want to talk to . . . me?”
I didn’t think he knew my name . . .
His full lips curl at one side, flashing a deep dimple that manages to weaken my knees without permission.
There’s no denying the man is a work of art.
But he’s also a piece of work.
“You write that column for me . . . The Dirty Truth . . . yes?” he asks, referring to the monthly regular I write as a modern woman telling our male readers “what we ladies really think” about their habits, interests, dating moves, bedroom skills, and more.
Only it’s all bullshit.
It’s only ever things men want to hear.
When I first started here, the first thing my editor made clear was that no one is interested in the truth. The truth is painful, and no one’s going to drop six bucks on a magazine only to feel like shit for the entire hour it takes to read it.
Made Man’s entire business model is centered on inspiring the everyman to be the best version of himself. You don’t have to be rich, handsome, good in bed, or successful to have it all—but we can show you how. It is, after all, how our founding father got his start. He was a nobody (rumor has it), and then he became a somebody. Now he has a legion of dedicated followers convinced that if they do everything he did, they’ll become everything he is.
If they only knew what he’s really like . . .
“Yes.” My throat swells, but I manage to swallow. “That’s my column.”
“The one you turned in last week . . . not your best work.” His phone dings, and he steals a glimpse at a long text that fills his entire screen. Pursing his lips, he adds, “I need you to give me something else.”
Those articles don’t manifest from thin air. They require careful planning. Loads of research. Late-night cocktails and hours-long conversations with colleagues and guy friends to get their opinions before I bite the bullet, topic-wise. I can’t just . . . plop down in front of my computer and hammer out a new one.
Not to mention, the one I turned in for next week I wrote while I was out on medical leave. I wasn’t even supposed to be working, yet I did it anyway because working here screws with you worse than an abusive ex-boyfriend. You know he’s bad for you, and you know you’re the one putting in all the effort in the relationship, but you love what he offers you. Financial security, an enviable lifestyle, hope that the life you’ve always dreamed of is within arm’s reach if you keep those blinders up and trudge forward, loyal and true.
“We go to print in three days,” I say. The space around us turns blurry and the air thick, hot. “Everything’s already been submitted and edited—”
I don’t dare ask him why he didn’t share his feelings when he first signed off on everything a week ago . . .
He doesn’t look up as he taps out a message on his phone. “We’ll make it work.”
Those articles take me seven days, minimum. And that’s if I’m hyperfocused—which I haven’t been as of late.
“Can I ask what you didn’t like about this one? Maybe I can tweak it to fit what you’re wanting?” I slide my pen behind my ear and hug my notebook against my chest. I’m sure I look like a timid schoolgirl, but standing in this man’s presence makes me overly aware of every inch of my body, thus making it impossible to stand still.
West shrugs. “I hated every word of it.”
No one’s ever said they hated my work before—not even my Honest-with-a-capital-H editor. Never in five years have I had to rewrite anything at zero hour. And with my tenure in this role, I understand the expectations of both our loyal readers and the man who signs my paycheck.
At least I thought I did.
Glaring at his phone, he taps out another quick text before waving me off. “Just . . . send me something fresh by eight a.m. tomorrow, and we’ll be good.”
Shoving his phone into the interior pocket of his midnight-black suit jacket, he heads for the double doors, giving them a punishing shove.
“Wait,” I call after him before following in step. “Any particular topic you want?”
“I pay you to come up with the ideas, Napier. Not the other way around.” West exhales his words in one irritated breath, and I hardly have time to process the fact that he knows my last name. “I’m sure you’ll think of something.”
The article I wrote last week was for our upcoming June issue, and it was titled “The Dirty Truth about Active-Duty Dating.” Tom called it sharp and uplifting—a way to give hope to those overseas. I packed it full of flirty, sexy anecdotes from people I know who’ve dated someone stationed overseas or on base. I even took it a step further and outlined inventive and romantic care package ideas. Not only that, but I filled a sidebar with a list of highly touted long-distance-dating apps with generous coupon codes for active-duty service members.
I didn’t just go above; I went beyond.
I wanted to come back with a splash, to prove I still had it despite my two-month absence.
I’m not sure what West could’ve possibly hated about any of that. The man ships tens of thousands of magazines each month to various troops as his way of thanking them for their service, and there was nothing controversial or remotely offensive about my write-up.
Lifting his phone to his ear, West takes a call and leaves me in his leather-and-cedarwood-scented dust before I can muster another hesitation.
Dazed, I pace back to my office.
After locking my door, I plant myself at my desk and stare at a blank Word doc for the better part of an hour.
I don’t know what I’m going to write, but I do know one thing: West Maxwell is the worst.
CHAPTER TWO
ELLE
“Whoa. What are you still doing up?” My roommate, Indie, shuffles past my room at 3:00 a.m. Rubbing her eyes, she makes her way to my bed and collapses next to me in a yawning heap.
“Searching my soul for the answers to life’s big questions.” I close my laptop lid and reach for another Dove white chocolate. Unwrapping its tinfoil, I read off the message inside. “‘Don’t settle for a spark . . . light a fire instead.’”
“That’s a good one. You should hang on to it.” She reaches over me, helping herself to the half-consumed bag on my nightstand. “What are you really doing, though?”
Indie’s always been an insomniac. As a freelance graphic designer, she sets her own hours. And as a creative type, she lets her muse dictate those hours. It’s not unusual to both hear and smell her making grilled cheese at 4:00 a.m. or to catch her dancing in the living room at midnight, earbuds jammed in her ears. It never used to be an issue, as I typically sleep like a rock the second my head hits the pillow, but tonight I’m pulling an all-nighter to meet Maxwell’s 8:00 a.m. deadline. No amount of silence would make a difference.
“I’ve never seen you up this late.” She turns onto her side, head propped on her hand. “Ever.”
“Maxwell didn’t like the article I turned in last week. He informed me today that he wants a new one.” I exhale a slow breath that does nothing to calm the nerves that have been on red alert since that fateful meeting.
“When’s it due?” She lifts a brow.
“In five hours.”
Her freckled nose wrinkles. “Can you do that?”
I lift a shoulder. “I don’t have a choice.”
“What’s wrong with the one you gave them?”
“Million-dollar question, Indie,” I say, settling back against my headboard. “Million-dollar freaking question.”
“What if you say no?”
My mouth coils with amusement at the thought. “It doesn’t work that way.”
“So what are you going to write about, then?”
“Hell if I know.”
I run my palm over the smooth silver case of my trusty computer, the one that’s churned out dozens upon dozens of Dirty Truths over the last several years. Landing my position at Made Man at twenty-five was a dream come true. I didn’t know a soul. I didn’t intern there. I had zero connections. I simply submitted my work and got lucky, and the rest was history. Naive, bright eyed, and bursting with potential, I subsisted off the adrenaline rush of rubbing elbows with magazine elites and wearing my workaholism like a badge of honor.
During those earliest years, the world was my oyster, and I was certain a stint at Made Man was going to catapult me to print-media greatness. Only it turns out print media is dying out faster than anyone ever anticipated. The jobs are fewer and further between, and the competition is stiffer than ever. To have a job in this industry in this day and age is akin to possessing a coveted Willy Wonka golden ticket.
I’d be a fool to walk away from my life’s work—but it’s the strangest thing . . . because it’s all I’ve been able to think about lately.
The rush is gone.
The fulfillment and satisfaction are nonexistent.
I used to admire my sisters for knowing that a life revolving around family, marriage, and kids was enough to fulfill them, to give them a sense of purpose in this world. And I was so sure that I knew my path was going to be different. There wasn’t a doubt in my mind that moving to a big city and chasing some pie-in-the-sky career would flood me with a sense of accomplishment unlike any other. And it did. For a while.
But my cup no longer runneth over.
It’s empty. Hollow. Void—not unlike the place I visited during my fleeting encounter with death.
“Maybe it’s time to start considering your options,” Indie muses.
“What are you talking about?”
She flicks her chocolate wrapper at me. “That’s the message I got, but I’m thinking maybe it was intended for you. I want a do-over.”
Indie pops the white square into her mouth before helping herself to a second piece from my dwindling stash.
“‘Draw yourself a bubble bath.’” Indie spouts off her new quote. “Eh. Did you know white chocolate isn’t actually chocolate? It’s just sugar and cocoa butter and vanilla masquerading as some extravagant version of the real thing. But no one cares. They see the word chocolate, and because they want to believe it’s chocolate, it is chocolate.”
“I did know that,” I say. “Isn’t it crazy how we’re constantly being lied to and we’re all just . . . okay with it? We don’t bat an eye. It’s such a normalized part of our lives that it makes the truth jarring. Like social media filters. Everyone uses them, and everyone knows that’s not really what someone looks like, but we all just accept it anyway.”
“Yeah. It’s annoying. But what can you do?” She pops the second faux chocolate into her mouth and crumples the bubble bath wrapper.
“Once you take your blinders off, it’s exhausting having to constantly sift through what’s real and what isn’t,” I continue. “I was reading some of my older articles earlier tonight, and I was just . . . dying inside with every word. Which I know is maybe an insensitive way to put it given the fact that I recently died, but that’s how it felt. I wasn’t proud of my work—I was disgusted by it.”
“Your work is not disgusting, Elle. Promise. You’re just stressed right now because of that stupid deadline, so you’re overthinking.”
If it were two months ago, I’d agree with her.
“They’re cringey,” I say. “And they’re full of lies. And I don’t want to write them anymore.”
The words are sharp on my tongue, startling us both into a bout of silence.
“Well, I don’t think they’re cringey,” Indie volunteers after a brief delay. “I think they’re humorous, and it feels like I’m reading a letter from a friend. They’re conversational. And poignant.”
“I appreciate that. I do. But my column is literally called The Dirty Truth, and it’s nothing but bullshit.” I reach for another chocolate, running my fingers along the creased midnight-blue tinfoil.
“It makes people feel good. Who cares if it’s BS?”
I sniff a laugh. “Apparently I care.”
“That never bothered you before.”
I turn to her. “Exactly. That’s my point. I never cared before. And now that I do, I can’t stop thinking about it.”
“Don’t be so hard on yourself. You’re just doing your job. If they weren’t paying you to write this column, it’d be someone else. Do you think every fashion designer loves what they design? Do you think every schoolteacher wants to teach every single grade they’re certified to teach? And take me for instance: Do I love every project that lands in my lap? No. At the end of the day, sometimes a job is just a job. And my bills aren’t going to pay themselves.”
I pick at a loose thread in my comforter. “I’ve wanted to work in journalism for as long as I can remember. I wanted to write think pieces and inspire change and scoop up the best, most-sought-after interviews based solely on my reputation. What I’m writing now is an insult to all of those things.”
“Fortunately, we live in a world where it’s possible to have your cake and eat it too. You can still do those things, babe.”
“Not if I’m putting in sixty-hour weeks at Made Man.” I puff a strand of hair from my eyes. “I wish you could have seen the way West Maxwell talked to his staff today. Unbelievable.”
“First of all, stop saying his full name, because you’re giving that man too much power in your life, and Lord knows he already has more than his fair share.” Indie swipes the unopened Dove from my hand. “Plus it’s weird. People don’t call Oprah Oprah Winfrey; they just call her Oprah. And second of all, I doubt he’s different than any other power-tripping douche in a three-piece suit—especially in this city. If it’s not him, it’ll be some other asshole.”
Maybe she’s right.
Maybe she’s wrong.
“He made me feel this small today.” I pinch my thumb and index finger together. “You should’ve seen me, all trembling and nauseous and obedient, letting him grind my confidence into nothing. He’s the worst, Indie, and he brings out the worst in me.”
“Only because you let him.” She spins the impostor chocolate between her fingers before sliding off the wrapper. “Don’t let him have that power over you anymore. Don’t give him that.”
“You’re right.”
“Always and forever.” Indie winks.
“Which is why I should quit.” The words send an anxious tingle to my lips, materializing from my mind to my mouth before I have a chance to stop them.
Indie sits up, hand splayed in the air. “Let’s not get all crazy, now.”
“For the past week, every minute I spend in that office . . .” My voice trails. “It’s like the life is being sucked from me all over again. Only slower this time.”
The day I died, I was leaving my then boyfriend’s Midtown apartment on a Monday morning, attempting to catch a spin class before work. He’d already left for an early-morning meeting, and I’d stayed to catch an extra ten minutes of sleep since we’d been up late the night before. No sooner did I grab my keys off the counter to lock up than the electric thunder shock of pain blasted through my skull like an anvil. I fell to the tile floor, legs useless and vision blurred. I was in too much pain to move, to think straight.
