Page 111 of Pierced

She pauses, looks at me, then says, “OK.”

“I’m in love with Myrtle Rothschild. Hear what I’m saying? I’m in love with her. I’ve been in love with her for a long, long time and I just didn’t know it. Or I did, but I wouldn’t let myself admit it. Because, because—I dunno. Because I have weird daddy issues and because I’m super selfish and self-involved, and quite honestly, I’m not particularly good at dealing with actual emotions. It may have something to do with my sister dying when I was a kid, I have no idea, but I’m not. So I peacock and deflect using bombast and artifice, and when shit gets too real, I push it away. I did that to Myrtle this past summer. I think I could tell that something was brewing up between us and it scared me a little bit, I think, and that happened to dovetail with this stuff I had going on at work—you may have seen it on local news, whatever, doesn’t matter—and I wound up kind of pushing Myrtle away by accident. And, frankly, I just kind of did it again, and look, as somebody who reads those”—I point at her paperback—“you must see how ridiculously romantic everything I’m saying is. Or, at least, has the potential to be. And you have a chance right now to play a major, important role in a real-life love story. So, please, please, don’t be that character in the story who acts as an obstacle to true love. Be that character who shows up out the blue, when everyone is least expecting it, and becomes the accidental Cupid. Because I know we don’t know each other that well, but the way I am right now? It isn’t me. And if I’m willing to lay myself on the line in front of a virtual stranger… well, if you did know me, you’d know what a big deal that is, so please… will you help me?”

I’m spent after my unexpected soliloquy. I huff out a massive breath. Samantha stares at me for a long, long time. Finally, after what feels like a minute, she says, “Cool. Probably should tell her all that, though.”

Jesus.

“Look, just tell me—”

“I dunno where she went. Can’t help you. Sorry.”

And then she slams shut the door of the guard house and goes back to reading her book.

The next several weeks are exceedingly strange.

Actually, the weeks themselves are kind of cool. It’s just that I feel strange inside of them. The combination of the press we got from the Halloween thing coupled with our new ad partnership with Perrier has done something most unexpected. It has made me, not the magazine, but me, the “New Face of the Modern Man.”

In truth, a lot of things that have done that.

It really started with the whole Sexpert debacle, ironically. That definitely began attention flowing in the direction of Le Man. And all the work that Eden and Zoey have done since then has been fantastic. Even in the wake of this blow-up with Myrtle, Eden has been on top of things. She still kind of hates me, but she’s a pro.

Also, I pay her an exorbitant consulting fee.

The fact that my father (and therefore, I) owns twenty-five of the most major publications in the world doesn’t hurt. One hand washes the other. Press begets press, and so on and so forth. I’ll be the first to admit that it’s gross. But it’s also business.

All of that stuff is somewhat unexpected and surreal, but the thing that makes it the most odd is that Myrtle isn’t here to be part of it. And not just because of our recent history. But because of our ancient history.

She has been by my side, one way or another, for every success, failure, and everything in between that I’ve had for the last seven years. And now… she’s gone. And I have no idea where.

Her phone continues to stay off. Her only email is her Le Man email and it comes back with a message saying that she’s away on holiday and will respond when she returns. She’s not on social media, so I can’t find her there.

In this day and age, it is awfully, awfully hard to just up and disappear. But she’s done it. It’s not that shocking, I suppose. She is a woman who changed who she was at least twice and is better at keeping her secrets secret than anyone I’ve known.

I sit in my office, spinning a pen around the base of my thumb and catching it with my forefinger, when a voice comes over my intercom.

“Mr. Chevalier?”

“Yeah, Bryce?”

Bryce is my new assistant. Turns out that Valerie did such a great job helping Myrtle while I was gone that week before Halloween that I decided to give her a promotion. She’s now Josh Washington’s… shit, Washburn’s (trying to get better about that) AVP of ad sales. They’re a couple of weirdos, so they seem to complement each other. But that left me with an assistant spot to fill.

As it started to become clear that Myrtle doesn’t plan on coming back…

Which is something that dawned on me with painful clarity when I remembered that first night I was in Myrtle’s house and thought: This is it. I’m here. I’m doing this crazy shit. And I have to make a choice right this second. Stay and go through with this insanity. Or risk pissing off Myrtle again, fully endowed with the understanding that if I do, she is gone. In the wind. Vapor. I will never see her again. In my gut, I know that it’s either go through with this or face the wrath of a Myrtle scorned.

… I pulled Bryce off Myrtle’s desk and put him on mine. He’s actually not bad. And more importantly, I just didn’t think I could look outside my wall and see anyone who might even smack of being a replica of Myrtle, and Bryce is about as far from that as you can get. So. I’m trying to keep moving ahead.

But I’m not even sure what day it is anymore. I think it’s close to Christmas. I know Thanksgiving came and went. I ordered Chinese food and read a Scarlett Savannah novel. It wasn’t terrible. Lots of sex on motorcycles. Which was hot but wildly reckless, I thought.

In any case…

“Derek is on the phone for you,” Bryce says.

“Yeah. Thanks.”

“Hey, Pierce.”

“Derek! What’s up?”