That is except for today. I pull off my boots under the table while my laptop boots up, take a sip from the bottle of water I left on my desk the last time I was here, and open up my book. I scan the last bit, and then quickly type up a paragraph of what’s going to happen in the next chapter. Then I set a timer on my phone and start typing.
The timer is something I read about in a book by Rachel Abbott, From 2k to 10k. It includes a number of strategies that she uses to start writing more words during the day. When I was in college, the idea of writing two thousand words in a day seemed like a lot. But Rachel regularly clears eight to ten thousand! Her results are nothing if not inspiring and, ever since I’ve read that book, I’ve been implementing her approach to great success.
Timing your writing is one of her strong points. Just set the timer and write as much as you can in a particular interval of time. Twenty minutes is my favorite. It’s short enough to summon a burst of energy, but long enough to actually produce real word count. Well, as soon as I start the timer, I lose myself in the story and the twenty minutes flies by. Since I’m in the middle of an exciting chapter, I restart it again and continue to type furiously. Six sessions or two hours later, I go through my session and am pleasantly shocked by my productivity. I have averaged about seven hundred words per session and come up with forty-five hundred words toward my final manuscript!
“Holy shit!” I exclaim. Fueled by some mystical combination of coffee, momentum, and excitement, I press on. The story is just getting good, meaning that I’m about to write a very juicy sex scene and I don't want to put it off.
The rest of the day proceeds at the same frantic pace. I lose myself in my writing, in a manner that was previously unfamiliar to me. I’m so excited by what I’m writing and, to tell you the truth, aroused as well, that the words just appear on the page without much effort. It seems like as long as I keep my butt in my seat, the story keeps telling itself without much input from me. It helps a lot that it’s something that I’ve just experienced and lived through. Though I do take the opportunity to embellish it somewhat. How does that saying go again? Never let the truth get in the way of a good story. Well, I believe in that wholeheartedly.
When twilight closes in on my window and the city lights up for the night, I type The End. I stare at the cursor for a while, lost in thought. Wow, I actually finished it. I have completed a novel. This might not be a big deal for many people, but for me, it is revolutionary. I’m the person who struggled to write a two-thousand-word short story. So, the idea that I actually completed a fifty-seven-thousand-word novel is breathtaking. I don’t think I’ve ever been so proud of myself before.
There is, of course, still a lot of work to do. I need to re-read it and edit it for mistakes and typos and better word choices. But now is not the time for that. Now, is the time to celebrate the fact that I’m done with my first draft!
I save my manuscript three times, to both my desktop and iCloud, to make sure that nothing is going to happen to it, and head to the kitchen. Suddenly, it occurs to me that I’ve written for hours without taking a break or having a bite to eat. As I pour myself a generous glass of red wine, some fancy brand that Caroline probably paid way too much money for in one of those little boutique grocery stores that she loves to patronize, I change into my favorite pair of elephant pants. They are those harem pants with elastic on the bottom of each ankle, but they are incredibly soft and comfortable and have bright elephants on them. How I managed to get all that writing done without wearing these is beyond me. I take a big gulp of wine, without bothering to smell it first, and embrace the tartness as it runs down the back of my throat.
Somewhere between my first and second glass of wine while mindlessly flipping through the DVR recordings and trying to decide what I should watch, the title for my book pops into my head.
Auctioned Off.
Yes, perfect. That’s what I’m going to call it.
I scroll through the Amazon romance section on my phone, looking at the covers and the authors. Ever since I decided to write this book, I’ve read a number of the titles and some of the authors have come out with additional books. Wow, these women write fast. I look at the publication dates of one of my favorite ones and see that she publishes a book every month. And I thought I was productive, I think to myself, shaking my head.
Okay, in addition to the title, I also need a new name. I can’t very well publish this under my own since I’m still on the fence about whether I want my mom to read it, let alone my other less understandable family members. A pseudonym will give me privacy and with privacy I will have the freedom to write more books like this without worrying about Tom or my old colleagues at BuzzPost or even Caroline, for that matter, disapproving. Not that I really care what they think. Except that I do. This book is full of truth and full of sex, and it’s not something that I necessarily want everyone I went to high school with to know about me.
Okay, I got it. Ella because it’s pretty close to Ellie, but not exactly the same. And for my last name? How about Montgomery? Yes, that’s it! Ella Montgomery. I’ve always loved the way these long Southern last names just roll off the tongue. Well, maybe this is my opportunity to give myself a little bit of that.
With a title and an author name, I’m nearly halfway there. Now, all I need is a cover. Of course, that’s a bit more complicated. I scroll through the covers on Amazon with an eye for details. A photo of a really hot guy with an amazing body seems to be a necessity. But everything else? Hmm, maybe it’s something I can do myself as well. I mean, I did take a Photoshop class that one summer in college. I can always hire someone, but maybe I should at least sketch it up first so I have some idea of what I want.
A few hours later, long after I finish the bottle of wine, I am done with a good mockup of the cover for Auctioned Off, Ella Montgomery’s first novel. The stock image of the guy with amazing pectoral muscles and a ripped six pack is definitely the selling point, but my manipulations and combinations of different fonts for the title and the author name are definitely eye-pleasing. I guess that Photoshop class wasn’t a waste of time after all.
Okay, that’s enough for tonight, I decide. But before turning off the computer, I go into various romance book groups that I’ve joined and ask for recommendations for editors. Tomorrow, with a less alcohol-induced outlook, I will re-read my book and review the cover. My only hope is that they will both live up to the opinion that I have of them tonight.
As I climb into bed, my phone vibrates. I look at the screen.
I love you, Aiden texts. My heart immediately skips a beat and gives me butterflies.
I love you, too. I text back.
* * *
The End for Now
* * *
Author’s Note: I hope you enjoyed the book. The rest of Ellie’s and Aiden’s story will continue in Auctioned to Him 4, which will be available within the month.
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The Party Date
When April needs a date to her ex-fiance's engagement party, her friend sets her up with an escort. No sex. No strings attached. Just a hot guy who is paid to adore her for a weekend. What could go wrong?
Grant is a multi-millionaire and an escort. He doesn't do this for money. He can get any woman he wants, but he likes a challenge. You wouldn't think it, but women who pay for sex are so much more of a challenge. They aren’t paying just for sex, they're paying for an experience. They want to be wowed and adored and pleased. And Grant specializes in all that.
A
t first, Grant thinks that April is just like the rest of his clients: a curvy girl in desperate need of a mouth-watering date. But April doesn't want sex and she doesn't seem to want him at all. And Grant finds himself falling for someone for the first time ever…
**WARNING: Steamy scenes, NO Cheating, HEA!
Grant
Rebecca always strutted after our little visits, walking like a proud cat sashaying and swaying. Pushing her hair behind her ear, I gave one last kiss good bye. It smelled just like the lilac in her bed sheets and coconut. Her skin was warm from the sun and made the whites of her eyes pop. She was incredible for her age.
“That tan is doing wonders for you.” I told her, unlocking my Porsche as we stepped out of the French doors and down the slate stairs to the driveway.
“Let’s hope that it takes more years off than it puts on later,” she joked, showing her barely visible crow’s feet as she smiled. “I can’t turn 29 for a 15th year in a row.” Rebecca combed the other side of her thick black hair behind her ears. She led me down the steps by her elbow and then slapped me playfully on the butt as I left, almost as if to say “good game”. Her spirit was so young and playful, it made me sad that she was only a client sometimes. Then I would remember how insane she went during her divorce. It’s better this way.
“Looks like you’ll have to be 30 then. Lots of gorgeous women hit their stride in their thirties.” I slid into the front seat of my car and began driving over the long stretch of driveway that separated her mansion from the road. I made a mental note to pick up a few flowers for her birthday next time I saw her. I’m sure that I would either make it to the guest list for her party or I would be the after party she had planned for herself.
My phone dinged that it received the funds from Rebecca, my favorite client. Her husband didn’t know the great thing that he gave up. She was always a little more fun in bed than the others and she was more than willing to give me high praise. If I had a dollar for every time she told me I was better in bed than her ex I could probably buy a second car, maybe even buy a vacation home in the Virgin Islands.
The 30-minute drive from her house in Henderson to mine in Vegas was nice for reflecting. The sun setting in the sky didn’t compare to the one that we saw over the weekend. I would have to travel back again.
I often think about how I’ll avoid my parent’s watchful eye, thinking up excuses for missing calls or texts. I always had to play just out of reach while still talking to them every so often. It’s not that I don’t like them, I just don’t care for the way they yak in my ear, always nagging about me changing the way I work, having to listen to the “why can’t you be more like your brothers” and other blah blah blahs. They cry that I should become a day trader again and put my degree to use, but I have enough experience in that to make money off the other day traders in my hedge fund. I always tell them that they shouldn’t have raised me in Vegas if they wanted a respectable son. They don’t think it’s funny, and maybe it isn’t meant to be. Maybe they should just appreciate the irony. They saw more problems with my life than there was. I was just happy to be happy.
Unluckily for me, they got three other sons that can put me to shame. I am always being measured up to them, and if I have to hear one more time about their accomplishments I will flip my lid. You think that they would have given up nagging me after high school, and then after that wasn’t good enough maybe after college. I considered going to grad school to see if that was the finish line of the complaints. Finally I have decided that parents never stop parenting and they will always be somewhat disappointed in who I am, or rather who I am not: a business tycoon.
I don’t do what I do for money, anyway. I do it for me. I was never really one to stick with interests in high school and college. I dabbled in almost everything and made a lot of friends on the way in each club, but I never really got hooked on anything in particular. You do things, practice, get good at them, and then what? Nothing. Well, there is one thing that it is nice to be good at. That’s why I like being an escort. Each woman is different. Some like it rougher, and then there are some that need to be treated like tissue paper. Each client is different and I am very proud with how successful I am.
I can see my tan in the mirror from our getaway weekend to Mexico. Spending two days there put 20 grand in my bank account. Not half bad if you ask me. I keep my prices high to sort the pearls from the clams in this business. If I charged anything less than what I currently charge I could get mange or Black Death or cooties or something. It costs a pretty penny to be with me for a very good reason. It assured both skill and quality to my clients and reassured me that I was getting the very same back.
Pulling past the gate, I know there is only 5 minutes until I am officially home. They put so many speed bumps in a gated community to discourage people from driving around. It works pretty well, most of my neighbors have switched to bikes so their cars don’t have to learn Braille in order to commute to work. There are certain things that you have to deal with when living in a ritzy part of the town of sin.
Really the longest part of getting home is the ride in the elevator up to my room. The penthouse is a billion floors up and there are several stops on the way between floors. People always forget this part in the movies, the downside with the glam. I have met a few clients in the past by hanging around the casino in the bottom. Since it’s my dad’s, all I have to do is get them a couple drinks on the house, slide my card over, and saying my line: “Your first win was getting this card, the next will be in that casino, and your third will be using my card with your new funds.” It’s cheesy and dumb, but that’s Vegas. This is the light and the life that people come for.
Most of the people that work in this building feel one of two ways about me, they hate me or they love me. Some of that comes with me being the boss of them, the other part of their feelings has to do with me being the boss of me. No one likes playing by the rules, not even me. Fortunately for me, I’m not the one that has to worry about a pay check here.
The life of the bachelor was very different from what TV shows had made me believe. The day time can be fun, especially with my job, but the nights were very lonely. I could come home with women from bars, but I hadn’t had a meaningful female companion in a long long time. Even just a friend would be nice, but I was surrounded by males. I think that since girls see that I’m sort of a smooth talker they think they can’t trust me. They see this pretty boy exterior, but I really have more going on than just looks. I want to know someone. I want to feel like a kid again. Being an adult could be very boring. I’ll save up all my escort money for a time machine.
Grant
Here is where I decompress. After all the stressors of the world and people, I can come here and be sure that all things are the same, that I am safe from my parents, and that I can listen to my music as loud as I want, which is exactly what I did.
I flip on the stereo system as I walk in and grab a water bottle. This is part of the routine. In order to keep this body in shape staying hydrated is a must. You lose a lot of body fluids in the escort business, and that is the most vital part of being a human.
So checking my email regularly is a must in this business of service. “It’s a business doing pleasure” is my motto. I take this as seriously as a doctor takes heart or brain surgery. I have to be thorough and efficient in order to keep my “I’m doing this for me” mindset. That’s what my ego rides on, which is dumb and vain but sometimes it pays to be vain.
My first email is from my friend Alex and it’s marked urgent, which sends up two red flags. The first one is “Why is my gay friend using my escort email to contact me?” and “Why is it urgent?” I have a very open mind set, but not enough to let my good buddy pay for a night with me.
* * *
Grant,
You’ve gotta help me. I’ve got a lonely girl who needs you as an accessory to her at her ex-fiance’s engagement party. It’s Travis’ roommate, and it would be doing me a solid.
/> Alex
* * *
It was sent one minute ago, so I decided to text him back that I would take the deal, I just needed to know how long I would be needed for. I met Alex in a very similar way to this. It isn’t uncommon for young women to need a man to be a date for them. A large price to pay to rub it in the face of an ex, I guess. Alex was best friends with a girl who needed a date to a charity dinner, and we sat at a table together. There were many things he and I agreed on, and from there it has blossomed into a close and trusting relationship. He goes to the gym just as much as me and is around woman the same amount of time. If I were gay, maybe he would be the perfect guy for me, but for now Travis is filling those shoes.
Auctioned to Him 3: Back to the Yacht Page 18