LOVER COME BACK_An Unbelievable But True Love Story

by Scott Hildreth

  “Little car?” I asked. “What little car?”

  “The fahking convertible,” he bellowed.

  He looked at Demo, who was his right-hand man and second in command of the group. “Vaht the fahk is convertible?”

  “Solstice,” Demo answered without looking up.

  “Oh,” I said. “Lawrence.”

  Svetli tossed his hands in the air and looked at me as if I were an idiot. “Lawrence. The fahking Jew.”

  “I didn’t know Lawrence was an editor.”

  “He’s fahking editor. He is for edits.”

  I raised my coffee cup. “I’ll give him a call.”

  That night, I called Lawrence. I learned he was a freelance editor, and that he had time to edit the manuscript. After borrowing another three hundred dollars from Teddy, I hired him to edit the book.

  Then, I waited on pins and needles for him to give his opinion of my ability to write.

  Chapter Seventeen

  A week later, Lawrence provided the printed copy of the manuscript to me. Hand-written remarks littered it from beginning to end. I flipped through the pages of red penciled notes, scanning them lightly before turning to the next page.

  “What’d you think?” I asked.

  “I’m reluctant to tell you the truth,” he said.

  “Why?”

  “Because, I’ve got fifty unfinished manuscripts littering the floor of my apartment.”

  “Really?”

  “No differently than the plumber that has the leak, or the contractor that has the home in need of repair, I’m the editor that can’t seem to write a complete manuscript.”

  “So, what’d you think?” I asked again.

  “The story is fantastic. Absolutely fantastic. It sends a great message, is fast-paced, and kept my interest throughout. I don’t know who you think your audience is, but it has quite a bit of cussing.”

  “The Fat Kid’s got a mouth on him, doesn’t he?”

  He chuckled. “He sure does.”

  “So, you liked it?”

  “I loved it. You’re one hell of a storyteller. Your writing needs some work, though. You do have great style and prose, for what that’s worth.”

  “Where do I go from here? After I get these corrections made?”

  “I’ve got a friend in New York that’s a literary agent. I could send it to her if you’d like.”

  My heart skipped a beat. It was exactly the break that I needed. “Would you do that?”

  “Sure.”

  A week later, two rounds of edits were completed. The manuscript was then sent off to his friend. I waited with baited breath to hear what she had to say.

  Two weeks later, she called.

  “The book doesn’t really fall into YA, and it’s definitely not mid-grade fiction,” she said. “Your protagonists are between sixteen and seventeen, but there’s too much cussing. It might be able to be marketed as NA, but the NA audience isn’t going to like the subject matter. It’s too juvenile.”

  “What’s NA?”

  She chuckled. “New Adult. The protagonists are between the ages of eighteen and thirty.”

  “And YA must be young adult?”

  “Yes.”

  “So, what are you saying?”

  “For me? It’s not marketable. You can self-publish it. It’s a great story, it’s just not marketable to a major publisher.”

  “What can I do differently next time?”

  “Well, that’s why I called. Have you ever written a romance novel?”

  “I’ve never written an anything novel. The manuscript you have is my first stab at this.”

  “Impressive,” she said. “I want you to write a romance novel for adults.”

  I chuckled. “I’m a tattooed biker who’s been to prison. Romance? Really?”

  “You have an uncanny ability to shove your ideas down the readers throat and make them like it. That talent can’t be taught. Your style and prose scream romance. My guess is if you write an adult romance, it could be a bestseller.”

  “A bestseller?”

  “I think that’s a realistic possibility.”

  “I’ll write one, then.”

  “Send it to me when you do.”

  “I will.”

  “Thank you, Scott. It was a pleasure talking to you.”

  “Likewise.”

  Disappointed about my manuscript not being marketable, but eager to begin my romance venture, I self-published Broken People.

  As soon as the book was made available on Amazon, I called my father. For as long as I could remember, he had a book in his hands. He read two or three books a week, not favoring any one subgenre.

  He simply loved the escape reading provided him. My guess was that it was comparable to what riding the motorcycle gave me.

  He eagerly agreed to read it.

  I let the men in the motorcycle club know of the book’s release, but very few of them read books, and none of them read on Kindle, which was the only way the book was available at the time.

  The next afternoon, I called to see how my father was coming along. Personally, I loved the book, but I realized my opinion was prejudiced. I wanted my father’s view, because I knew he wouldn’t sugar coat the truth.

  “Can I talk to Pop?” I asked.

  “He’s busy, Honey,” my mother replied.

  “Put him on the phone, Mom.”

  “Honey, he’s tied up. He said not to bother him.”

  “What’s he doing?”

  “He’s finishing your book.”

  “What’s he think of it?” I asked excitedly.

  “I’ll let him tell you when he’s done.”

  “Tell me,” I demanded.

  “He told me not to, Honey.”

  I forced a sigh. “Whatever.”

  “Wait a minute, it looks like he’s done.”

  I could hear her walking through the house. “It’s Scott,” she said. “He’s calling about the book.”

  She fumbled to cover the mouthpiece. After a moment, she got back on the phone. “He’ll call you back in a little bit.”

  “Put him on the phone, Mother.”

  “I can’t,” she whispered. “He’s crying.”

  My father was the toughest man I’d ever met. I’d stood up to any man who ever opposed me, and I couldn’t imagine standing up to him. To think that the book I’d written could cause him to cry satisfied me and bothered me both.

  “Have him call when he can,” I said.

  Thirty minutes later, my father called. “I’m proud of you, Son,” he said as soon as I answered.

  “Thanks, Pop. Did you like it?”

  “I loved it.”

  “Really?”

  “It was a great book. One of the better stories I’ve ever read. Damned good piece of literature.”

  “Really?” I asked excitedly. “You’re not just saying that?”

  “I might be slightly biased, but it’s a damned fine book, Son. Damned fine. I laughed till I damned near peed, you had me flipping pages to find out what happened to that girl, and there wasn’t one place where I wanted to skim through what you’d written. All in all, it was a great piece of work. Brought a tear to my eye in the end. Maybe in the middle, too.”

  “Sorry about that,” I said.

  “Don’t be. Any book that can bring that kind of emotion out in a man like me earns it. I’m excited for you, Son.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “Because I know you’ve found your calling.”

  “Do you think so?”

  “I know so. Now get your nose to the grindstone and get to work. Damned books aren’t going to write themselves.”

  “Thanks, Pop.”

  “Talk to you soon.”

  The book received immediate praise from family members, other authors, and readers. One reader, an award-winning author from India, praised the book, stating that it prevented him from committing suicide.

  Elated at the comment, I sent Jessica a text m
essage. At the time, I hadn’t made any effort to communicate with her in over a year.

  Hope you’re doing well. I wrote a book. Just thought I’d let you know.

  She responded immediately.

  I asked that you leave me alone. I’m in a relationship. Please respect me by not contacting me again.

  The cloud I was floating upon crashed back down to earth.

  Some things, I decided, were simply not meant to be.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Three months quickly passed after the release of Broken People. In that short period of time, two things of significance happened. The first was that I realized I wasn’t going to pay the bills with my income from my first novel. Despite the favorable reviews, sales were dismal, at best.

  In eight weeks, I’d made a little over five hundred dollars.

  The second thing that happened was that I met someone. A female someone. She was pretty, satisfied with me being financially inept, and was extremely attracted to me. I decided to toss inhibition to the wind and give a relationship a try.

  Four weeks later, I learned that she was unhappily married. Her husband worked nights, freeing her up to visit me in the evenings. While I worked during the day, she spent her time with him. Upon learning the truth, I escorted the double-dipper to my door, guided her through it, and locked it behind her.

  It was all the confirmation I needed. Women, in their entirety, were evil.

  I sat on the other side of that locked door for two months, writing my first romance novel. The book’s Hero, a man named Erik Ead, was modeled after me. The heroine, Kelli Parks, was modeled after a woman who I considered to be perfect for him.

  Jessica.

  I wasn’t sure of Jessica’s preferences in the bedroom, but I did know enough about her to make some educated assumptions. The adult romance industry was all abuzz at the time over EL James’ Fifty Shades of Grey. The book was about a relationship between a Dominant male and a submissive female. Its pages were filled with scenes that included the use of dungeons, paddles, whips, and leather restraints, amongst other things.

  I happened to be a Dominant male but had always considered women to be my equal. Whipping, spanking, and depriving women of equality wasn’t something I could ever do. I wasn’t willing to write a book about it, either.

  I wrote the book about a man who was Dominant, but treated his respective other with care and admiration, despite her naturally submissive tendencies. Out of the bedroom they were equal. Once inside the bedroom, he was in charge.

  Having commitment issues and not trusting women, the book’s Hero didn’t believe in relationships. The heroine was beautiful and playful but didn’t completely trust men. There was a significant age gap between them, with her being younger. Their no-commitment relationship worked well for them. As the book progressed, he became less of an asshole, and she blossomed into the woman he had hoped for.

  I left the last chapter of the book up in the air, closing it with a happy-for-now ending. My hope was that if the book succeeded, I would write two or three more, continuing their relationship throughout the series.

  As soon as the book was completed, I sent it to the literary agent.

  She called the next day. “Holy mother of God,” she said. “You took my breath away.”

  “Did you like it?”

  “I loved it. The sex was off the charts. The relationship arc was perfect. The only problem is this: your Hero is a dick.”

  “I know. But by book three, he’ll be better. His character arc is slow. You see, he’s—”

  “You’ve got to change it. Soften him up. If you do, I can guarantee you I’ll get an offer from my connections at Random House.”

  Most people in my shoes would have eagerly made the changes. I, however, wasn’t most people.

  “I’ve got to keep it the way it is?” I said.

  The phone went silent.

  “Michelle?” I asked. “Are you there?”

  “What do you mean you’ve got to keep it the way it is?” she asked.

  “The book’s written,” I said. “The characters are who they are. I can’t change them. It’d be like rewriting history. That’s already happened.”

  “Uhhm, I’ve got a newsflash. It’s fiction.”

  “I know. But, in my mind the characters are real.”

  “So, you’re not going to change it?”

  “I’m sorry, I can’t.”

  “Self-publish it,” she said. “You’ll do well. Write me another. Make sure the Hero isn’t a horse’s ass.”

  “Okay. Thanks again.”

  I self-published Baby Girl. Immediately thereafter, I contacted reviewers on Goodreads, an online book review site and asked them to consider reading it. Several did, and the reviews were mixed. While one reviewer would give a five-star review, the next would either refuse to finish the book, or give it a one-star review.

  The huge disparity in rankings created interest. That interest caused people to read it. Most of the readers reviewed it, and their reviews continued to be either in the love category, or in the hate category.

  With Baby Girl, it seemed there was no in between.

  I watched the book’s ranking climb the charts. The second Saturday night following the book’s Tuesday release, I fell asleep while watching my sales chart on Amazon’s publishing platform. It was too early to tell for sure, but it appeared I may be able to pay a month’s rent with income from the book.

  The next morning, the phone’s buzzing woke me. Confused, I picked it up and stared at the screen. My father was an early riser but having him call me at six am was out of the ordinary. His heart was failing, and he’d had no less than four surgeries to repair it. In the end, they gave him a defibrillator and wished him the best.

  Assuming the worst, I answered the phone.

  “Congratulations,” he said.

  “On what?”

  “Writing a bestseller,” he said.

  “Huh?”

  “Your smut,” he said. “It’s number one.”

  I leaped from the bed. “What?”

  “It’s the number one bestselling Erotic Romance novel. It’s number one in a few other categories, too.”

  “No shit?’

  “I shit you not.”

  “Holy crap,” I exclaimed.

  “I’d second that,” he said with a laugh. “Looks like you found your niche.”

  “I don’t even…I don’t…” I was so excited I was at a loss for words. After fumbling mentally for a moment, I continued. “Thanks for calling.”

  “Yeah, big shot like you probably needs to call his manager or agent or something, huh?”

  “Whatever,” I said with a laugh. “Last night it looked like I might be able to pay a month’s rent. Teddy bought me another case of Ramen noodles. I’m good for a month, but I won’t get the income from this one for another two months. It’s not what you think.”

  “I’m just shittin’ ya,” he said. “I’m sure proud of you, though.”

  “Thanks, Pop.”

  “I want to read this one, too.”

  “Don’t!” I screeched.

  “Why not?”

  The book contained sexual elements I wasn’t completely comfortable having my father read. The thought of him believing for one minute that Erik Ead was a resemblance of me made me extremely nervous.

  “I’d just prefer you don’t read this one. Can you not?”

  “Is it important to you that I don’t?”

  “I’d prefer you didn’t. It’s just. It’s. It’s different. It’s basically porn without pictures.”

  “There’s no story to it?”

  “There’s a story, but it’s mostly sex.”

  “I’ll leave it alone, then.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Well, mister author, I’ve got shit to do. Can’t sit here and chew the fat all day. I’ll talk to you soon.”

  “Okay, Pop.”

  After hanging up, I searched for my book on Amazon
. Just as my father said, it was ranked number one in several categories, including Erotic Romance. At that moment, at least, my book was outselling Fifty Shades of Grey.

  I quickly went to my Amazon publishing page to check my income.

  I’d made enough to pay a month’s rent, and to give Teddy back a good portion of the rent he’d paid for me. I was far from out of the doghouse, but I was undoubtedly making strides in the right direction.

  I hadn’t left my house in two months. My only option for food was Ramen noodles. I ate them for breakfast and dinner, skipping lunch on most days. My books were being published in my building’s lobby, using their internet service to submit them. I was living the life of a hermit, surviving on one-tenth of my previous income, no longer owned a car, and didn’t have a motorcycle for the first time in my adult life. If I needed to go anywhere, I had to walk.

  Yet.

  I was filled with gratitude.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Convinced I could live the rest of my life without a woman in it, I was living vicariously through the actions of my book Hero, Erik Ead. His relationship with Kelli was exactly what I would have with Jess if I wasn’t such an idiot, or so I told myself.

  I doubted that would be the case in real life, but it was okay to dream.

  I began writing book number two of the Baby Girl series. The process for me was different than for most authors, or at least I suspected that was the case. I didn’t use an outline for my books, preferring the fly by the seat of your pants method of writing. It gave my characters the freedom to live life. In doing so, it infused my stories with the same passion that life possessed.

  As the book unfolded, I fell in love even further with the characters. The series was based in the city I lived in. Erik and Kelli went to the restaurants that Jess and I had frequented. They had the relationship I yearned to have, but fully realized I never would. In the bedroom, their hunger for one another was exactly what I suspected Jess and I would share.

  I finished the book in three weeks, and then published it. Afterword, I talked to the literary agent, Michelle.

  “I see you finally got a Facebook account,” she said. “Do you have Twitter yet?”

  I considered myself a private person. As a result, Facebook, Twitter and Instagram were platforms I chose not to use. After Michelle explained I must use social media to succeed in today’s world, I reluctantly opened an account for each.