by Alexis Angel
And I have nothing better to do, so I shut and lock my door and head down the building.
It takes me almost no time to cross the street and go into the building that houses Bad Boy Publishing.
They're on the 5th through 10th floors, and Grady has his own office on the 7th floor.
He's always going on and on about how proud he is at his level of advancement at Bad Boy Publishing. I get that he's proud of his job, but he's an account executive still. Sure, he's climbing the ranks, but sometimes it's hard not to roll your eyes when he acts like he's the CEO.
I mean, if he were the CEO, he'd have a secretary or administrative assistant outside of his office, but he doesn't. Which means that despite the fact that his door is closed, I can still knock and go inside.
And that's when I freeze.
Because Grady is in his office alright.
But so is someone else.
She's got long blonde hair and a set of perfectly fake tits that have to be at least a C cup. She's anorexic thin and she's bent over the desk. Grady is naked from the waist down and he's pumping into her.
I smirk.
Grady pumping his cock into her as she's bent over his desk?
I mean, can she even feel him?
No offense to my boyfriend or anything, but sex really isn't his forte. Not with the 4-inch cock that God blessed him with. I mean, to Grady, those 4 inches are equivalent to about 16 on a regular human being, but to any regular woman, they're equivalent to about 0 I've always thought because whenever he's penetrated me, the first thing I've wanted to ask is, "Is it in?"
But of course I didn't. I mean that would be such a bitch move to do.
"Grady, you're fucking me so good, don't stop baby," the girl moans and all of a sudden I think I know who it is.
That's Alyssa Moore.
She's the model and author that recently had that whole thing with her ex-boyfriend fucking her sister at the RWAA convention.
It looks like she's moved on.
I guess she's come to Bad Boy Publishing instead of whatever publishing house she was at.
"Your cock is so big," she moans.
So they don't see me yet. Which is fine.
I clear my throat. Nothing.
"Grady," I say, knocking on the open door.
That's when he turns his head around.
Seriously, it's hilarious because his eyes go wide and he pulls his tiny baby dick outside of Alyssa who whimpers at it leaving.
Seriously, I've heard of women playing it up and pretending that a guy's cock is really big to inflate his male ego, but she actually seems like she's missing his cock.
Could she think his cock is big?
I mean, she's anorexic skinny and come to think of it, that's the only kind of woman Grady could probably satisfy at this stage in his life.
Yeah, I think this relationship is pretty much over at this point. I mean, it was nice while it lasted, I guess.
But I never expected that I was going to spend forever with him. God knows I didn't love him.
So, whatever, you know?
But Grady doesn't know that. I mean, he could be a little bit more dignified about it. Because all he's doing now is hopping from one foot to the next.
I look at him with curiosity.
"Abby!" he yells, and I see Alyssa turn around, her mouth turned into a perfect O.
Yes, I'm still a big name author in the publishing world. I may not have had many successes lately, but people still know who I am.
"So this is why you're not answering your phone, Grady?" I ask, putting one hand to my hip. "Because you're too busy with a new client?"
"It's not like that, babe," Grady tells me, running over to me.
I back off slightly. His cock is swinging. But it's not even like a big swinging dick. It's a little tiny sausage link that's waving its tail like a little Dachshund.
I make a face and Grady steps back.
"I thought you were writing, too!" he yells at me. "What're you doing here?"
I look at him with a mix of confusion and absolutely fucking puzzlement.
"So because you thought I was off writing, you thought it's okay to fuck another author?" I ask him, my voice rising. "And her?"
I'm pointing at Alyssa. Don't get me wrong. I have nothing against models and authors. But seriously, Alyssa Moore?
She never writes anything. She just puts her face on the cover in a skimpy bra and gets author credits.
I don't know if I'm more upset that he was fucking another woman or he was fucking her.
"Alyssa and I have been talking for a while, babe," Grady says, trying to explain it to me. "I'm sorry."
"No, Grady," I tell him coldly. "I'm the one that's sorry."
And then, the fateful words. "Consider this visit my termination visit for any arrangements with Bad Boy Publishing."
I turn around. Really, that's all I really need to do here. Very simple. Very civilized way of saying fuck off.
"Abby, you can't fucking leave," Grady says, his voice reaching ever higher octaves.
I turn around to look at him.
Don't get me mad, Grady. Please don't go there.
"We had a deal," he tells me. I look at him to see if he's really being serious.
He's not joking.
"You can't back out now," he says to me.
"Really? I can't back out of an arrangement that specifically says I can back out at any time?" I ask him, cocking my eyebrows.
"If you back out now, then it'll look very bad for my career, babe," he tells me, completely serious.
I swear to God, Grady has made thinking only about himself an art form.
I reach down and grab his pants and his boxers and bunch them up. I take Alyssa's short skirt. I bunch all of it together into a tight little ball.
"I can't leave?" I ask him, walking toward him.
"Not if you want to keep your end of the bargain," he says to me, sagely.
I smile and go toward his window that's cracked open slightly. The cold New York City air is coming in. Helps the building save on air conditioning.
Then without a second glance I stick my hand out the window.
Alyssa gasps because this is the hand that has her skirt, her thong, Grady's pants, and his boxers.
And I let them go.
They flutter in the wind, dropping down toward the ground.
"That's what I think of my fucking end of the bargain," I tell him. "And it looks like you have a bigger problem at work than worrying about losing me as a client."
And that's it.
My exit. I head to the door.
"You're going to regret this, Abby," Grady says to me.
"Fuck off and die, asshole," I say without turning back. "You're the one that'll regret it if you come after me."
Don't look at me like that babe.
I may be an angel most days.
But fuck with me, and I'll go from sweet and cute into the Angel of Death.
Aidan
"Un-fucking-believable," I say, releasing my grip from the pull-up bar.
A bead of sweat rolls down my temple and I wipe it off. "Did you call the right people?" I ask.
My PA, CJ, looks at me like I’ve grown a second head.
"What kind of a question is that? Of course I did, and I'm not going to lie," CJ replies. "The situation is bad. I made over a hundred calls yesterday. That's a hundred and counting Aidan! Do you know how long that takes? And not a single person wanted to work with you. The numbers aren't good. I'm beginning to get worried."
"What about the author I modeled for last week?" I ask. None of this makes sense. Not after the fucking applause I received at the RAGA conference. Say what you will, but the audience fucking loved me.
"That author's moved on, mumbled something about wanting to take her book covers in another direction," CJ replies.
"That's a fucking joke."
"Joke or not, we need to figure something out, and quick. Your reputation in the Ro
mance book industry isn't good."
I jump back up on the pull-up bar and proceed through another 10 reps. So what? I may have fucked more women than I can count, and sure, I may have burned a few bridges, but those fucking flames are just lighting the way for others. People should be thankful, really.
"Can you just stop for a second? This is important," CJ says, her hands on her hips. The look on her face is all business, and the way the sun hits her auburn-red hair makes her look fiery. She's always been blunt with me; that's what I fucking love about her and why I fucking pay her the big bucks to be my agent. She's kind of like an over-protective older sister. But if she thinks I'm going to stop, she's wrong. Time is money, and because I get paid to make girls' panties wet, I can't afford to skip a few crunches.
"I'm listening," I say through exhales.
"The only gigs you're getting paid for now are erotica covers."
"Is that a bad thing?"
"Was that your plan all along? Erotica is limited; if we're gonna get you more gigs, we need to expand," CJ says matter-of-fact. "We really need to stay in the Romance market. That's where your real money will be, and always has always been."
"How hard can that be? I mean, look at me," I say, flexing and planting a kiss on my right bicep, and then my left. I watch as CJ rolls her eyes.
"It's hard, Mr. Muscles, if no one wants to work with you. The shenanigans you pulled at the RAGA didn't help."
"Give me a fucking break," I laugh. "What do you mean by that? Are you remembering the fucking applause I received?"
"Oh, don't act surprised. Everyone knows. Do you think cumming all over Susan Moore in front of a sold out crowd at the RAGA won you any favors? And in front of her sister, Alyssa Moore, no less; what were you thinking? Were you begging to be blacklisted from the entire Romance market?" she asks.
"All I'm saying is that there has to be someone willing to hire me. Some people fucking appreciated the performance."
"Is that what you're calling it now? A performance?" CJ thinks for a moment. She's looking out the window, watching the sun bounce off the city skyline. "Well, no one seems to want to work with you, but … there may be one option," she says.
"What's that?" I ask.
"I've heard rumors that there's a former top ranking author who's looking for a model for her book covers. She's had a dip in sales lately, but she's hungry to be in the top spot again. You could make a pitch to co-write a book with her."
"No way," I say, dropping down and doing a few pushups.
CJ gives me a serious look. "Beggars can't be choosers."
"I'm far from a fucking beggar."
"Not yet … but if we don't line up new gigs, that could change."
"I'm also not an author," I say in between pushups. "I'm the guy who gets girls to open up a fucking book in the first place."
"I think you'd be great … and it's a good way for you to get your foot back in the door … gain some respect back," CJ smiles, like she's had the most brilliant fucking idea on the planet. But I think it sounds like a disaster.
"I think you should make more calls," I say, dismissing her idea as crazy. How does her mind make the leap from model to author?
She shakes her head. "Look, all I'm asking is that you take a meeting with this author. How hard could that be? You never know what'll come out of it."
"I don't think so."
"You must really like doing pushups then," CJ nods, shrugging her shoulders.
"What does that mean?"
"It means that if you don't take this meeting, you might find your self back in the gym … permanently. You may have to go back to being a personal trainer full time."
Those words stop me dead in my tracks.
Go back to being a personal trainer? No fucking thanks.
I can do without wiping up sweat puddles from the seats of gym equipment, or the overweight New Yorkers begging me to make them look like Thor, or hearing every excuse under the sun as to why a client has to skip a gym day, or the occasional weird stalker, or the weird smells, or … the list goes on.
The idea of leaving modeling for personal training doesn't sit well with me.
CJ is walking toward the door, but I stop her. "Wait."
She turns to me and I continue. "It's just a meeting, right?"
"I promise. Nothing's set in stone."
"Fine. Schedule it, and I'll be there, but I still think you're fucking crazy."
"I think you're making the right choice," CJ smiles. "I'll set up the day and time and put it on your calendar."
"Who is this author anyways?" I ask. I realize that I haven't even asked what's arguably the most important fucking question.
"Don't worry," CJ replies, grabbing her bag and walking to the door. She puts one hand on the handle and looks back at me. "I'll work it out and find out who this is."
Without another word, she closes the door behind her.
Just fucking great.
We don't even know who this author is and I've already agreed to a meeting. So much for running a Google search on this mystery person.
This should be interesting.
Abby
“Can I buy you a drink?” the tall man asks me, his pilot cap tucked under his arm. I freeze in place, suitcase handle in one hand and my passport in the other. I take one quick look at my watch, and then back to the handsome pilot. The flight arrived earlier than expected, so I probably still have some time before Cheryl gets here.
And a drink doesn’t sound so bad right now. After spending almost five hours inside of a plane, I guess anything sounds perfect, especially if it’s a drink with a man like this.
His navy blue suit gives him an elegant look, and the combination of golden stripes lacing the wrists of his jacket adds a complimentary touch. The wings over his breast pocket spell out what he does for a living and, even though it shouldn’t matter, it does. There’s something about pilots, especially when they’re wearing a uniform, isn’t there?
I mean, seriously, I’m not alone, am I? You like uniforms too, right?
“One drink,” I tell him with a smile, and he closes the distance between the two of us and grabs the handle of my suitcase.
“I’ll take this, then,” he replies softly, propping up his blue cap on the top of his head. I trail after him like a lost pup, blessing the Gods for his company; I guess that accompanying a pilot gives you some leeway when it comes to cutting in line.
He guides me through the sprawling airport corridors until we finally get to the first class lounge. I’ve only been here a few times, but it's always worth the extra money. I’m one of those people who hates wasting time at airports (well, who doesn’t, really?) and I always appreciate the extra comfort first-class gives me. Especially if it means I get to fire up my laptop and bang out another chapter. Yeah, no such thing as downtime for us writers—every hour is writing hour.
Still, now is one of these rare times when my mind isn’t in writing mode. No, right now my brain is busy appraising the man walking by my side. I steal a glance at his nametag (Andrew Delavan), and then take the time to look up and down his body. He has a pronounced chin, the hard lines of his jaw making him look as if he just stepped out from a movie; and he’s at least a foot taller than me.
If something happens with Mr. Pilot, I’ll be sure to write about it in my next newsletter. I always like to keep my fans in the loop, you know? I grew up as a private person, but that went out the window the moment I had my first bestseller. It’s amazing what a globe girlding online e-bookstore like Rainforest.com will do to you.
I spent these past two weeks lazing around in Honolulu (which means I spent half the time trying to drown myself in Mai Tais to numb the pain), and I’ve already uploaded a lot of the pictures to my group on Facebook, Dirty Lil’ Angels. Technology is a wonderful thing, isn’t it? God bless my fans, if it weren’t for them I might've gone insane after losing my boyfriend, dignity, and publishing deal all in the same day. Too bad that, aside from my fans, no
body seems to be buying my books.
But I guess it’s time I move on, right? The world doesn’t stop spinning just because you feel like a deflated tire. And I’m thinking that maybe Mr. Andrew ‘Handsome Pilot’ Delavan might just help inflate my tire. Okay, that was a terrible pun, I know.
We go through the glass and marble entryway to the lounge, make a beeline straight to the bar and sit down on the high stools.
“A cosmo, please,” I ask the bartender, and Andrew just gets a fresh lime soda. I figure he can’t get behind the yoke of a plane with even a slight buzz, which kinda makes me feel better about the idea of being thousands of feet up in the air inside of a bullet with wings.
We talk about the usual niceties—where are you from? What do you do? And he ends up telling me that he was the pilot on my flight from Hawaii to Los Angeles. He had my life in his hands, and I’m still breathing, so I guess I have to thank him for that.
It doesn’t take long for him to place his hand on top of mine, and next thing I know he’s telling me about this place we can go to get some privacy. I check my watch again and, even though Cheryl’s probably already wondering about my whereabouts, I figure I need to do this. My mental sanity is at stake here, Cheryl, be nice.
I follow him through a service only entrance, and he leads me to a small private lounge used only by the air crew. We get inside a private locker room and, as soon as he locks the door behind us, it’s on.
Turning to me, he loses no time and leans into me, his mouth on mine. We kiss as if we are in a hurry, both of us aware that there’s no romance involved; this is the nuts and bolts of getting off, the basic insert Tab A into Slot B. Not that I’m complaining, sometimes that’s enough for a woman to clear her head and forget about the real world for a short while.
He pushes me back against the wall while we kiss, and his hands roam up to my inner thighs, sliding under the hem of my short skirt and going straight for the wet fabric of my thong. My insides clench as I feel his fingers on my wetness and, wanting to go straight into the main event, I pull back from his kiss and take my fingers to his belt. I unbuckle it in a hurry, and then pull his zipper down. His pants drop to his knees and I do the rest, curling my fingers around the hem of his boxers and tugging them down; his cock springs free at once, and it’s significantly bigger than Grady’s: seven inches or so, enough for what I need right now.