by Alexis Angel
During these weeks, we had no place to call home, but every morning I woke up right by his side, I knew that home was wherever we could be together.
It wasn’t love right away, you know? I looked at him like a woman looks at a rugged adventurer—someone to show you new and exciting things, to take you on a wondrous ride. And then someone you kiss goodbye and remember fondly forever.
But traveling across the US with Aidan made me realize that I didn’t want to kiss him goodbye.
I want him by my side—as a writer, and as a man.
Of course, there’s one more thing I haven’t told you, and I discovered it with ...
One test.
The kind of test you have to pee on. Yeah, that’s right; I’m pregnant. I still have a hard time wrapping my head around the fact that Aidan’s baby is growing inside of my belly, but that’s what’s happening. And you know what? I couldn’t be any happier about it.
Still, I haven’t told Aidan yet. Why? I’m not sure… I guess I’m a bit nervous about what his reaction is going to be. I want him to be happy about it, as happy as I am, and deep down I know that’s what’s going to happen. But I can’t stop myself from worrying; what if this changes the way he feels about me? What if, instead of bringing us closer, this drives a wedge between the two of us?
So, yeah, I’ve been keeping this secret for a few days now. I guess I’m waiting for the perfect moment to tell him. We also haven’t decided if we’re going to keep collaborating as writers, so I’ll tell him when we figure that out.
I want to keep writing with him, but I know he still hasn’t reached a decision. Despite Cheryl urging me to pressure him, I don't want to do that. I know that if we keep working together, we can launch a few heavy hitters into the market and then… well, the sky’s the limit. But he’s still on the fence between going back to modeling and assuming his role as a writer, so I want to give him all the time he needs to find out what he really wants.
Just between you and I, though, I think I already know what his decision is going to be. Soon enough, we’re going to be more than just co-authors.
We’re going to be one and only, and that for life.
I just know it.
Aidan
I hear my stomach growl and I look around the kitchen.
Fuck, I'm hungry. I need to resist the urge scarf down something I'll regret—like that box of cookies in the back of the cupboard.
I want to throw together something healthy. I grab spinach, pineapple, kale, green apple slices—don't look at me like that—a cup of ice, a splash of juice, and a scoop of protein powder, and throw all of the ingredients into the blender.
The machine purrs to life and I watch all of the contents liquefy, turning a deep shade of green.
What? Does this look disgusting? Well, let me tell you something. It isn't easy keeping this physique. If I've learned anything as a personal trainer it's that fitness starts in the kitchen.
As soon as I push the button to turn the blender off, I pour the contents into a glass, raise it to my lips, and before I can drink it, I hear a knock on the door.
Who the fuck is that? I'm not expecting anyone.
It can't be Abby; I know she's got a full plate this afternoon.
For a moment, I debate whether or not I should put a shirt on before answering the door, but fuck it. I decide that whoever this is can see me shirtless.
I open the door and I'm confused.
Standing in front of me is a man in a grey suit. His hair is slicked back, his hands are buried in his pockets, and he's rocking back on his heels. He seems to be in his early 30s … maybe? But if I'm fucking honest, I'm a terrible judge of age.
He seems vaguely familiar. But the important question is: what the fuck does he want?
"Can I help you?" I ask.
He eyes me up and down for a moment, and his lips crack into a smile.
"That's exactly what I'm here to find out," he says, pointing to my apartment. "Can I come in?"
I step aside and figure what the hell. If this guy is some sort of marketer—maybe trying to sell me on the latest Tupperware, or the next big pyramid scheme, or something—I guess it won't hurt to hear his spiel. I must be in a good mood because I decide to give the poor schmo a few minutes to say what he needs to say before giving him the boot. But something tells me he came here for a specific reason and that he knows who I am, in other words, that his visit isn't an accident.
"Sure, come in," I say, stepping back into the apartment. He follows after me, shutting the door behind him.
I grab my glass of liquefied greens.
"Want a drink?" I smile.
"No, I won't be here long."
There's something about the way he quickly dismisses me—and yes, I realize this glass of liquid green doesn't look appetizing, but still—that rubs me wrong.
"Why are you here?" I ask.
"I have an offer."
"Look, I'm not interested in buying Girl Scout cookies, or installing new cable, or trying to convince the Home Owners Association to install a solar system on the roof of this apartment, or whatever the fuck you're here to sell me—so thanks, but no thanks. I'll pass." My good mood is fading. I'm suddenly kicking myself for letting this guy in.
"It's not like that," he says.
"So, what is it?"
"Let's just say it's more of an ultimatum."
An ultimatum? Who the fuck does this guy think he is? Lesson number one: don't invite nut jobs in grey suits into your apartment.
"You know what? I think you should leave now."
I walk toward the door, leading the way for his exit, but he doesn't budge and continues, "I know all about you and Abby."
As soon as he says Abby's name, my pulse quickens. Who is this guy and why the fuck is he bringing Abby into this? I decide to challenge him.
"Yeah, and?"
He just smiles. "And that puts you in a compromising situation."
"What the fuck are you talking about?"
"I have photos."
Great. Now this is getting personal. Really personal. "What kind of photos?" I ask.
"Of both you and Abby … ones I doubt you'd want circulated."
All of a sudden, it fucking dawns on me. I put a name to his face. I know who this fucking guy is.
"Wait a minute … you're Grady O'Sullivan, of Bad Boy Publishing."
"Indeed, I am," he says, nodding. His hands are still shoved in his pockets.
Now it all makes sense. This is the guy Abby told me all about… her ex; the man with the tiny cock who fucked her over with Alyssa Moore. The guy who apparently likes sloppy seconds. I walk to the door and open it.
"In that case, you can leave. Now. Your time is up."
“Don’t say no to me, Aidan,” Grady says, not budging.
“Listen, fucker,” I tell Grady, snarling my teeth. If this is some jealousy thing because I fucked Alyssa before you and took Abby away from you…”
Grady doesn’t let me finish.
“If it weren’t for you, she would have come crawling back in a less than a week!” he yells. “She didn’t know the first thing about being a publisher when she left. And now she’s becoming unstoppable!”
“So what?” I ask. “You’re here to stop her?”
“If I can’t have her talent, then I’ll at least have yours,” Grady sneers. “Trust me when I tell you that you’ll cooperate if you know what’s good for you.”
I remain silent, wondering if I should just kill this man now.
“I was selling her work to other authors before she left, mirroring it and chopping it up and selling it under different pen names, and it was pretty fucking lucrative,” Grady says. “And since that’s gone now, I’m going to need you to provide me with an alternate source of cheddar. You feel me?”
It's better that he leave now before I do something that I might regret, like put my fist through that smug face of his.
"Listen, this can be an opportunity for you," he say
s, switching tack. "Come work for me … at Bad Boy Publishing. Just think, with our market reach and your skill, we'll create an empire."
"No thanks," I reply. I mean, this is a no brainer. This is Abby's ex we're talking about. Who just admitted to stealing her work. No wonder she was falling in the author rankings.
There's no way in hell that I could go work for him. I don't care how big his publishing house is.
"Think about it," he continues, pressing his offer.
"I have. And I say no. Final answer."
"Well, that's the wrong answer," he replies.
I can't help but ball my right hand into a fist. This guy is testing my patience.
"Wrong answer?" I ask. "Who the fuck do you think you are?"
"I think I'm a man holding a winning hand."
"So what—maybe you have a few pictures of Abby and I? Who the fuck cares?"
"The world will care because I have more than that," he smiles. "I have pics of that 12-inch cock of yours that will create quite an uproar fucking Abby on the beach, and I won't hesitate to share them publically."
"What pictures are you exactly talking about?"
"I told you—your cock … for starters. I'll upload them to Facebook."
"You're an idiot. Go ahead. I really don't give a fuck."
Of course I'm bluffing. I don't actually want pictures of my cock going viral and getting passed around all over the world, but I'm having serious doubts that Grady even has his hands on any pictures to begin with.
"That's where you're wrong; you'll care because not only will I release pictures of your cock, but I'll release them as teasers for your next book … and I've taken photos of both you and Abby … and you should know, deeply personal ones … does Python ring a bell?"
"You fucking bastard," I snap. Who the fuck does he think he is, intruding on my personal space like that. And now he isn't just threatening me; he's threatening Abby too. I can't let that happen.
"It doesn't have to be this way," he shrugs. "It's simple. Come work for me. Write for Bad Boy Publishing. Together, we'll create an empire."
"Not in a million fucking years."
"I’m urging you to think carefully about what you're saying. Work for me, and I'll destroy the photos; Abby will be spared the humiliation of that kind of exposure. But toss my offer, and I'll upload every picture I have across Facebook faster than Abby will know what to do with it."
Fuck. Why is this happening right now?
“The question you need to ask yourself is, would you like to see pictures of your girlfriend splashed across the internet for the world to jerk off to?” Grady asks me.
When I opened my door today, I never could've guessed I'd be faced with a dilemma that'd knock the wind out of me.
Only one thing to do in this situation to set things right.
What is it?
You’re not going to like the answer, darlin’.
No, I’m not going to tell you.
Not now.
Time for you to switch fucking POV.
Abby
It’s seven pm, and there's still no sign of Aidan.
I try to call him for the fifth time now, but the phone just rings endlessly without him picking up. I’m starting to get worried, and all this pacing around the apartment isn’t helping matters.
We agreed yesterday that he’d come over to my place today, so that we could start writing our new novel, a follow up to Big Dick. That’s right, the wonder team has teamed up again.
I had a busy afternoon and Aidan was doing his thing but I’m home now and ready to work.
Besides, it’s not like Aidan and me to not communicate for this long.
We already have an outline ready to go, and now it’s all a matter of putting the words down. Except Aidan was supposed to be here two hours ago, but it seems like he vanished from the face of the Earth. I tried to reach CJ, but she isn’t picking up her cellphone either.
I walk over to the kitchen counter, and place the cork back on the bottle of red wine I had opened for today. I picked it out especially for Aidan—one of his favorites. You know, this was supposed to be a special occasion; we're going to start a new project ... and I decided to tell him I’m pregnant. That’s why I tidied up the whole apartment, cooked diner, and even bought expensive La Perla, a matching lace thong and bra that hug the curves of my body as if they were my second skin.
But it seems like Aidan won’t be showing up at all.
I place the bottle back on the shelf with a sigh—well it’s not like I could have had wine anyways—and grab the tray of now cold lasagna. I tuck it inside the oven, ready for reheating whenever (if) he gets here, and then make my way back to the living room.
I try to reach him one more time, but all I get is that annoying ringing sound. Why isn’t he picking up? Maybe I should call Cheryl; she’s always in touch with CJ, so she’ll probably know if something’s up.
“What’s up?” she asks me straightway, picking up the phone before it even starts to ring. Swear to God, sometimes Cheryl freaks me out; it’s like she always knows when I need her.
“Hey, babe, have you talked with CJ?”
“Not today, why? Something’s up?” she says, and I can tell by the way she’s breathing her words out that she’s typing on her laptop while talking to me, her cell phone pressed between her shoulder and ear.
“Well, uh, we were supposed to start writing today, but Aidan isn’t picking up his cell,” I tell her, trying to hide away all the worry and anxiety tying my stomach into knots. Something’s going on, I can feel it deep in my bones.
“He’s probably just running late or something,” she says in a distracted tone, and so I just agree with her, trying to tell myself that there’s nothing to worry about. “Are you going to tell him about the baby?” she asks, her tone of voice growing steady, and I imagine her sitting upright in front of her desk, her cell phone now back in her hand. “You should tell him, you know?”
“That’s the plan,” I chuckle, although I can’t shake off that dark feeling casting its shadow over every single one of my thoughts. “As soon as he gets here, I’m going to break the news to him.”
“Now that’s my Abby,” Cheryl laughs, and then she’s back to her distracted tone of voice. I can hear the faint sound of fingers tapping on the keyboard, so I just say my goodbyes and let her do her work.
I sit down on the couch, propping my feet up on the coffee table in front of me, and rest my tablet on my lap. I power it up and then head straight toward my group, Dirty Lil’ Angels, and start scrolling down all the man candy the girls there post non-stop. There's nothing better to ease a worried mind than half-naked men, right? Except, right now, it isn’t helping; it seems that every man in there reminds me of Aidan, and that just flares up the urge to call him again. Somehow, I stop myself from doing it; I don’t want him to pick up his cellphone and see dozens of missed calls from Miss ‘Stalker’ Abby.
I mean don’t feel that bad for me, babe.
It's easy to pass the time if you know how to.
For example, I’m able to spend almost an hour in Dirty Lil’ Angels, and then I head to Rainforest.com to check on how Big Dick is doing; it's still going strong in the Top 100, although we’ll probably drop from there in the next few weeks. If we had the ad budget, we could have kept it going as strong as we had when we were doing signings.
But we don’t have that kind of money. We’re waiting for our royalty payments now, because I invested most of my liquid cash in this project.
But everything seems to be going great at the end of the day, you know?
What?
Don’t shake your head. On paper, everything is great.
Fine.
I feel it too. There’s something….off.
I don’t know what it is, and it’s probably stupid…so why am I feeling a knot in the pit of my stomach?
Succumbing to that worry, I pick up the phone and call Aidan one more time (my last attempt, I lie to myself).
Predictably, he doesn’t pick up, and so I just throw the cellphone onto the couch with an exasperated sigh.
This isn’t like him. Sure, he sometimes misses his calls like a regular human being, but he's never flaked on me without telling me first. So what the hell is going on? My mind is already busy imagining him sprawled on the middle of a busy road, his helmet cracked while his motorcycle lies a few feet away from him in a mess of twisted bent metal.
Okay, Abby, time to hop off of the paranoid train. I take one deep breath, trying to push all of these thoughts away, and start scrolling down my Facebook’s feed in a futile attempt to distract myself. I go through countless videos of babies, cats, and people failing miserably at whatever they’re doing, but none of them grab my attention. But that’s when my heart skips a beat.
Aidan’s Facebook page has just been updated. HUGE COCK - COMING SOON, his post reads, a book cover filling the whole screen of my tablet. The Huge Cock title hangs over a shirtless picture of Aidan against a dark background, his hands seductively diving under the hemline of his unbuttoned jeans.
My name is nowhere to be seen on the cover, but at the bottom there are three words, and each one of them feels like a bullet hitting me in the chest: Bad Boy Publishing.
Aidan’s betrayed me.
Aidan
"I can't do this," CJ says, her eyes sadder than I've ever seen them. They aren't the color of a summer sky anymore, but rather the deepest parts of the ocean—dark like the trenches where only the most secretive fish seem to lurk.
We decided to meet at a café for lunch, which was her idea, and so far, I've watched CJ push her salad around her plate without actually taking a single bite. She spears a cherry tomato with the prongs of her fork, and then quickly flicks it off again.
Something's wrong. That much I know.
"You can't do what exactly anymore?" I ask. I'm tired of the riddles. I just want to cut to the fucking chase.
"This. All of it. I can't work with you," she says, looking down at her plate. She seems to be trying extra hard to avoid my gaze—as if she's gonna turn to fucking stone if she looks into my eyes or something.