by T. K. Leigh
“Great,” she answered in a clipped voice. “Then it won’t be too much trouble for you to send me what you have so far.”
“Why do you need that?” I stood from the couch, heading to the French doors. “It’s coming along fine. I’ll make my deadline.”
“I don’t doubt it, but I just want to make sure we’re on the same page with the direction of the book.”
I rolled my eyes, biting back the sarcastic remarks begging to be set free. Every single one of the books I was under contract for had the same exact direction. In fact, each pitch was practically identical, with just a few minor details changed. I could probably submit a few chapters of my previous books, changing the names, and they’d be none the wiser.
“I’m still in the process of transferring material from my notebook to my laptop.” I held my breath, wondering if she’d fall for my blatant lie. While I used my notebook to do some free writing from time to time to help get my creative juices flowing, I did most of my work on my laptop. Hell, most days, I felt like I was chained to the damn thing. If I wasn’t writing, I was interacting with my readers on social media.
“So you don’t have anything written.”
“I do,” I argued back, stepping onto my balcony. The sun was shining, warming my face. I’d grown tired of the gray skies that routinely plagued New England during the winter months. “I’ve got the story in my head and have pages full of notes.”
“Pages full of notes does not a story make.” She let out a long sigh. I imagined her leaning back in her chair and removing a pair of dark-framed glasses. “What’s really going on?”
“What do you mean?” I asked in an uncertain tone, chewing on my nails.
“Molly, I’ve been your content editor for how long now?”
“Five years,” I replied without even blinking.
“The fact we’ve never met doesn’t matter. I like to think I know you as a person. Something’s going on with you. Are you blocked?”
“What? No!” I answered, indignant. I didn’t know why I lied. This was a woman who had been in the publishing industry for nearly as long as I’d been alive. I was sure she had some tricks for getting rid of writer’s block. For some reason, I felt this was something personal I needed to work through without hearing everyone’s tips for overcoming it.
“Let me ask you something.”
I remained silent, waiting.
“Are you happy?”
“You’ve seen the deal my agent made with your publishing company. How could I not be happy with that?”
“No. Not with us. In general. Are you happy?”
I opened my mouth, shaking my head slightly as I kept my eyes trained on the street below me. A few of the neighborhood locals, Lenny and Anthony, had set up their lawn chairs on the sidewalk across the street. They waved, Anthony blowing me a kiss. The eighty-year-old man had been flirting with me since I turned eighteen.
“The reason I’m asking is I don’t feel as if I really know you, Molly.”
“You know me. You’re actually one of the only people who knows Vivienne Foxx is really a woman named Molly Brinks.”
“That’s not what I’m talking about. I’m able to get a feel for most of my other authors by working on their books. It’s subtle, but they infuse bits and pieces of themselves into their stories. Not you. Why’s that?”
I swallowed, tilting my head back as if the sky would hold the answers. Many author friends of mine reiterated the idea that “you write what you know” over and over again. Not me, though. I did everything I could to write every woman’s fantasy, keeping my personal life out of it.
“That could be just the ticket to overcoming whatever obstacle you’re facing that’s preventing you from working on this book,” Tara added when I remained silent.
I sank into one of the lounge chairs on my balcony, blowing out a long breath. How could I tell Tara I was tired of writing this kind of story? So many authors would kill to have the deal I’d been able to secure with this publisher, but after five years and over a dozen books, I couldn’t help but feel somewhat unfulfilled. There was part of me that wanted to use my talent to tackle serious topics, such as abuse, alcoholism, human trafficking, racism, mental illness, as I’d hoped to do when I first started out in this industry. I’d grown weary of always having to write what someone else wanted me to, not what I wanted to.
“So you want me to change the story?”
“No,” she replied quickly. “That’s not what I’m saying. You still have an obligation to deliver the story you promised. You can make a few minor changes…”
“Minor? How so?” I asked, the wheels turning in my head.
“You know what we sell here. We sell sexy. We sell sinful. We sell seductive. Most importantly, we sell happily ever after. As long as your story has all that, along with the forbidden romance you promised, I can work with anything else.”
I nodded, rubbing my temples.
“Think about your own love story.”
I coughed, choking. “What?”
“I’m sure you’ve been in love before. Use that as a jumping-off point.”
I bit my lip, remaining silent. It wasn’t that I didn’t love people. I loved my brother, my nieces, my large extended family, my friends. But had I ever been in love? I doubted my crush on Taylor Bennett in eighth grade counted. I thought it was love. He passed me notes between classes and even turned the “o” in my name into a heart, listing the reasons he loved me. Then he demonstrated his everlasting love by making out with Gretchen Wells at the Valentine’s Day dance. He had claimed he’d been hit by Cupid’s arrow when he saw me. I wanted to light that arrow on fire and pierce his heart with it.
“You’re a damn good writer, Molly, and I know you have a wonderful imagination. I’m certain your books are probably the reason for dozens of pregnancies.” She let out a cough-ridden laugh. “Get out of your house and find whatever inspires you to do what it is you do so well. I expect to see 20,000 words by Monday morning.” She paused, allowing what I believed to be an impossible assignment sink in. “Have a good weekend.” Then the line went dead.
How the hell was I going to find a new source of inspiration that worked for this book? And in just three days?
CHAPTER THREE
“WHAT’S WITH THE FACE?” a voice said, breaking me out of the hypnotic trance the blinking cursor had put me under.
I’d been staring at a blank computer screen all morning. Not a single word flowed. Instead of resorting to my old muse hunting grounds, otherwise known as a bar on Boylston, I grabbed my laptop and headed down to the café, hoping a change of environment would help inspire me. The smell of coffee and sugar, coupled with the sounds of clattering dishes and friendly conversation, gave me a feeling of belonging, like one’s childhood bedroom often did.
My dependence on a muse could have been entirely psychological, but I’d written my first book because the guy I was seeing at the time sparked a story. Ever since then, I felt like I had to have a muse in order to write. It was like a security blanket…a living, breathing, incredibly sexy security blanket.
“What face?” I shrugged out of my daydream and glanced up at Brooklyn, treating her to the worst fake smile I could muster on such short notice. She plopped into the chair across from me, waving at my brother to bring her morning dose of caffeine.
“That face.” She grimaced at me. “You look like your dog just died or something.” Her eyes widened, compassion crossing her face. “Oh, my god. Pee Wee didn’t…”
“No! Do you think I’d be sitting here if he did? I’d be a complete mess!” I brought my mug, which contained probably my fourth or fifth coffee of the day, to my lips. I knew I had a serious addiction to caffeine, but I had no desire to change that at the moment. “I like that dog better than I like most humans.”
“Then what’s wrong?” She had smoothed her dark hair into a slick ponytail that trailed down to the middle of her back. Her vibrant green eyes stared at me with intr
igue, as if they could read my innermost thoughts. They probably could.
“Nothing,” I insisted. I wasn’t fooling anyone, especially my best friend since our first day of kindergarten. We were kindred spirits, outsiders from the beginning. We’d watched with longing as moms doted on their kids, tears streaming down their faces. We were the only two who didn’t have parents snapping photo after photo as we waited to be escorted into the school by our teacher. Brooklyn’s mom had died the previous year, killed by a drunk driver when she ran out to get milk.
My story was almost the same. My mom had run out to get milk, too, as my dad had told me for years, and never came back. However, she wasn’t killed by a drunk driver. She had abandoned us, said she didn’t want to be saddled with a family any longer. Although, to this very day, I still received a crummy pair of slippers for my birthday every year.
She got cold feet being married to my father and raising a family. I was constantly reminded of that fact.
Every.
Fucking.
Year.
“She’s a bitter cynic,” Drew interjected, placing Brooklyn’s mug in front of her and offering her a smile, which she was only too eager to return. Just like practically every other female friend of mine, she couldn’t hide her attraction to my brother. Time and time again, I had told her if she wanted to pursue something with him, I would be okay with it. Drew’s kids adored her. I had a feeling Drew adored her, too. It made sense. Regardless, she insisted our friendship was more important to her than that. Brooklyn was a rare gem in a selfish world. I didn’t deserve her friendship.
“Tell me something I don’t already know,” she shot back, smirking at me.
“She’s blocked,” Drew explained, lowering his voice.
He knew the drill by now. The only people who knew what I really did for a living were within a foot of me. It wasn’t that I was ashamed of my writing. I didn’t have a full-time job where they would look down on me for writing books that soaked your panties. I simply preferred the anonymity.
Brooklyn leaned in. “With what? Sexy Mr. Price?” She read my stuff before everyone else, even the absolute garbage that never made the final cut and was usually complete gibberish. She had a talent for seeing things I couldn’t, helping me figure out where to take the story. “If I had a boss who looked like him—”
“He doesn’t exist,” Drew reminded her. “You make it sound like he’s a real person.”
I sat back in my chair, a cocky look on my face. “That’s the sign of pure brilliance, Drew,” I joked. “My writing is so compelling, she believes he’s real.”
“If he were real, perhaps there wouldn’t be cobwebs growing between my legs,” she muttered.
“On that note…” Drew offered us a tight smile. “I’m going back to work.”
I glanced at the bar, seeing Aunt Gigi and Dottie, another staple of the coffee shop, talking as my aunt wiped it down and restocked the display cases. The café was a bit different. It had the typical booths and bistro tables most other places had. When Drew took over ownership, he made one drastic change. He put in a real bar that actually served alcohol. According to Drew, who had studied business in undergrad, the profit margin on alcohol was huge.
“It’s not busy,” I argued. “You can sit with us for a minute. All you do is take photos and sign autographs for all the hockey fans who come in.”
“That’s not all I do here, Mols.” He shot me a sideways glance. “Truthfully, I’d rather be called for jury duty than have to listen to you two talk about cobwebs in places I’d rather not think about.”
He gave Brooklyn a small smile, then headed back to the bar, his eyes glued to one of the large televisions that was playing one of the sports networks.
“Like you don’t think about vaginas all day, every day,” I called after him. Instantly, dozens of customers perked up from their smartphones or laptops. “You’re a guy! From my experience, guys spend, like, twenty-three hours of the day thinking about the next time they’re going to get some pussy!”
“Molly!” Aunt Gigi scolded, her dark eyes shooting daggers at me. “Watch your language!”
“The other hour, they’re actually getting said pussy.” I crossed my arms in front of my chest, ignoring my sixty-five-year-old aunt. “I’m pretty sure thinking about vaginas is all part of that.”
“Molly!” Drew hissed, heading back to the table. “You’re going to give Gigi a heart attack, for crying out loud,” he berated me, unable to stifle the laugh struggling to escape. Drew was the typical oldest child — serious, pragmatic, methodical. I was always the wild one. The one who didn’t take anything in life too seriously, including myself. Still, I loved when I could get a laugh out of him…or anyone else, for that matter.
“Like she’s never heard the word vagina before. Or pussy.”
He sat down in the chair next to me, leaning close. “Thanks to you, I’m pretty sure we all have at this point, along with far too many other words you have stored in your vernacular for the female genitalia. No brother should have to listen to his sister say some of the things that come out of your mouth. No brother should have to read his sister’s sex-filled books, either, but I do.”
I planted a kiss on his cheek. “That’s because you’re the best brother in the whole wide world.” My voice oozed with sarcasm, although I meant every word.
Through all the ups and downs in our lives, Drew was my one constant. Men would come and go, but Drew was always there for me, even during his professional hockey career. When some of my know-it-all cousins or uncles told me a degree in journalism was a waste of time, Drew reminded me I was a damn good writer and it would be a disservice if I gave up because of a few ignorant comments from people who wouldn’t know how to open a book if their lives depended on it.
“So what’s the problem this time, Molly?” Brooklyn asked once Drew relented and joined our discussion.
“I got a phone call from my editor this morning.”
They both perked up. “What did she have to say?” Drew asked.
“She was wondering why she hasn’t seen anything from me, considering the final draft is due in a month.”
“You haven’t sent her anything?” Brooklyn lifted her brow. “What about all the stuff you’ve had me read? Granted, I’ve probably read about twenty different versions of the first chapter, but at least it’s something.”
I sank into the booth, playing with my coffee mug. “I know. I just… Like I told Drew earlier, it just doesn’t feel right.” I narrowed my gaze on my two confidants. “It feels like every other book I’ve been under contract to write. When I signed this latest deal, I thought it was perfect. All I had to do was write a forbidden romance between two people who are complete opposites…if it could even be called a romance. It’s really just an egotistical prick using his position of power to seduce his assistant. It’s more like sexual harassment. Throw in a conflict, which even a blind person could see from a mile away, that our heroine is somehow able to look past because she can’t stand not to feel his dick inside her every day, giving her orgasm after orgasm, which isn’t possible, and we have our entire story, wrapped up in a neat little package, ready to market to the masses.” I rested my head in my hands. “They ate it up. They made it sound like this was a completely new concept, like it hasn’t been done before. Hell, I’ve done it before…repeatedly.” I let out a long breath. “Maybe I’m burnt out. And my editor expects to see 20,000 words by Monday.”
Brooklyn scrunched her eyebrows. “But, Molly, it’s Friday—”
I held up my hand, cutting her off. “To add fuel to the fire, Kevin walked out on me this morning. He was all wrong for this particular book anyway, but at least he was someone. Now I have no muse and a nearly impossible deadline hanging over me.” I leaned my head back against the booth and stared at the ceiling.
“What happened with Kevin?” Brooklyn asked, intrigued.
I rolled my eyes. “That went up in a blaze of glory.”
&nbs
p; “What did you do?” Drew turned to me, his expression almost smug, as if he’d been expecting this for a while. I knew my arrangement with Kevin wouldn’t last, but I hated the thought of having to search for yet another muse. I loathed having to put on a tight dress and a pair of heels just to attract some guy, but it was necessary for my art.
“He asked what I was doing up so early,” I answered. “We got on the subject of my magazine articles and how there aren’t exactly a lot of them. Then he started asking what I was really doing all the times I told him I was working on my column.”
“And what did you say?”
“I tried to distract him.” I bit my lip, feeling oddly guilty about this morning’s unexpected fireworks.
“Why didn’t you just tell him?” Drew pushed. “I don’t understand why you don’t want people to know.”
“I know why.” Brooklyn crossed her arms, a self-righteous look on her face.
“Oh, you do, Dr. Freud?” I loved my friend dearly, but she psychoanalyzed everything. Granted, she did have a degree in psychology and worked as a therapist for the Department of Children and Families. Still, I hated feeling as if she were studying everything I did and said.
“This has nothing to do with me being a therapist. It’s because we’ve been friends since we were still pissing our pants. You don’t want anyone to know what you really do for a living because you haven’t written anything you’re proud of yet.”
“I’m proud of what I’ve accomplished!” I shot back. “Not everyone can say they’ve written a book.”
“That’s certainly true.” Brooklyn took a sip of her Americano, her eyes still trained on me. “But you said it yourself. You’re more proud of the act of publishing a book than the material contained in it. If you’re happy, why not use your real name?”
“I don’t want to jeopardize my deal with the magazine.”
“Are you kidding me?” Drew scoffed. “Their circulation would skyrocket if word got out the Vivienne Foxx was writing for them. Your readers would salivate over your columns… ‘Overheard in the Women’s Restroom’, ‘Molly’s Misadventures on Public Transport’, ‘Ten Weeks to Giving Better Head’, ‘Confessions of a Serial Dater’. Those columns are hysterical and have such a great following. Imagine if your readers knew. It would only increase your popularity.”