by Unknown
“I’m trying,” I say, but it comes out flat.
He laughs, but it’s full of annoyance and fury. “I don’t want you to have to try. You know me, I know you. Should we be trying at this point?”
He heads to the bedroom, but I don’t follow him. I put on my clothes and sit on the couch, wondering how we got here, how I let things get this far. I just wanted some time and distance to clear my head.
After about twenty minutes, he comes out dressed and freshly showered. I start to ask where he’s going, but I decide not to. I probably don’t deserve the answer right now. He clears his throat, and I look at him, giving him my full attention.
“I don’t know if you remember, but tonight we have dinner with Jax and Tiffany. If you can feel up to it, that’d be great.” His tone is even and void of any emotion.
I nod at him, and he heads to the door. I search for something to say to redeem myself.
“Bryce?” It comes out urgent and panicked.
He stops, his hand on the knob, and looks at me. The words I want to say are blurred and seem stupid.
“Do you want me to pick up some wine?”
His face falls, and he chuckles. “Sure, Chas, whatever you like.”
He leaves and slams the door, and I don’t even jump. I deserved that.
Should I pick up wine?
I’m an idiot.
I try to drown my thoughts of today’s disaster by answering all the emails I’ve neglected. It’s been about three weeks since I checked my Facebook messages and cleaned out my author inbox, and I have about twenty messages from readers. I start with those, since they always find a way to make me smile. Responding to them distracts me for most of the morning and raises my spirit inch by inch.
When I’m halfway through, I check one of the writer forums I’m on and see success stories of those who have just released new books. I congratulate a couple I communicate with through cyperspace. Most people have been having good weeks—stellar releases, big promos from the most coveted marketing sites—so I add my congratulations to each. Toward the end of the page, I read a post titled “Sad and confused,” and my heart sinks. My hour has been good and I don’t want to give away that energy I’ve stolen for myself, but my mouser gravitates toward the post anyway. I don’t recognize the user’s profile name pinkwriter92. It seems they’ve only posted a few times. My eyes scan the text…
I hate to bring the party down when it seems like everything is going so great for everyone. I’m a long-term member but have mostly lurked. I just feel lost. I wish I could say, or that it would make more sense to those who read this, that I’ve been doing everything right but haven’t found success, but I have. I haven’t hit any best sellers’ lists or been recognized by major blogs or publications, but I have a strong reader base, my writing pays the bills, and I’m what many on this board would consider successful. I am blessed by so many standards… but I feel empty. I feel like what I write next won’t be good enough. The joy I thought I would feel when I reached this point is absent. Many of you may assume that maybe I’m not a real writer, one who writes for the love and passion of it, but you’d be wrong. I’ve been writing since I could hold a crayon, and the love for my craft is with me, but something is missing and it’s interfering with my work. I ask that you not tell me to set a higher goal, like hitting one of the coveted spots on Amazon or iBooks, or even the more elusive NYT or USA Today lists, because I’ve thought about that myself. Can you simply remind me why you love what you do, and why you keep going?
I feel my chest tighten as I read the last sentence. I read the first response and see that someone’s already begun the snark train. I exit out of the forum. I can imagine the type of responses pinkwriter92 will get. I go back to my happy place in my inbox and open the email I left off on.
Chassidy,
My name is Davien Marx, and I’m with Gellar and Associates. I’ve been following your work and have to tell you, I was riveted. I was hoping to be able to discuss representation of your Blue Girl series. I know that you’ve done well with it on your own, but I would love to talk to you about some of the possibilities we envision for it. Please let me know when is a good time to speak.
My heart begins to pitter-patter. Way back when I wanted to traditionally publish and had been going through the grueling process of looking for an agent, their agency was at the top of my list. They represent some of my favorite writers. I stop before responding to the email and grab my phone to call Bryce. He’s the first person I always share my good news with. But he doesn’t pick up and the phone goes to voicemail. I refuse to let the disappointment grab hold of me. I quickly hit Reply.
Thanks Davien,
I’m so flattered. Would love to talk. I’m free until six today. Mornings are always good if today doesn’t work. Looking forward to speaking with you soon.
Sincerely,
Chassidy Bell
I can’t help but giggle after I send it. I haven’t felt this sort of thrill from an email in such a long time—not since I received my very first email from a reader telling me how much they loved my book. I tell myself not to get too excited—after all, I’m not interested in selling English rights to any of my books and that could very well be what they’re interested in—but if they’re talking about international representation or subsidiary rights, that’s so exciting! I answer the rest of my emails, then hop in the shower. My phone dings and I see the email from Gellar and Associates.
Great, would 1:00 EST be good for you?
I jump out of the shower, dry my hands, and tell him it’s perfect. Before I can blow dry my hair, I get an email asking for the best number to call me on. I resist the urge to respond immediately and finish drying my hair before I send him the number.
I look through the closet, skimming through what to wear tonight. Bryce will usually tell me if they’re hosting other people, which happens quite a lot since they both have very successful careers. Jax an investment banker, and Tiffany a lawyer. Dinner parties and wine seem to be required. Bryce didn’t answer when I called and he’s not the happiest with me, so I settle on a little black sweater dress. I’ll take heels and flats just in case. I throw on a grey tank top and matching sweats and put my hair in a high messy bun. I’ll straighten it later.
I have about fifteen minutes before it’s one in New York, so I head to the kitchen, grab a banana, and turn on the television to kill some time. I’m halfway through my snack when my phone lights up. I almost choke when I see it’s a Facetime call instead of a normal call. I quickly swallow, drink some water, and wipe my face. He didn’t say it’d be a Facetime call, did he? I hop over to my desk, trying to appear somewhat professional, and realize as it connects that a messy bun and tank top with no bra doesn’t exactly scream serious author. Before I have time to grab a sweater, it connects, and I’m a little stunned by the face staring back at me.
He’s a man—of course, I knew that—but somewhere in my mind, I thought he’d be older and sort of overweight and in a suit. Instead he’s young, tanned, maybe a little older than me, and has a full head of dark hair, dark eyes, and a million kilowatt smile. He’s not what I expected at all.
“Chassidy Bell?” he asks with a hint of a flirtation in his voice.
I sit up straighter and fold my arms across my chest. “That’s me.” I wonder if I’m smiling too widely.
“I should have probably mentioned I’m a big Facetimer. When I texted you and saw you had iMessage, I just went for it. I have it on my computer so it’s just easier sometimes, and it’s good to place a face to a name.” He has beautiful teeth and his voice is low, almost rough around the edges
“No problem.” My eyes gravitate to the large windows behind him and a skyline that steals the show even from someone who looks like him.
“So I have to tell you. I’m a big fan of your work.” His voice is casual, but his eyes are wide with excitement.
“Thank you.”
“No, really, your series is so different fro
m everything that’s out there right now, but it fits perfectly with the genre, if that makes sense.”
“Thank you again,” I tell him with a laugh, and I don’t know if I’m imagining it, but his eyes gravitate to my chest. “One minute please.”
I set down the phone, grab an actual T-shirt instead of a tank, and pull it on. When I’m back, he’s grinning and I feel myself blush.
“So let me just tell you about our agency and who I am.” He leans closer to the camera, but in less than a second, he goes from playful and casual to serious, listing off the credentials of his agency. I was already aware of most of them, but when he names some of the clients he’s represented and how the deals he’s made in the last year total over five million dollars, I’m really impressed. “So even with all of those facts and figures, I’m sure you’re wondering what I can do for you, right?”
“I’d love to hear it,” I say, trying not to sound too impressed.
I listen to him as he tells me where I stand market wise. He talks about the potential he sees in my series and what he can do with it, which in his exact words are that he thinks he could make me a lot of money. The firm takes fifteen percent of whatever compensation they secure me. After the spiel, I’m nervous and wring my hands together, but he looks at me expectantly, waiting on my response.
“That all sounds great, Mr. Marx—”
“Davien. My dad isn’t even Mr. Marx,” he says, interrupting me with a smile that I’m sure has charmed many out of their sanity, money, and clothes. That’s the smile of the man I want representing me.
“Davien, that sounds great, but I’m not interested in selling the English rights, ebook or audio.” I wait for his spectacular smile to change into a frown, but his smile stretches further.
“You wouldn’t have to do anything you’re uncomfortable with.”
The weight on my chest leaves.
“However,” he adds, and I brace myself. “I ask that you be open-minded.”
I laugh and rub the back of my neck.
“If I brought any deal to you, it would be worth your while. That I stake my reputation on.”
I let out a sigh, but it’s accompanied with a laugh. “As long as we’re clear that I’m not interested in those types of deals and if you pursued them and I decided not to take them there won’t be…”
“Any tension?” A grin plays on his lips as if he knows a secret.
I detect a hint of flirtation in his tone but ignore it. He probably uses it with everyone before they sign their life away. I know it’s wrong to think, but I wonder how many deals he’s made based on that smile and those eyes.
“Okay.” I nod, planning to ask him for a day to think things over, but from the Cheshire smile on his face, I think he already knows he’s got me.
“Can I send you over a contract?” he asks, probably purely out of tradition.
I nod, and he clasps his hands in triumph. I can’t help but laugh at his excitement over little ol’ me.
“I’ll send it to the email address I have.”
“That’d be great. Is it okay if I send it back to you tomorrow?” I ask. Tiffany is a lawyer, and since I’m seeing her tonight, it’s perfect timing to have her give it a once-over.
“Actually, I’ll be in Chicago on Tuesday. I’d love to meet the woman behind the computer.”
That catches me off guard. “Umm, of course. I’d love to meet you too.”
“Great! I’ll send you the details by Monday if that’s okay,” he says, leaning back in his chair.
I wonder how tall he is. He has broad shoulders. What does it matter? “Sounds good.”
“Great. Look out for an email from me with all of my contact info, as well as my assistant’s, and I’ll be seeing you soon,” he says.
“See you soon, and thank you again.”
Wow. I have an agent.
Me.
And not just any agent—a fantastic one from one of the most respected agencies in the country. I glance at my phone and see that Bryce hasn’t called me back yet. Still, I push my worries from this morning from my mind and perk up. Today is turning around. My phone buzzes with a text from my mother. She’s downstairs.
I throw my head back and groan. Well, it was getting better. I cross my fingers that she’s in a good mood, but since I didn’t call her back earlier, I know I’ll have to warm her up.
Bryce
5 Years Earlier
“Her mother looked like she was going to rip our eyes out.”
Jax is making a big show of telling our friends about what happened this morning, and I can’t blame him. He was a good sport about it, and no one can tell a story like he can. He has a big audience today: Tiffany, our best friend; Jax’s girlfriend, Kira; and my little brothers, Duke and Max. We’re all at Geno’s for our traditional Friday night pizza. Jax, Tiffany, and I have been coming here since our freshman year of college. Whether for celebrations after landing jobs or pity parties after failing tests, we’ve always gathered around this table. “Nothing cures a broken heart or shattered pride like pizza and beer,” is my dad’s favorite saying, and it’s been my motto since I was seventeen and would sneak them from the fridge.
They all look at Jax in disbelief—he’s been known to exaggerate.
“But I’d do it again in a second,” I say with not a bit of shame. I grab a slice of pizza, ignoring their gawking.
“I can’t believe it! You going all Shakesperian for a girl you hadn’t even seen before?” Tiffany looks impressed with me. Since she’s been my best friend since middle school and is a hell of a lot smarter than I am, I don’t get that look from her often.
“I assumed you all were shallower than a kiddie pool,” Kira grumbles before drinking some of her beer.
“Oh, you don’t believe he really had no clue what she looked like?” my little brother Max says, totally fine with insulting me.
“I didn’t.”
He rolls his eyes and throws his head back dramatically.
“Yeah, right,” his twin, Duke—my slightly lesser pain in the butt brother—adds.
“It just goes to show that the Bell boys can tell a girl’s cup size from the sound of her voice,” Kira says wryly, and they all laugh.
Max slaps the table. “So what does she look like? I mean, you’ve dated some hot ones, though not as hot as mine!”
“She’s one of the most beautiful girls I’ve ever seen,” I say with a smug grin.
“So how are you going to follow up after that romantic spectacle you made of yourself?” Kira asks, bitterness underneath her laugh. She doesn’t speak out of fun the way everyone else does; her shots are always personal.
I take a swig of my beer before answering. The girl has a way of grating on my nerves—she’s the type of person who could develop film by speaking to it. She always has something negative to say. You could tell her she won the million-dollar lottery and she’d start complaining about taxes. I really don’t understand what Jax sees in her—besides that she was blessed with good genes. She’s cute enough. Sort of reminds me of that stuck-up girl from Pretty Little Liars, which Tiff makes me watch sometimes. I guess it’s ironic, since she considers my brothers and me shallow, that the only thing I think is good about Kira is her appearance. We may appreciate the beauty of a woman’s form, but we’d never deal with a girl whose attitude was beyond rotten.
“What do you mean?” I ask, trying to cover my annoyance.
“I mean you set the bar pretty high, Casanova, declaring your admiration for her in freezing weather in front of hundreds of people. How do you live up to that?”
The table quiets, and there it is, the famous downing of Kira Burns. She could bring down a cartoon.
“By being himself. If she likes him, great; if not, screw her,” Tiffany cuts in, even though there’s a bit of a slur in her voice.
It’s crazy how opposite the women in Jax’s life are. Kira’s a stuck-up redhead who can find a flaw in anyone or anything. She claims to be our genera
tion’s Diane Sawyer, and if that turns out to be true, God help us. Tiffany has been like our little sister, but she’s always had a crush on Jax. I think she even stayed here to go to Roosevelt with us in hopes he’d wake up and notice her, but he met Kira and we’ve all been paying for it ever since.
“If it was me, it’d just seem that anything that comes after that would be a disappointment.” She shrugs.
Tiffany and I exchange knowing glances before ignoring Kira.
“So when do you get to meet Her Highness again?” Max asks.
“We’re meeting tomorrow for coffee at the Starbucks on…” I stop myself from giving them the address. They’ve been known to crash dates before. “Starbucks.”
“Total dud,” Kira mutters.
“She actually picked the place,” I say with a smug grin, and she rolls her eyes.
She raises both her hands with innocent eyes. “Hey, I’m just trying to help.”
Tiffany rolls her eyes, and we share a smile.
“Well, I for one hope I get to meet the girl who has Bryce Bell so infatuated. You haven’t even stared at the waitress’s ass one time, and that ass deserves some staring at,” Duke proclaims, raising his beer.
Tiffany, Jax, and Max all raise theirs and we clink our glasses.
“I’m kind of surprised too. I just might buy into this love at first sight… or word thing.” Tiffany giggles.
“But we’ll see how long it lasts,” Jax says.
Tiff winks at him, and I don’t miss Kira scowl at Jax.
“Come on, Tiff, you’re always on my side,” I say, giving her puppy-dog eyes.
She laughs and pinches my cheek. “I am on your side, Brycie.”
She always calls me that before she goes into lecture mode, which is pretty rare, but she’s had a few to drink tonight.
“It’s just… you’re not one with a long attention span. You’re always excited by new shiny things, but your attention has been known to wane… I just don’t want this, possibly amazing girl to be ruined by your magnetic charm and short span of interest.”