by Monica James
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyrighted Material
Books By Monica James
Dedication
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Connect with Monica James
Copyrighted Material
MR. WRITE
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons living or dead, is coincidental. Any trademarks, service marks, product names or named features are assumed to be the property of their respective owners and are used only for reference.
Copyright © 2019 by Monica James
All rights reserved. No part of this work may be reproduced, scanned or distributed in any printed or electronic form without the express, written consent of the author.
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THE I SURRENDER SERIES
I Surrender
Surrender to Me
Surrendered
White
SOMETHING LIKE NORMAL SERIES
Something like Normal
Something like Redemption
Something like Love
A HARD LOVE ROMANCE
Dirty Dix
Wicked Dix
The Hunt
MEMORIES FROM YESTERDAY
Forgetting You, Forgetting Me
Forgetting You, Remembering Me
SINS OF THE HEART
Absinthe of the Heart
Defiance of the Heart
STANDALONE
Mr. Write
To my Mr. Write Right.
In the beginning…there was conflict (noun)
I hate airplanes.
And I bloody well hate Christmas.
The two combined are my ultimate hell, wrapped in a single-serving nightmare.
It’s scientifically proven that at high altitudes, our taste buds are saluting us with the middle finger. The low humidity dries out our nasal passages, and the air pressure desensitizes our taste buds. That might explain the god-awful food, but I wouldn’t hold my breath. On second thought, better for one to pass out from asphyxiation than breathe in the recycled, acrid air.
Shifting in my minuscule seat, I subtly reach down to rearrange my strangled balls, diminishing the prospect of me ever having kids by the second. Not that that matters any longer, seeing as my soon-to-be ex-wife is a lying, cheating, psychotic she-devil who decided shagging Eduardo the pool boy took precedence over staying faithful to her husband of ten years.
Thoughts of the succubus has me raising my hand to alert the forty-something stewardess of my dire circumstances and need to get completely and utterly wasted. But just as she did three times prior, she ignores me.
“This will be good for you, Jayden,” said my agent, Nick West. “Get out in the real world and socialize with normal people.”
“I socialize,” I retorted, not liking the direction of this conversation.
“Seeing a different woman’s vagina every night doesn’t count as socializing.”
“It’s not every night,” I pitifully argued.
“Every second night then.”
Touché.
Nick West is my literary agent and best friend. We have been best mates since I moved from London to Seattle with my family when I was sixteen and was paired up with him as lab partners. He was the best man at my wedding, and he was the better man when he stopped me from committing double homicide when I found Eduardo doggy paddling Elizabeth’s arse.
Tugging at the collar of my white shirt, I peer across the row, desperate for some fresh air. But thanks to the illusive windows, mocking me with false freedom, I’m bound to suffocate before this flight ends.
With limited legroom, I contort my six-foot-four body and hunt through the bag stowed under the seat in front of me. Yanking out my laptop, I decide to work on my latest novel. The flight from Seattle to Connecticut will give me a few hours to hopefully unearth the inspiration I’ve so desperately craved for the past six months.
There are endless reasons why I would throw a weeklong celebration if Elizabeth Evans contracted Ebola and died a slow, painful death. At the forefront is the fact she was an adulterous wench, but in true Liz fashion, it wasn’t enough that she ruined my home life. She had to go and take it all.
My name is Jayden Evans. I’m a thirty-three-year-old Sagittarius who used to write about the miracle of true love and finding your forever soul mate. I’m a New York Times, USA Today, and Wall Street Journal bestselling author with over twenty-five million copies of my books sold worldwide.
My first novel, Lost in Love, was written when I was twenty-two and inspired by Liz’s and my whirlwind romance. By twenty-four, I was one of the world’s most beloved authors. All of this, all my accomplishments were because of Liz because she was my muse. She was the reason I was able to write sappy dribble and renounce my manhood by using the words “make love” instead of “fuck.”
But now, she’s my muse of a different kind—the kind of muse that has me wanting to write about what utter bollocks “true love” is. There is no such thing as true love. It’s an illusion we fabricate because we don’t want to die alone. Well, screw love and all the pussies who believe in its existence. All I believe in is whiskey, Manchester United walloping Liverpool, and partaking in unspeakable nasties with anyone who can make this constant ache go away. So far, no one has succeeded, which should be my cue that this life of promiscuity is not for me.
It’s been six months since the love of my life tore out my heart and set it on fire, and I haven’t written a single word since. I’m a bestselling author who has severe writer’s block because I’ve lost my passion to write…and to live. Every time I stare at my screen, I see Liz’s striking blue eyes, but then those eyes are transformed into her arse cheeks as she yells for Eduardo to spank her culo.
That dirty, dirty puta.
My publishers are riding me hard, asking for the first five chapters of my next “bestseller.” All I’ve sent them is a title.
I Never Should Have Loved You.
It goes without saying, they’ve asked me to resubmit something less disheartening. What they don’t understand is that this is the best I can assemble. The original title was I Hope You Burn in Hell. So they’re lucky they got option B.
Every time I go to write about how wonderful love is, all I want to do is add a footnote that all love does is break, burn, and end. Love is an optical illusion for unknowing twats. I’ve lost that connection in the real world, and in turn, I no longer can relate in the fictitious world either.
So the reason behind my newfound debauchery is to find inspiration in someone…something…anything. I need to find my passion again, and to do that, I’ll try, do anything to find my groove because if I can’t write, I may as well give up on life now.
“Not a good flyer?” asks a soft voice, snapping me from my woeful troubles.
Turning to my left, I see an elderly lady smiling kindly at me. She bagged a window seat while I’m in the aisle. The seat between us remains empty, and I’m hoping it
stays that way. But I’m not optimistic, thanks to the holidays—fucking Christmas.
“Love, I don’t think anyone is a good flyer. What, with thirty thousand feet between you and plummeting to your death in a horrific, fiery explosion, what’s there to enjoy?” She pales, and her fingers tug at the cross around her neck.
I know she’s only trying to make conversation, but I’m not interested in conversing with anyone. Not little old ladies, soccer moms, or lonely men desperate to talk about their midlife crises. I don’t discriminate—I hate everyone.
“Are you on the way to see family?” she asks, in no way deterred by my apathy.
I’m on this early morning flight bound for Connecticut thanks to the fact I can’t keep it in my pants. On one very drunk and disorderly night at a fellow author’s book launch, I thought it would be fun to shag Daisy Bell. I didn’t know she was the daughter of Axel Bell, the CEO of my multi-billion-dollar publishing house until I saw her photo, sitting pretty on her daddy’s desk—the desk which I defiled her on—over and over again.
Shagging Daisy Bell definitely did not give me the inspiration I sought. All it gave me was a headache and the desire to neuter myself. After one, well, BOOM, three orgasms, she claimed I was the love of her life and turned up unannounced, offering to do my laundry or make me lunch. If she were anyone else, I would be telling them to hit the road, but thanks to my oversight, I now have to man up and try to pull myself from the mess I’ve made.
I’ve seen her for no more than a handful of “dates,” trying my absolute hardest to deter her from liking me further. But the meaner I treat her, the keener she seems—it appears the saying rings true. So now I’m shite out of luck. I have no book or balls, as both are in the hands of one Daisy Bell.
I have told her endless times we’re nothing but friends who occasionally hook up, but she doesn’t seem to listen. I can’t be any clearer. She said she’s fine with whatever I have to give—which, honestly, isn’t a whole lot.
But the predicament I find myself in is if I end things with her, she’ll run to Daddy, detailing what a rotten scoundrel I am. And I’m quite certain he won’t take too kindly to me breaking his little girl’s heart as I had no qualms breaking her virtue in unspeakable ways. I’m already skating on very thin ice because my brain decided to close up shop and not deliver on the awaiting deadlines. If Axel were to find out that I was failing epically at being a human being and a writer, I have no doubt I’ll be standing on a street corner wearing a chicken suit and handing out flyers for KFC.
Don’t get me wrong, Daisy is a nice enough girl, but as I previously stated, I’m not interested in conversing with anyone, and that’s all Daisy wants to do. She wants a relationship while I just want to be left alone.
“No,” I blankly reply, giving this woman no further need to talk.
The only reason I’m on this damn plane is because Daisy invited me to spend the holidays with her family at their lake house, and ingenious me believes if I can sweet-talk Axel, allowing him to see what a great guy I am, then he might not want to murder me when I break his daughter’s heart. I’m a bastard, but I’m not a fucking bastard. I need to end this now. Hopefully, the truth will set me free, and if word gets out about my current mental drought, he’ll go easy on me and not terminate my existing contract.
I will not allow Elizabeth to ruin all aspects of my life. She’s taken my heart, house, and money—but I’ll be damned if she takes my career too.
Thankfully, my fellow passenger gets the hint and turns to look out the window. I bet she’s wishing she could change seats with the chatty blonde in front of her.
Looking down at my watch, I see that it’s past time for takeoff—how predicable. The holidays roll in, and everyone’s sense of time takes a vacation too. Jolly travelers in full festive spirit continue to board the plane while the only spirit I want is a damn Jack Daniel’s.
The neighboring seats are occupied, so I’m hoping for a Christmas miracle, and the seat beside me remains vacant. However, when a woman with an oversized floppy sun hat waddles down the aisle, I know Saint Nic is flipping me off and high-fiving baby Jesus.
No one likes sitting near strangers, especially in a space that makes Barbie’s Malibu dollhouse look like a penthouse. This is Nick’s fault. He was the one who told me I should live a little and not fly first class, as stepping outside my comfort zone may inspire me to uncover those hidden words. I should have told him to sod off because the only thing I’ll be uncovering are my eyeballs from the peak of that hideous hat.
Her gaze drops to her ticket, then overhead, ensuring she’s going the right way. When her eyes land on the number above my head, I sink in my seat, cursing Christmas, the Easter Bunny, and the entire human race.
She does a double take when she sees me, her full lips tipping up into a sassy grin. My mojo may be nonexistent when it comes to writing, but it’s definitely in full swing when it comes to the opposite sex. It’s like a lid exploded off my sex appeal because I’m never short of female attention. But maybe it was there all along.
Elizabeth used to tell me I was ruggedly sexy and far too fit, muscular, and tanned to be a writer. I run five kilometers every day—rain, hail, or shine. If I didn’t, I’d be an out of shape vampire addicted to coffee and M&M’s.
She said my blue eyes were electric. They constantly sparkled as they were the window to my graceful soul—what a load of shite. My dark brown hair is probably a little too long to be called conservative but not long enough for me to be labeled a hoodlum. It’s shaggy on top with shorter sides. The mussed top matches the bottom as my jawline is never free of scruff. I always have a five-o’clock shadow even after I shave. Another aspect Liz said made me a man. Too bad I wasn’t man enough for her.
“Excuse me.”
Snapping my head up, I see that hat lady is blocking the aisle as she stands by me. She has an enormous bag strapped to her shoulder overfilled with god knows what. She looks at the spare seat beside me and then back at me, playing visual charades that I’m to move so she can squeeze past me.
Sighing, I quickly stow my laptop and move into the aisle so she can invade my privacy for too many long hours. She looks at the small space, then down at her handbag, which could technically have its own seat. “Here, let me put that in the overhead compartment for you,” I offer as there is no way I’m having her and the bag encroaching on my space.
“Why, thank you. What a gentleman.” She bats her eyelashes before hurling the bag at me as though I’m her own personal bellhop. I grumble under my breath as she shuffles down the row, her robust frame giving the unsuspecting passengers in the row in front of her whiplash as they jolt forward.
As expected, the overhead compartment is crammed full, so I move down a couple of rows, but no luck there either. Looking over my shoulder, I see a line of impatient people waiting to get past me. Apologizing, I buck my hips forward and suck it all in so they can pass. After I get bumped and shoved repeatedly, my patience is about ready to snap.
Just as I’m about to bowl this ridiculous arsenal I’m still holding down the aisle, a small giggle has me pausing, the air from my lungs escaping in a strangled whoosh. Every hair on my body stands on end, and my dick stands to full salute. “That’s your color.”
Looking down to where the mischievous yet sweet voice is coming from, I see an elegant creature with the warmest hazel eyes peering up at me from under delicately long lashes. Her cupid bow’s lips form a sexy, pouty smile as she boldly meets my stare. A navy knitted beanie sits loosely on her head, her long, wavy dark auburn hair tumbling around her slender shoulders.
Her natural beauty is completely organic—no heavy makeup. I can see every freckle sprinkled across her rosy, heart-shaped cheeks and button nose. She looks young, maybe twenty-five, but either way, she stirs something inside me—something I lost six months ago.
Now that I’m somewhat coherent, I see that my crotch is inches away from her amused face, eager to get acquainted with that
sinful mouth. If this was any other woman, I would probably make some lewd remark; a remark which would probably get me laid. But not with her, and I don’t know why.
“I am so sorry.” I swiftly shift my hips back but end up connecting with an ankle biter who tumbles down the aisle. His lower lip trembles before he bursts into melodramatic tears, pointing his stubby little finger at me as his mom turns over her shoulder to see what the commotion is.
I’m standing guiltily, gripping the stupid pink bag as if that’ll save me from the mommy bear jacked up on Christmas cheer. Thinking on my feet, I discreetly point behind my palm to the oblivious, angelic nun across from me reading a copy of Jesus Saved Your Soul. I pull a staged, horrified face, while shaking my head at the sister’s alleged brutality. That magical giggle sounds once again, leaving me winded and slobbering like a desperate fool.
Jesus really does save.
Once my dilemma subsides, I return my gaze to the anomaly. Who is this fit lass? Instead of standing around, dick in hand, I smile. “So you think pink is my color?”
She nods animatedly, tonguing her rich lower lip. “Most definitely. Brings out the crazy in your eyes.”
Her comment catches me off guard, and I actually laugh—a full-bodied, genuine throaty chuckle. It’s a sound I haven’t heard in a very long time, and it surprises me.
“Well, you know, the holidays do bring out the best in everyone.” My comment is accentuated when a passing smell that can be comparable to soured sauerkraut permeates the air.
Unpleasant odors aside, this is, by far, the most stimulating conversation I’ve had in months. It’s also the first time in months I’ve actually wanted to know someone’s name. “I’m Jayden.” I have no idea why I just gave her my real name. In the past, I’ve given my random hookups my nom de plume, which is J.E. Sparrow.
Why did I choose that name? Jayden Elizabeth Sparrow. Sparrow was Liz’s maiden name. She thought it was only fair I carry her maiden name, seeing as she adopted mine. Thinking about what a pussy-whipped joke I was, I clench my teeth, disgusted I happily handed her my balls on a silver platter.
