by Lily Zante
The Price of Inertia
(The Seven Sins, #4)
Lily Zante
Contents
Author’s Note
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Epilogue
Booklist
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Author’s Note
The Price of Inertia is the fourth book in The Seven Sins, a contemporary romance series of steamy, angsty and emotional stories featuring characters who are loosely connected.
All books in this series are STANDALONE but loosely connected.
Other books in the Seven Sins series:
Underdog (FREE prequel)
The Wrath of Eli
The Problem with Lust
The Lies of Pride
The Price of Inertia
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Chapter One
WARD
* * *
“Don’t go dying on me,” says Rob, my agent, and probably the only person whose opinion I value.
“I’m not going to die. I’m taking it easy. That’s not going to kill me.”
“You’ve been taking it too easy.”
Easy isn’t how I would describe the last few months. I throw him a resentful look. “I’ve had stuff to deal with.”
“Do you have to work from bed? The same bed you sleep in?”
“I’m not in bed now.”
“You’re not at your desk, either.” Rob exhales loudly. “I’ve given you the time you need, Ward, but you’re not making any progress. You’re in danger of missing the deadline. This book was supposed to release along with the movie.”
I grab a handful of potato chips and shovel them into my mouth.
“So, I’ve made the decision for you. You’re going to Chicago. A change of setting will do you good.”
I almost choke, and get up off the couch, dropping my bag of chips in shock. “I’m not going to Chicago.” Hell, no.
“I’ve rented you a beautiful mansion. It might help.”
“How?” How the hell will being in Chicago help me? My satin robe has fallen open. Rob looked at me oddly and made a sarcastic comment when he first saw me. I quite like this. It’s comfortable. Far easier to sit and write in this all day than wearing sweatpants. I pull the sash tighter, but not before Rob gets a peek at my flabby torso. He winces and I turn away.
I’ve packed on a few pounds. My face might have rounded out a bit. I’m in a funk and have been like this for months.
“It’s not permanent,” Rob insists. “Three, four months. You need to finish the manuscript, Ward. You can’t miss your deadline.”
I sink back onto the couch. The words don’t flow these days. They haven’t for a while. For the second time in my life, I’m stuck with my writing. I used to be able to pull words out of thin air and piece together plots that would have my readers keep turning the pages.
I’ve lost that gift again.
“This is a seven-figure deal and you need to honor it. What you don’t want is to risk incurring a penalty. Think of the bad press. Think of the movie that’s coming out. Think of the book tour. The publicity. The talk shows. Think.”
I hang my head because all the things he’s just mentioned weigh me down. Rob has done great things for me. He’s been my agent for over a decade, my only agent. He’s been more like a mentor, guiding me when I’ve had no real-life role models. I hate publicity. I hate talk shows. I’m no good at them. I can’t talk to people, much less laugh and joke with them, but because of this trilogy, this amazing book and movie deal Rob negotiated for me, I have to do the whole publicity crap.
The first movie in my Morbid Trilogy will release by the time the last book comes out but it’s this last book that I’ve hit a wall on. I can’t see me making the deadline. I haven’t written much. I’ve tried and struggled, and I have failed.
“You’re not doing yourself any favors slobbering in front of the TV all day,” Rob complains.
I lift my legs onto the couch and lie back. “It’s research.”
He stares at the screen. “Grey’s Anatomy?”
“It’s research,” I repeat. “Wait till you see what happens to my main character during surgery.”
“I’m looking forward to it. When will you get the manuscript to me?”
I say nothing, because I have no idea. Rob shoves his hands in his pockets and paces around my study. “This isn’t good, Ward. You being stuck like this again.”
My jaw tightens. “It’s not like that,” I throw back. “I’m not in that same hellhole I was in all those years ago.” This isn’t like that. “Don’t worry about the interviews and shit. I’ll be okay by then.”
“You need to write the book first!” He points at me. “When you clean up, when you take care of yourself, you come up looking good. When you look good, you feel good. It doesn’t matter what you say in your interviews because most of those women readers of yours, they like that you brush up real good.”
I groan.
“It’s a damn shame that you look like a slob right now.” He throws me a look that is soaked in disapproval. “When was the last time you shaved, or got a haircut? When was the last time you left the house?”
I lie. “Last week.” It was two months ago, when I needed to get into my psychotically deranged murderer’s head. I prowled around the streets of New Orleans in the early hours of the morning, trying to get into character.
“Last week?” Rob’s tone indicates he doesn’t believe me for one moment. “To do what?”
“Have a cup of coffee.” Being a writer means that lies come easily. Making stuff up for a living is a skill that comes in handy in real life.
“You expect me to believe that you went outside and sat in a coffee shop and had a cup of coffee, surrounded by people? You? Ward Maddox, the reclusive, hermit author?”
“Yeah, I had coffee. That’s what I did.” I rest my hand on my stomach and feel the soft, marshmallowy flesh. I have packed on a few pounds too many. “I replotted the ending, then I had to go back and change the middle, and then I hit a bar and restaurant in the evening.” I lie again. He knows me too well and will see right through me.
If I could have things my way, I would never leave my writing cave. That’s why I bought one of the most expensive and beaut
iful of houses here. A twelve-bedroom home with chandeliers and fireplaces in each room, stained glass windows and elaborate architecture. This is my castle. A place where I reign, where I am at my happiest.
A place where I feel safe.
Good for nothing piece of shit. That’s what my stepdad called me. The bastard would turn in his grave if he could see me now. I wish my mom had come here and seen my home and what I made of myself. She could have lived here, I even asked her to even though she didn’t deserve an ounce of my kindness. She turned me down, and we barely saw each another over the years.
“Yeah, sure you did.” Rob stares out of the window. “You also brought home a beautiful woman you picked up at said bar and spent the whole night showing her a good time.”
Bastard.
Now he’s messing with me. I can tell he’s annoyed because it’s not like him to bring up that stuff. He knows I’m cautious around women. Dating a basket case will do that to you. Sometimes I wonder if I am always drawn to insane people. Or maybe they are drawn to me because of what I write?
Rob stares at me as if he knows everything about me. And the problem is he does. This guy, who is supposed to be my agent, has become the only person I ever have any proper contact with.
“How many pages have you written?”
This is the question I’ve been dreading. “Six.”
“Today?”
I laugh, because that is hilarious. “Today?” Hell, no. “Six in total.”
His brows squish together like angry caterpillars. “In total?” He massages his temple. “You can’t afford to miss your deadline.”
I never miss my deadline. Unless I’m in a funk. “I’ll get it done.” But I’ve been in this funk for months.
“That’s what you said last time.” Rob knows what it does to me. He’s helped me through it before.
“I will get it done.”
He strides towards me. “Damn straight you will. I’ve made arrangements.”
I sit up slowly. He said something about Chicago. No way am I leaving my house, especially to go there of all places. “I’ll get it done,” I insist. I don’t want to hear what he has to say.
He nods. “You will. In Chicago.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
“Hell, no.”
Rob scratches his eyebrow. “James Garvey approached me. Wants me to represent him.”
“And?” I clench my teeth and wonder why the guy needs a new agent. I can’t stop another author from wanting Rob to represent them. But James Garvey hates me too. Considers me to be an upstart. That’s because he’s in his sixties, and I’ve just turned forty-one. He and I often compete for the number one slot on the New York Times Bestseller list.
“I’m just letting you know. Say what you want about him, but the guy is prolific He’s written three books this year, and he had a heart attack two years ago. He managed it somehow.”
I clap my hands together mockingly. “Let’s hear it for James Garvey.”
Rob looks at me, and his eyes trail down me from top to toe. “If you’re not careful, you’re going to end up with a heart attack. Maybe even a stroke. Sitting down all day isn’t good for you.”
“I used to take care of myself.” I used to be good. Good diet, I hardly touch alcohol, and I’d work out regularly. That was until my mom got sick and summoned me to her deathbed. I went running, like a fool.
“Then what’s gone and happened to you again?” He looks genuinely concerned.
I don’t want to talk about it. “If you want to represent Garvey that’s your call.”
“I don’t want to represent too many authors. Sally wants me to slow down and take it easy. We want to vacation more and spend more time with the grandchildren.” He makes me feel as if I’m too much trouble. “I don’t want you to die on me, Ward. Hearing about Garvey’s health scare, and seeing you,” he jerks his chin at me, immediately making me feel self-conscious, “it worries me. I’ve made a decision.”
I lift an eyebrow and brace myself because it involves Chicago. He knows I hate that city. I’m surprised that he’s suggested it.
“You need to get back on track, Ward. This writer’s block you’ve been fighting has gone on too long. You look out of shape and you sound unmotivated. Freya says you wander around the house all day—”
“You grilled my housekeeper?”
“I can’t rely on you to give me all the facts.”
I manage to stare at him without blinking. It’s frightening how well he knows me.
Freya has been with me for years. The stern but efficient housekeeper is the only person I see on a daily basis. She has the key to the house, and is there by the time I wake up, right through until the evening, when she has my evening meal ready.
Sometimes she brings her ten-year-old grandson along with her. I’m worried she’s going to leave me. I don’t want to think about replacing her. She’s irreplaceable. She doesn’t talk much, I barely notice when she’s around because she hardly makes a sound. She makes my meals, takes care of my laundry, and cleans all the rooms slowly, one room at a time. I don’t want a cleaning company. I don’t want a live-in cook, maid or housekeeper. I want my mansion to myself.
“You need to get your act together and finish the book on time, and you need to get into shape for the book tours and interviews, and don’t forget the movie premiere.”
I groan loudly because that stuff makes me want to retch. The first two books in this trilogy sold millions of copies worldwide. Both are getting made into movies. I should be ecstatic, but I’m not. The publicity, the idea of having to meet other people and pretend to like their company, makes me break out in hives.
“Are you stuck on the plot?”
I’m stuck, but it’s not the book. It was facing my mother on her deathbed that did it. She pined for the monster she had married. The man I was supposed to call my dad, but I never did. The man who punished me for it. “You don’t need to babysit me, Rob. I’ll get over it. I just can’t function the way I need to at the moment but I will. I promise you I will.”
“Has your magic pen stopped working?” he asks.
“My magic pen is safe and sound.” I write everything longhand with my MontBlanc. Notes, first thoughts, basic ideas, the first rough, rough, rough draft. It’s all done on paper first.
“I can’t lift you up all the time, Ward. It’s exhausting, so you’re either going to do what I say, or …”
“Or what?”
“There is no other alternative.”
I swipe my hand over my face in exasperation. “You want me to go to Chicago to finish the book there?”
“You’ve always said your past defined you. Maybe go back and face your demons.”
He doesn’t know what he’s talking about. What makes a child grow up and want to write horror. A stepfather who locked him up in the dark. That’s what. But that didn’t hurt as much as watching the mother I doted on, who doted on me, change into someone I barely recognized the moment she met him. “Chicago is the last place on Earth I want to visit.’”
“I’ve rented you a house, nothing as beautiful as this, but I’ve tried to find you something to your standard. All paid for by you, of course.”
“I’d expect nothing less.”
“You have bad memories of your time there. You’re stuck and, given what’s happened, maybe you need to go back to the source of your pain.”
“You think, huh?” I pick up the bag of chips from the floor and stick my hand into it.
“And there will be no more of that.” Rob nods at my chip bag, then picks up and shakes each of the four empty Coke cans that are lying on the coffee table. “I’ve got you a personal trainer and I’m still looking into getting you a—”
“A what?”
“A personal trainer, and I’m still looking into getting you a housekeeper.”
I draw in a slow and steady breath. “I don’t need people. I’m a fucking writer.”
“Then write, f
or goodness’ sake, write.”
“I’ll take Freya,” I throw back. The only problem is that she’d have to live with me, and I don’t want anyone living with me. In fact, the best part of having Freya as my housekeeper is that she goes home every day.
“I’ve already asked her and she doesn’t want to go. She doesn’t want to leave New Orleans.”
The wily little fox. Rob’s been making plans behind my back. “I don’t need a personal trainer.”
“You’ve turned into a sloth. You’re out of shape. Your face is puffy. When did you last shave?”
I raise a hand to my beard. It’s thick and prickly but there is no need for me to shave. Or get a haircut.
“When was the last time you got a haircut?” I knew that would be his next question.
“A couple of months back.”
“Try to look presentable. You don’t want to scare the new people away.”
“I don’t think that’s necessary. I can work out on my own.”
Rob crushes the cans between his hands. “You look like you’ve been working real hard,” he snorts. “You leave next week, and by that time, I’ll have found you a housekeeper.”
“A housekeeper? I don’t need a housekeeper.”
“I beg to differ.” Rob looks around the room in disgust.
