Twist Tied

by Guimond, Heather

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the sole product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locations is coincidental.

  TWIST TIED

  Copyright 2019 by Heather R. Guimon

  Cover art by Kelly Martin of KAM Design

  Interior Design by Clara Stone of Reader Central

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without written permission.

  Purchase only authorized editions. Thank you for respecting the author's work and not supporting or encouraging piracy. To obtain permission to excerpt portions of the text, please contact the author at heather@heatherguimond.com

  ISBN: NEED ISBN

  ANY DEDICATION TO INCLUDE?

  Contents

  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

  Thank you!

  Also by Heather

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  I paced the crowded sidewalk in front of the airline terminal, my cell phone pressed to my ear. I was trying to convince my former personal assistant, Susan, she needed to give up her new internet boyfriend, get on a plane to Las Vegas, and attend this goddamned convention with me. At that very minute, she was politely telling me I should go fuck myself.

  “Susan, you picked a hell of a time to fall in love with someone you’ve never seen in the flesh, who lives halfway around the world. I can’t believe you’re leaving me for some guy who’s probably been catfishing you for the last six months!”

  Susan knew this event was vital to me—I’d nearly detonated my career as an erotic romance author the year before by being a monumental douche-canoe. This appearance marked my reemergence onto the Indie scene as a changed, more respectable man, one with a mind as dirty as ever but with much cleaner hands. I needed my assistant to back me up and to help keep the overzealous women who still followed my work at bay. I’d nearly caused an online scandal, I didn’t have enough faith in myself yet to be confident I wouldn’t fuck things up in person as well.

  “Wyatt,” she said, speaking slowly like I was a learning-impaired child. “Everything is in the past. People still want to see you, buy and read your books. All you have to do is make nice with your fans, sign your name, smile, and not fuck anyone. I know that sounds like a tall order, but after everything that’s happened, I think you’ve learned your lesson.”

  “You shouldn’t have bailed on me.”

  “So, I should halt my personal life because you still need a pair of training wheels for yours?” she asked dryly.

  “This isn’t just my personal life, it’s my whole life!” I half-shouted, feeling my nerves jangling.

  “For God’s sake, will you listen to yourself? You sound like a teenage girl with her period. Take a breath and chill. You’ve got this,” she said in a softer tone than she’d taken before. “Look, I know you’re nervous, but the past really is in the past. If I didn’t think you could or should do this alone, I’d be with you, but the new book is awesome, you didn’t completely annihilate your reputation, and this is your chance to repair any remaining damage by being the charismatic bastard you were, to begin with. Just don’t let it go to your head this time.”

  I sighed, silently conceding defeat. Susan was on her way to Abu Dhabi to meet Iqbal, her new main squeeze she’d met on an online gaming site. I was headed to Las Vegas to take a few workshops that would make me a better writer and sign some books in the hope I could get back on top—of the bestseller lists that is. I needed to remember that was the only thing I needed to be on top of.

  “Fine. I hope Iqbal turns out to be a goat farmer with a one-room hovel, who wants you to help him work the fields and be the new sister-wife to his other six.”

  “I love you, too. Now, you’d better get your ass to ticketing and on your plane. They should be ready to board any time.”

  That was Susan. Even though she’d quit on me, she still knew my schedule down to the minute. I didn’t know how I’d survive without her. I ended the call with a grumpy retort about love, then staggered back, leaning against the wall. It wasn’t like me to be so insecure, but I really had come close to flushing my entire career down the toilet the year before. Because of it, I was pretty sure my tombstone would read, “Here lies Wyatt Chase. He was mostly a good guy, but dumb as a sack of hammers.” In my defense, I’m only twenty-eight years old and in just three years, became a top-selling erotic romance author. I may have gotten a little intoxicated with the fame for a while.

  Stuffing my cell phone into my pocket, I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. I really didn’t have anything to worry about. There was no way I’d jeopardize my career, my livelihood, and something I just plain loved doing to bolster what amounted to my vanity anymore. I’d been a dickhead for a short time, but that was just a temporary lapse in judgment from being drunk on all the attention. I’d sobered and was back to my average-guy self. Susan was right—I wouldn’t fuck up again.

  I landed in Vegas a short while later, the ride from New Mexico to Nevada just over an hour. By the time I got to the hotel, it was only a few hours since I’d left my house. I had the rest of the day to play since the convention didn’t begin until the following day. I could have a few drinks—it was already past noon, so that meant it was past happy hour somewhere—then do some gambling. Part of me was all on board with that idea, it had been a long time since I’d let my hair down, so to speak. Unfortunately for me, letting my hair down usually led to letting my zipper down, and I was scared stiff—no pun intended—of making my same old mistakes. I knew I was overthinking and obsessing about not screwing up—I needed to just chill out and forget about the past—but I regretted my behavior so much, it was palpable. Between hurting people and humiliating myself in the process, my equilibrium was totally off. I gave myself a real slap to help get it together. I wasn’t some walking hormone, unable to keep his paws off any semi-attractive woman who walked by. I was acting like I could barely function in society, which wasn’t true. I just wanted to avoid anyone who’d pay too much attention to me. I wasn’t all that. Surely, there wouldn’t be an issue with taking up residence at a poker machine and pumping a couple weeks’ worth of royalties into it. I could sip on a few glasses of bourbon and watch my money fly straight into the pockets of the Kingsley Hotel’s coffers. It sounded like a great way to spend the rest of the day.

  Decision made, I took a quick shower and changed clothes. It didn’t matter that my flight had been quick, being stuck in an airline seat in such close proximity to strangers made me feel gross. I knew it was horribly pompous of me, but it was what it was. I liked my personal space with a few exceptions.

  Finally, I made it down to the casino, scoped out a five-dollar poker machine and fed some hundies into it. I flagged down an attractive cocktail waitress and asked her to bring me two glasses of Maker’s Mark, then got to business. My luck was in place—it wasn’t long before I’d racked up a healthy balance of credits. If this was how I was starting out, maybe I’d make it through the conference with no problems. Reassured by the idea, I ordered another drink an
d kept pressing the buttons.

  “Oh my God,” I heard a female voice call out, just as I banked a fair amount with a full house. I’d been feeling smug when the hand came up naturally, but my stomach dropped when I heard the words. I knew what was coming next. “That’s Wyatt Chase over there, Earlene. C’mon, let’s go meet him.”

  I wanted to run. I hadn’t even looked over when I heard my name, just gritted my teeth and steeled myself for the attention. I really hoped they weren’t attractive.

  I felt a soft tap on my shoulder, so I looked up, pretending to be surprised. I was face-to-face with a short, round woman, well past middle-age, in capris, a too-tight t-shirt that read, ‘Foxy Grandma,’ a fanny pack, and a sun visor. Her face was pleasant, but she totally reminded me of my Aunt Agnes. I breathed a sigh of relief.

  “Hello,” I said smoothly, putting on a genuine smile.

  “Hi!” she said enthusiastically, reaching over to grab my hand from the machine. Giving it a few strong pumps, she smiled widely. “I’m Madge. I’m one of your biggest fans.”

  “It’s always nice to meet a fan, Madge,” I said earnestly. I really did like meeting people who found my work enjoyable and entertaining. It didn’t just stroke my ego, it made me happy to know I could improve someone’s day or week with just a few words on paper.

  “Truth or Dare practically changed my life,” she gushed. “I never knew people did such things! I wish it had been around twenty or thirty years ago. Whew! My late husband, Paulie and I would have had a time of it.”

  I laughed good-naturedly, thinking this woman was a refreshing change of pace. She was someone I could easily relax around and enjoy her enthusiasm. Maybe I’d even take her to an early dinner, just to be nice.

  While Madge and I grinned at each other, her friend finally caught my attention as she nudged Madge to the side.

  “Hi, Wyatt! I’m Earlene. Madge and I are from South Dakota. She’s the one who got me hooked on your books.” Earlene was nearly a carbon copy of her friend with the same figure and short, grey haircut. The only real difference was she was wearing a polyester tunic matched with a pair of polyester slacks and bright-white orthopedic shoes. Clearly, Earlene was the wash and wear type. These were the kind of women I needed to hang out with while I was here. I could do this.

  “Well, hello, Earlene. It’s a pleasure to meet you both. I’m flattered you enjoyed my book.”

  “Book? Hell, we’ve read ‘em all by now, Wyatt. When’s your next one coming out?” Madge asked, looking like she was ready to shake me down, just in case I was carrying a copy with me.

  “It won’t be long. It’s just come out of editing, and I’m getting the advance copies ready for my team. Say, you wouldn’t be interested in a couple copies, would you?” I asked, knowing full well they’d be enthusiastic volunteers.

  “Hell yeah, we would!” Earlene exclaimed, her face bright pink with excitement.

  “That’s fantastic. Why don’t we all go grab a bite to eat, and I can get your email addresses, so I can make sure to get your copies to you as soon as it’s ready?”

  “Wyatt Chase wants to take us to dinner?” Madge said, elbowing Earlene. “This is a luckier stroke than the jackpot you won on the slots earlier today.”

  “You aren’t kidding! Let me just text my niece, Carole, to tell her what we’re doing. That girl is somewhere around here doing God knows what.”

  “Stop giving her a hard time, Earlene,” Madge said, giving her another elbow. “She’s young and single. Let her enjoy herself in Sin City.”

  “Her mother will never forgive me if I send her home pregnant,” Earlene muttered as her fingers flew rapidly over her phone. “Okay, we’re all set. Cash out and lead the way, stud muffin.”

  I laughed and did just as she said, looking forward to an enjoyable evening with these two adorable women.

  Not wanting to seem like a douche and take them to the burger place in the hotel, I led them straight to Barnaby’s, the Kingsley’s best restaurant. The least I could do is give them good memories of the evening they spent with one of their favorite authors, accompanied by the best surf-and-turf the city had to offer, at least that’s what an ad in the hotel’s in-room magazine claimed.

  Madge and Earlene had no shame, ordering two bottles of cabernet for the table, along with the renowned steak and fish. We were a little underdressed for the atmosphere, but none of us gave a damn. We sat, chatting and laughing over their tales about their marriages, their small-town life, and their secret addiction to dirty novels. Apparently, it wasn’t all that secret because their entire knitting circle was now hooked on smut. It gave me a good laugh to imagine a group of women in their sixties sitting around with skeins of yarn in their laps, their needles clicking together as they discussed bondage ropes and butt plugs. I was going to have to find a way to work that into one of my next novels—the idea was just too perfect.

  I was just putting the last bite of my baked potato into my mouth when a tall, svelte, stunning redhead approached the table. I swallowed hard, then quickly picked up my water glass to ease the mouthful the rest of the way down. She was striking, her green eyes practically glowing in her head, they were so bright.

  “Oh, there you are Carole,” Earlene said, bringing an arm up to pat Carole on the shoulder. “This here is Wyatt Chase. He’s one of the writers we like.”

  “I’m pleased to meet you,” Carole said, extending her hand to me. I smiled weakly and gave her hand a quick shake, dropping it almost as soon as I touched it.

  “Thanks, it’s nice to meet you too. I’d ask if you’d like to join us, but we’re just about finished here, right ladies?” I asked, hoping like hell they were ready to move along because alarm bells were ringing in my head. Carole hadn’t been flirtatious in the slightest, but I didn’t want to be within a hundred feet of anyone even remotely pretty, not with several glasses of wine in me.

  “Yeah, I think we’ve monopolized you enough for one night, Wyatt,” Madge said as Earlene loudly called out for our waiter to bring us the check.

  “Oh that’s a pity,” Carole said, crestfallen. “It would have been nice to get to know you better.”

  There was that all too familiar twinkle in her eye. The one that screamed Run, Wyatt!

  “I’m sorry. Please drop by my table at the signing this weekend. I’ll give you all an autographed copy of whatever book you like.”

  Madge and Earlene gave a whoop while Carole smirked. Yup, she was one to stay away from.

  “Well, I look forward to a more thorough introduction later, Wyatt. I just know we’ll get along famously.”

  I nodded curtly and took the bill from our server who’d materialized next to me in the nick of time. Signing the check, I charged the meal to my room and abruptly stood. Fortunately, Madge and Earlene didn’t take offense at me hurrying them along.

  “C’mon Madge. Let’s go see if I can take any more money from the Kingsley family.”

  “After you, sister!” Madge cried, eager to get on with the night.

  “I’ll see you… later, Wyatt,” Carole said with a wink.

  “Um, sure. Bye, now,” I said as I hustled my way back to my room without another glance in her direction.

  It was New Year’s Eve, and I was at a convention for erotic authors with my boss Gage Blackstone. As his personal assistant, I was tasked with wrangling his overly ardent admirers to keep them from mauling him, along with making sure his books and swag were replenished regularly. I’d also recently begun working for his fiancée, Stacy Sanders, as she made her personal debut in the world of the darker stuff at this event. She’d strictly been a sweet romance author in the past, but being with Gage blew all that out of the water. She was about to nuke her public image like a former teen Disney star with a recording contract.

  New Year’s Resolutions are for idiots. Sure, everyone starts out with good intentions, but give it a week, two tops, and they’ve all fallen back into the same bad habits they were trying to break out of. On
ly then, they had to bear the disgrace of failure along with those bad habits. Not me. I was rather fond of my bad habits, few though I thought they were. I didn’t smoke or eat junk food. I exercised regularly. I didn’t do drugs, but I did have a sharp, sarcastic tongue and liked indulging in a few cocktails every week. I usually saved that for Friday or Saturday nights though sometimes I’d crack open a beer with Gage. There wasn’t anything I could do about my mouth since my give-a-fuck had broken when I was still a teenager. Ten years later, it was beyond repair. Fortunately, Gage and Stacy didn’t mind.

  I looked around at the sea of book-laden tables and bodies milling about and sighed. The conference was even more successful than anticipated and juggling my duties had left me in serious need of a drink. I didn’t have time to sneak out to one of the Kingsley Hotel’s many bars to down a quick Manhattan, but Alexis Lane, better known as Reina Dare at this shindig—another sweet romance author who’d taken the literary walk of shame by switching to smut—had some Jell-O vodka shots at her table. I discreetly scooted over to her and pointed at the cherry ones. She was mid-handshake with a fan, so Kent—her baby-daddy and CEO of the hotel—slipped me three of the little plastic containers. I whispered a word of thanks, then sucked the potent buggers down in rapid succession as I tried to discreetly wander toward my intended destination, which brought me back to my original thought about New Year’s Resolutions. This year, I was one of the idiots.