by J. L. Berg
I headed toward her apartment, feeling determined now. I knew exactly where she hid the extra key, and I intended to use it. I wasn’t sure that I was supposed to know about it, but I’d caught her putting it back in its place after she’d forgotten her keys one night we were out.
For what I had planned, I figured she wouldn’t mind.
Kim often worked from home when she was busy with a manuscript. She’d told me the quiet atmosphere helped her fully absorb what she was reading and considering. From what she’d told me about the deal she was currently working on, I knew for certain that she’d still be in bed, probably wearing very little, as she chewed on the end of her pencil.
Yeah, I could definitely see a future with that piece of ass. I grew more certain of that with every step.
That, or the alcohol was making decisions for me.
I wasn’t quite sure.
But I was going in anyway, and we could sort out the details later.
I tiptoed through the apartment, dropping my box of useless junk at the door until I came to the hallway. There, on the floor, was a string of scattered clothes. I recognized the pair of sexy pink shorts from the morning, remembering Kim throwing them on as I’d left.
What I didn’t recognize were the dark pants.
The pair of men’s pants.
Stepping closer toward the bedroom, I found a matching pink shirt and bra and a man’s shirt.
What the fucking hell?
My feet barely made a sound as my ears protested the noises I heard coming from behind the closed door.
“You like that, don’t you, Kim?” a male voice said.
“Yes!” Kim cried out.
My fists clenched at my sides. I wanted to kill the faceless guy who was with her. Actually, I kind of wanted to give both of them a piece of my mind.
“Tell me how much you love it! Tell me—”
When I forced the door open, I hated the scene in front of me. Kim was splayed out beneath some douche of a guy. With a look of shock on her face, she instantly went to cover herself.
“What the hell, man?” the naked guy hollered.
I tried my best to ignore him, but he reminded me of one of those models on a spray-tan commercial. Too buff, too orange, and not much going on upstairs.
“You mind covering your dick?” I said, throwing him a piece of clothing I’d picked up off the floor.
“You mind explaining who the hell you are?”
“You first,” I replied, folding my arms across my chest.
The guy might be big enough to eat me for breakfast, but considering the shit-tacular day I’d been served, I was willing to take him on.
“Who is this guy?” the meathead asked Kim, turning to her for answers.
“Um,” was all she could manage to say.
All I could do was laugh. It came out of nowhere, and when it started, I couldn’t stop. I doubled over, laughing like a fucking lunatic, right there in the middle of her bedroom, while Mr. Roid Rage and the girl my drunk ass had thought was something special stared at me like I’d lost my mind.
Hell, maybe I had.
“Are you okay, Killian?” Kim asked, genuine concern written across her face.
I held a hand up as tears rolled down my face from the sheer force of my laughter. “I’m good. Really. You two carry on. I didn’t mean to interrupt. I don’t even know why I was angry to begin with. You and me”—my hand gestured between Kim and me—“we’re not even exclusive. We’ve only been seeing each other for a few weeks, so I don’t know why I expected anything more. I mean, I did just leave your apartment, like, a handful of hours ago, and he’s probably fucking you right on the same cum spot I made this morning. But who cares? Seriously, no big deal.”
They both looked at me, mouths gaped wide open.
“You two kiddos have fun. Oh, and—” I turned to the dude still holding a pink T-shirt over his dick. “Sorry, I didn’t catch your name.”
“Vincent.”
I nodded my head. “Of course. Vincent. She loves it when you suck on her toes. Just a little insider tip from me to you.”
I walked out, feeling better than I had in a while. As I made my way to the door, I stopped short, spotting Kim’s laptop on the kitchen counter.
There, on the side, was her flash drive. One thing I’d learned about Kim was that she was a tad neurotic. She liked to triple save everything—first, on her hard drive, then on a flash drive or two, and lastly, on the cloud. We’d had an extensive conversation over a bottle of wine one night about how ridiculous the whole process was, but right now, I was greatly appreciative of her madness.
Because I was going to take advantage of it.
Walking with purpose, I stepped right over to that laptop and grabbed the flash drive. Then, I turned back around without a second thought.
Hope you enjoy your boy toy, Kim.
Thanks for the scoop on your new author.
I might have whistled a song or two the whole way home because I had nothing to lose.
What do they say about starting from the bottom?
Oh, that’s right. There’s nowhere to go but up.
And that was exactly where I planned to go.
One Year Later
“I’M NOT GOING TO LIE,” my coworker Lori said over morning coffee. “I’ve read it three times. Four if you count the skimming I’ve done over the more scandalous parts!”
The five women sitting around me all laughed in unison while I pretended to be super interested in my coffee cup.
“I read it at Devon’s soccer game,” Sabrina confessed before taking a sip of coffee. “I mean, it’s not like anyone noticed. It was on my e-reader. But I will say this; half of the moms there all had their heads hunched over a device, and it wasn’t hard to guess what they were doing. Heck, even my minister’s wife admitted to buying it the other day!”
Oh my God, I am going to hell for sure.
Several of the women reacted, their laughter rising.
This was our morning routine. Well, the gathering was. The current conversation? Totally new.
We’d been talking around our joined cubicles for years, gabbing over coffee. Sometimes, we’d bring in breakfast, and for a few moments, we’d huddle in close and talk.
Usually, it was fun.
A chance to catch up.
Today? Not so much.
“How about you, Kate? Surely, you’ve read it. You read everything.” Sabrina asked.
I shook my head. “Not everything.”
“Oh, come on,” Ruby said. “You once told me you had read over a thousand or so books on your Kindle.”
It was two thousand, but who’s counting?
“I honestly haven’t been reading that much lately.”
That wasn’t a lie. Since I’d started writing, my reading time had dwindled to almost nothing.
At that exact moment, the nervous, about-to-throw-up feeling I’d been dealing with since the day it released decided to rear its ugly head.
It was the book—my book.
The one no one in the country could stop talking about.
The one I hadn’t wanted to show to a single soul, but someone had managed to convince me into doing the exact opposite.
“Looks like I’m out of coffee!” I announced. “I’ll be right back!”
I headed for the break room, as I listened to them quickly move on to another topic—something to do with Sabrina’s son and his incompetent soccer coach—and everyone was weighing in. I was glad for the chance to get away.
Opening the door to the break room, I discreetly dumped the half cup of coffee I’d covered up in my attempt to flee the incessant book chatter and began the unnecessary process of refilling my cup.
I wasn’t going to drink it. When your stomach had turned to a queasy, churning pile of nerves, dumping coffee on top of it wasn’t the best idea.
To be honest, I wasn’t sure when I’d eaten last, let alone been able to enjoy a decent cup of coffee.
&nb
sp; Since the release of my debut novel, Scandal, over a month ago, I’d been a ping-pong ball of emotions—from riding high on life when sales soared into the tens of thousands, making the book an instant best seller within days, to crying tears of joy when my name topped the New York Times and Wall Street Journal to disbelief when my agent and best friend called with offers for film rights and a TV series.
And then there was the ultimate low when word had gotten out that the book had been written under a pen name. People became instantly consumed with suspicion on why such secrecy was needed over an author.
Who is this person?
Why is he or she so afraid to come out?
Maybe it’s a publicity stunt to garner more attention.
My name—or my pen name rather—had been through the wringer. Everyone had an opinion on why I’d opted for such anonymity. And some weren’t very nice. Even my coworkers had their own beliefs on who the mysterious Laura Stone was. Little did they know, they’d been working alongside her for years.
Jane had begged me to stop watching the coverage on TV and reading the articles online.
“It won’t do you any good,” she’d advised.
I knew she was right, but I couldn’t stop.
I had to know what they thought.
I had to know what everyone thought.
Jane had said it was normal. Most debut authors obsessed over reviews and opinions on their book.
“It’s a part of you after all,” she’d said. “Very typical.”
But none of this felt normal or typical at all.
As I made my way back to my desk, grateful the morning chat had ended while I was away, I caught the last few rings from my cell phone that was vibrating across my desk. As I reached to grab it, placing my cup of coffee down on the desk, I saw Jane’s name flashing across the screen.
I’d been avoiding her calls for days, so what was one more?
She’d emailed me about making decisions on foreign contracts and film rights. I’d responded and said I needed more time.
A couple of decades should be enough.
I sat down at my desk, feeling slightly helpless in front of my computer screen, as my phone rang again. I let out an audible huff, the air from my lungs venting my frustration. It was Jane again. I let it go to voice mail.
I understood I was the lucky one. Most authors—even though I was still finding it hard to consider myself as one—would jump at the chances I’d been offered so far.
I was humbled and honored.
I really was.
But, honestly, the fame and fortune had never been part of the plan. None of this had.
“Did you know anyone could just walk right into this building? Has it always been like that?”
I looked up to find Jane standing by the entrance to my cubicle, looking as sophisticated as ever in a stylish blazer and slim jeans that probably cost more than my monthly rent.
“It’s the Student Services building; it’s kind of the point,” I responded, dumbfounded by the fact that my best friend was standing before me.
“Well, it’s weird. If that many people had access to me at any given time of the day, I’d never get any work done. Do you mean to tell me that students can walk right in here and see you?”
I nodded. “If they want. Although I prefer they make appointments. And, before you ask again, yes, it’s always been like this, even when we were here.”
She shook her head. “Barbaric. No wonder this generation thinks they deserve everything.”
I snorted, leaning forward. “This generation? Have you aged significantly since we last saw each other? Are you into knitting and crossword puzzles now? How is the early-bird special these days?”
She rolled her eyes, taking a seat in one of the chairs students usually occupied when they came to see me. It was weird to see her in here. So polished and poised, she’d never been one to step foot in the financial aid department when she’d been a student here. Coming from a family that had more money than I could possibly fathom, she’d been raised on fine dining and luxury accommodations. But she’d never let it get in the way of her own lofty ambitions. And now here she was.
Agent to the infamous Laura Stone.
I sighed, watching her set a large handbag in the seat next to her, not risking the floor. Knowing her love of designer accessories, I wouldn’t have chanced it either.
“You know what I mean. But it does feel like it was a long time ago, doesn’t it? All this?” She waved her hands to illustrate her meaning.
“I guess so.” I shrugged. “But I really never left.”
She smiled. “But you could—you know, leave.”
I held out my hand like a giant stop stop sign between us. “No! Not here. If that’s why you flew all the way across the country, then you’re just going to have to wait until I get off work.”
“But—”
I shook my head as my arms stretched tightly across my chest. “No.”
She sulked back in her chair. “Fine. I’ll be at the same hotel I always stay at. Come find me—”
“At the bar. Got it.”
I watched her stand, admiring how sleek and cultured she was. I never understood how we’d become friends. The sheltered only child and the refined city girl. Who could have known she’d take me under her wing?
“You know, I called you twice before I waltzed in here,” she whispered, leaning down to reach my ear. “I was actually trying to be professional and uphold your wishes about secrecy, but you forced my hand.”
“And was it professionalism that made you board that plane this morning? Do all your clients get the same treatment?” I hissed back.
She grinned. “No, that was just for fun. Getting to see your face when I walked in? Priceless. Tonight though, I’m making you pay for all those missed calls and forgotten emails. Be prepared to work.”
I groaned.
I thought I liked her better before our new partnership.
“I should have known,” I said, my voice a mix of a whine and a shout.
“Known what?” Jane asked, her body bouncing up and down to the beat of the music as we settled into our booth.
The fact that we were seated never seemed to stop Jane from dancing. If there was music, her body always responded.
“That, when you said we would be working tonight, what you really meant was, we would be partying tonight,” I replied, taking another look around the joint she’d chosen, as I tried not to laugh at the way she continued to shake her shoulders to the popular song that was playing.
She obviously didn’t miss the wide, open spaces of Oregon like she had the last time around when she demanded we spend an entire evening at a mom-and-pop restaurant after hiking every trail she could find.
Nope. Tonight was all about opulence and glitz.
As soon as I’d arrived at her five-star hotel, dressed in the same boring suit I’d worn to work, she’d whisked us downtown, ready to have fun.
Well, as much fun as this town could provide.
Fremont, Oregon, was a small coastal town that had kind of become my hometown by accident. After taking a job I never intended to keep for very long, I’d found myself falling more and more in love with this place. Its natural beauty aside, the people I worked with really treated me like family.
And I was in desperate need of some.
“Oh, we’ll be working!” she yelled over the loud music. “We’re just warming up right now.” She held up her double martini with a satisfied smile, proving her point.
Shaking my head, I joined her, raising my glass to hers.
It had been ages since I went out—unless you counted ladies’ night with my coworkers. But that always ended early, so the rest of them could get home to their families.
I had no one to rush home to.
Well, except for my cat, but I was beginning to think he hated me a little.
The waiter came around, and we ordered several hors d’oeuvres to serve as a light dinner, leaving ple
nty of room for dessert. It was something we’d been doing since college after discovering we were both huge chocolate addicts.
“So, tell me how you’re doing,” Jane said, scooting closer to me.
“I’m fine,” I said, staring into the amber-colored beer that filled my glass.
“Liar. Try again.”
I sighed. It was heavy and almost hurt as the air vacated my lungs. I’d been carrying the weight of this confession too long.
“I’m exhausted,” I finally admitted. “And guilty. Excited, terrified, and probably a hundred other emotions in between.”
“Okay,” she said.
“Okay? Okay? That’s all you have to say?” I exclaimed, turning to her with surprise. “Please tell me you didn’t come all the way out here to simply say okay. You did all this. Now, make it better!”
She smiled, holding on to the stem of her glass. It was the same smile I’d seen for years, and I was suddenly glad she was here with me.
Even if she was giving me bogus advice.
“You didn’t let me finish. What I was going to say was, okay, that’s normal.”
“Here we go with the normal bit again. It’s normal, is it? Do you think, when Stephen King had his first big hit, he hid in his closet and rocked back and forth like a scared little kid?”
She snorted, and I could almost see the wheels in her head turning, like she was genuinely trying to picture it.
“No, but then again, I don’t know the guy, so I couldn’t really say. And, if he did, do you think his agent would have told me? No! Just like I won’t tell anyone that you hide in your closet.”
“I didn’t say I actually hid in the closet.”
She gave me a hard stare.
“Maybe only once.”
She leaned forward, a blonde lock of hair falling forward in front of her face. She instantly swept it back. “This happens often with those who experience instant fame. They feel they didn’t work hard enough for it, aren’t worthy of the affection and praise.”
“Exactly! I keep thinking I’ll wake up, and this will all be over,” I explained.
“But you won’t, Kate. This is your life now.”
