by J. L. Berg
I huffed, slumping back against the booth. “But what if this isn’t what I wanted?”
“Tell me, what did you want? Why did you write Scandal? Why did you send it to me? What was your ultimate goal?”
Her questions were honest, and when I looked up at her, I saw nothing but warmth in her eyes. This was Jane, my best friend, not Jane, the money-hungry agent.
She was indeed trying to help.
The least I could do was meet her halfway.
“I don’t know. I just had to, you know? It was never about proving anything to anyone else.. I guess, in a way, I wanted to see if I was more than ordinary.”
Her expression softened. “You have always been more than ordinary, Kate. Why don’t you see that?”
“Growing up, I was average Kate. Adequate grades, pretty but not a knockout. I never excelled at anything until I stepped into that writing class. When my teacher took me aside after we got our first assignment back, he said he saw something in me. And do you know what I felt?”
“What?” she replied.
“I felt relief, like I’d finally found it—that one thing that separated me from the crowd. Eventually, that relief blossomed into something more, something real, and it only continued every time I sat down to create more of Sandal. I felt like I was doing something rare and unique with my life.”
She nodded. “And that is why you should celebrate it, Kate. You know you can’t keep living like this. You are trying to live two separate lives. It’s never going to work Kate. You can’t continue to ignore this.”
I shook my head, my expression turning grim. “I can,” I replied. “And I will because it’s better if the world only ever knows me as Laura Stone.”
“You mean, it’s better if they never get to know the real you.”
I shrugged, looking off into the distance. “It’s better this way. Safer.”
She hated that word.
Safe.
But she knew I wouldn’t budge.
Not on this.
Jane wasn’t lying about putting me to work. After our food arrived and we were happily on our second drinks of the night, she brought out my file.
“I have a file?” I said between bites.
“You have a big file,” she corrected, plopping it on the table.
“Is this okay?” I asked, looking around. “I mean, will someone see?”
She scooted closer to me. “As much as I don’t understand your overwhelming desire to stay incognito, I respect it. It’s why we are in the corner booth, away from everyone else in the restaurant, and why I picked a place so loud, not even God himself could hear us.”
“We could have done this at your hotel,” I reminded her.
“And wasted a perfectly good reason to get you on the dance floor?”
I frowned. “I am not dancing.”
“We’ll see. Now, huddle close, so I don’t have to shout. You know how horrible my voice sounds when it goes hoarse.”
“It’s kind of sexy,” I countered. “If you ever needed work, you could totally moonlight as a phone-sex operator. Wait, do they still have those?” I asked, remembering those late-night commercials for 900 numbers that destroyed my innocence as a kid.
“Phone-sex operators? Why wouldn’t they?” she asked.
“I don’t know. I guess I just figured they’d be obsolete with the availability of online porn.”
“And what do you know about online porn?” she asked, her eyebrows rising with interest.
“Nothing. I mean, a little. I had to do a bit of looking around—you know, for book research. So, I know some, but not a lot.”
She just smiled.
“But I don’t think they’re called phone-sex operators anymore,” she added. “You know, in case you need more ‘research.’” She held her hands up, drawing little air quotes as she spoke the last word.
I huffed dramatically. “It really was research.”
“Well, if you have any expenses from your, um, research—site memberships, et cetera—we can reimburse you.”
“What? No! I didn’t pay for anything,” I admitted, feeling highly uncomfortable.
“Ah, a freebie kind of girl. Nice.”
“Oh my God, can we please discuss something else?” I begged, pushing my small, half-eaten plate of hors d’oeuvres away. All this talk of porn at a public restaurant had me feeling slightly queasy.
“Sure. How about film rights? You’ve gotten quite a lot of offers.”
“Fine,” I grumbled. “But I still don’t understand why they want to make a movie out of my book.”
“Not one movie. Three. They want to make a movie for each book in the series.”
My stomach lurched. “But I haven’t even finished the series. I just turned in the final draft for the second book, and I’ve barely outlined the third!”
“It doesn’t matter, Kate. Everyone knows this is a gold mine, and they all want a piece.”
The idea of my characters coming to life on-screen sent a sharp thrill up my spine. So far, I’d only pictured vague images of them in my head. But, to see them, flesh and bones, speaking my words, that would be something beyond measure.
Was I ready to take that step?
“How do I know which deal to take?” I asked, “Quite honestly, they’re all more than I can fathom at this point.”
“Well, that’s why I suggest we get a film agent to help us. I don’t know Kate, I’m not sure I’m exactly qualified, and as much as it pains me to admit that, I think it would benefit you to sit down with someone who is. I know an amazing film agent we can contact.”
“No,” I said adamantly. “You know I won’t meet with anyone.”
“You’re being ridiculous.”
“What if I was seen walking into the office? Or a secretary ratted me out?” I explained.
“I could fly someone in,” she suggested.
I shook my head. “I can’t. I’m sorry, Jane. I know this is difficult. If you want to speak to someone about the contracts, I give you permission to do whatever you need to, just please, don’t ask me to meet with anyone else.”
I could see the disappointment written all over her face, but she agreed anyway. Watching her fold the cover back on top of the massive folder, she quietly put it in her briefcase and locked it up safe.
“Enough of work for tonight, okay?” she finally said. “What do you say to some dancing?”
My eyes widened with fear.
Perhaps those contracts weren’t so bad after all.
“YOU ARE NOT A STALKER,” I told myself for the tenth time as I trailed behind the black town car on its way to the quaint downtown area of the seaside town I’d just arrived in. “You are simply following a lead,” I said out loud to no one.
I’d been telling myself this load of crap ever since I hopped on a plane to the state of Oregon earlier that day.
No, that was a lie.
I’d been telling myself this ever since I tore apart my office a month ago, looking for the long-lost flash drive I’d stolen from my short-term fling a year ago.
At first, it had been a dirty attempt to get back at Kim, a way to patch up the blows to my ego when I’d found her in bed with that overly tan dipshit of a guy.
In my downward spiral after losing my job, I’d foolishly thought that maybe she and I could have a future beyond the casual thing we had going on.
But that was the whiskey talking. In reality, I was using her as much as she was using me. We were going nowhere fast. But it didn’t mean I couldn’t take a little parting gift with me as I left. So, I’d stolen her flash drive—the one thing she prized above guys, shoes, and practically everything else in this world.
I hadn’t been surprised when she called me the next day, frantic.
“Where is it, Killian? What did you do with my flash drive?” she’d asked.
“What flash drive?” I’d replied innocently.
“Don’t play stupid with me, asshole! I know you took it.”
/> I’d let the little metal piece of hardware twirl between my fingers, a satisfied grin plastered across my face. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. Have you asked any of the other men who frequent your apartment? Maybe one of them will recall where it went. And, besides, don’t you always keep a backup?”
“You fucking jerk. I swear—”
I hadn’t stuck around to hear the rest of the conversation. After ending our call, I hadn’t heard from her again. I was sure she would never mention her little oopsie with her boss. No doubt a breach like that would end her career in an instant, and last I’d heard, she was still gainfully employed in the publishing world.
My revenge, however, had been short-lived, and as the world had moved on, so had I. Living on freelance work, I’d been bouncing around from one awkward job to another.
When I’d told Aaron Sanders that no one would touch me with a ten-foot pole, a part of me had been hopeful that I was wrong.
Nope.
My fall from grace had gotten around. It’d gotten around quick, and soon, I was public enemy number one. No one wanted me, not even a little.
It was definitely a low point in my life.
That was, until last month, when shit had hit the fan in a major way.
Scandal, the overnight success by Laura Stone, was all over the place—in every store, on every website. It was the most talked about book in years, partly because of its incredibly reclusive author.
Everyone wanted to know who she was, and I had the key to unlocking one of the biggest secrets of the year.
Thank you, Kim.
After combing through my apartment, I’d finally found it—the flash drive that would change my life. I had little to work with, but honestly, a name and address were all I needed.
Katelyn O’Malley.
I’d finally hit pay dirt.
So, now, here I was, in a small town on the edge of coastal Oregon, hunting down the story of my career.
Hopefully, I wouldn’t screw it up.
I watched the car I’d been trailing pull off the road, stopping directly in front of a nice restaurant. Having little time at the red light, I couldn’t see the two women as they exited, but at least I now knew where they were headed.
Now, it was all up to timing.
Not wasting a single second, I parked in a nearby lot, taking a precious minute to adjust my tie and run my hands through my dark brown hair and the bit of stubble that dotted my chin.
The clues I had from Kim’s flash drive had led me to the college town of Fremont. I had bits and pieces to figure out but mostly, I was on my own. I had known the author worked at the local college based on an email address I’d managed to hunt down on Kim’s hard drive, and before arriving, I had prepared myself for scouting out the place to find the perfect way to infiltrate her world.
And, once again, luck had been on my side.
As I’d sat at the airport bar, an hour before my flight departure time, trying not to talk myself out of going on this crazy journey, I’d happened to overhear a conversation that made my day.
“You should go give it to her right now!”
“Mom, that is a little creepy,” one of the women had said.
I’d turned my ear toward the booth behind me, suddenly interested. Writers were nosy. It was part of the job.
“If it means a book deal after all this hard work, then no, it’s not creepy at all.”
“I’ve already submitted it to her agency. That’s how these things work,” the daughter had pressed.
“I’ve got news for you, sweetheart. That is not at all how these things work. In the real world, you take every advantage you can. And, right now, you should start by taking this one. Go up to that woman, that Jane Sutton or whatever her name is, and tell her you are the next big thing.”
The name was what had struck a chord with me. I hadn’t stuck around to see if the wannabe writer actually found the balls to walk up to the big shot or not.
The last thing I’d wanted was to be seen earlier than necessary.
But I had wanted to have an upper hand, starting with this one.
Catching a glimpse of the well-known literary agent would have been ideal. But lurking around an airport was the quickest way to get put on the no-fly list, so I had done the next best thing.
I’d made a few phone calls.
Within minutes, faster than I could boot up my ancient laptop, I had gotten her travel plans, complete with hotel arrangements. It was amazing what you could learn when you said you were a florist trying to deliver a dozen roses but couldn’t find the recipient. Women would become putty in your hands.
From there, all I’d needed to do was stalk the hotel.
And, by stalk, I meant, investigate.
For professional reasons.
All of this sounded fucking creepy, and if I got caught, I had no one to back me up. No boss, nothing. No one had hired me to be here. It was my dime and my brilliant yet stupid idea.
But, after a year of trying to make it on my own, I was at my wits’ end. I was penniless with no prospects of employment, and I was the laughingstock of my profession.
I needed to get back in the game.
No, I needed to own the fucking game.
And this was my way back in.
The hotel Jane Sutton had picked was slightly out of my price range, but upon arrival in Fremont, I’d decided proximity was key, so I’d plunked down my credit card and bought a room at the same place as the literary agent I was hunting down. Unfortunately, I’d missed seeing her check in and had to dig even further into my pockets to bribe the guy at the counter to tell me her room number and plans for the evening.
And that was how I’d ended up here.
In the middle of a parking garage, checking myself out in the mirror of this rental, trying to convince myself I wasn’t going crazy.
Because this whole idea was flat-out insane.
The first thing I noticed about the restaurant was the noise.
It wasn’t a place you would take your significant other for a romantic evening out. The restaurant was teeming with activity. Large groups of people laughed and carried on energetic conversations while loud music played in the background.
I could see the allure if you were young and single, looking for a good time with friends or a place to pick up someone for the night. It was the kind of place I would go. But what I couldn’t understand was why a literary agent would take her high-dollar client here. Maybe this elusive author with no name was as crazy as her fans believed her to be.
I mean, I’d read her book. And some of those scenes? I’d thought I was experienced in the bedroom, but there were things in that novel that even I hadn’t thought up. If she was, as I suspected, a wild and insane sort of girl, it would make this job a bit easier.
And a hell of a lot more fun.
Taking a leisurely stroll around the bar, I claimed an empty stool and waited for the bartender to notice me. From here, I could see virtually the entire place.
Perfect.
The subtle art of people-watching took time, and if done properly, I’d be able to pinpoint my target without drawing any unnecessary attention to myself.
I needed the upper hand after all—time to observe them, study them.
Yeah, okay, it was stalking.
But I wasn’t a psychotic ex with intentions of harming anyone, so I let it slide. A twinge of guilt tore at my gut as I realized that wasn’t an entirely correct statement. By revealing this author’s identity, I would in fact be hurting her, but after a year of living off of ramen and taking any freelance job I could get, I was desperate.
“What can I get you?” a cute brunette with a perky smile asked.
I hadn’t expected a female bartender. The happy surprise suited me just fine.
Smiling back, I answered, “Whiskey sour. Thanks.”
She stayed put, fixing my drink in front of me. I took a minute to appreciate the view.
“Just get off wo
rk?” she asked, making idle chat, most likely in an effort to increase her tip.
“Still on the clock,” I replied. “Hoping to meet up with a couple potential clients.”
Lies. All lies.
“Kind of a crazy place for a business meeting, don’t you think?” she said, nearly shouting over the music playing on the dance floor.
I shrugged, leaning forward. “I didn’t pick it.”
“Your clients must be a bit of a party animal then,” she said, placing my finished drink on a napkin down on the bar. Her fingers lingered, like a silent invitation.
“I’m getting that impression.”
I handed over my credit card, and she took a quick glance down at my name.
“I’ll open a tab for you, Killian. Sounds like you’ll be here a while.” A sweet smile played upon her lips as she looked up at me. “Maybe you’ll be here when I get off?”
“Maybe.”
She trotted off, stashing my credit card with the rest of the evening tabs, as I looked back to get a glimpse of the crowd around me.
The place was packed.
How the hell was I going to find anyone, let alone someone I didn’t even know, in this crowd?
Part of me—the tired, jet-lagged, seriously horny part—wanted to cash in at that moment. Give up and go back to my hotel. Maybe return a few hours later to pick up the hot bartender. After all, I did know where this mystery woman worked.
But that wasn’t really who I was.
So, let’s get to work.
Grabbing my drink, I swallowed it down in one solid gulp. The alcohol burned as it slipped down my throat and went straight into my belly, filling me with liquid courage.
“Looks like you could use another,” the hot bartender said, returning, as I’d hoped.
“Sure could. Hey, I could use a favor.”
That coy smile of hers had my mind racing, and suddenly I knew exactly what I needed to do.
“Anything.”
“Great.” I grinned. “I’m having a problem tracking down this client. I’ve never actually met them in person, and as you guessed, they like to party. I have a feeling the two of them might already be here, three sheets to the wind. Do you think you could help me find them?”
