SILK Volume Two

by K. M. Scott

  Placing the laptop on the nightstand next to him, Ian kisses me. “I can’t do this without you, Kristina.”

  Hearing him say that makes what I felt just a few hours ago meaningless. People in love do stupid things. I left Ian because I was afraid, and he slept with someone to try to forget me. Both of us didn’t want to admit the truth of who we are together.

  I need him as much as he needs me. That’s what love is with us.

  When Kristina leaves just before nine a.m., I feel like I’m walking on air. I’ve written a complete book without heroin. The one soul on this earth I love is back in my life, and the words that had been trapped inside me now flow freely again.

  I can’t help thinking life is good.

  And then at just after noon, it gets even better. Someone knocking at my door rouses me from my focus on plotting out the second Silk book, and when I answer it I see Sheila standing there in all her glory. Dressed in a yellow sweater and a gunmetal grey skirt that seems to accentuate all her rough edges, she’s not exactly a sight for sore eyes, but I know if she’s come all the way to my apartment she has good news about something. Plus, she’s holding a bottle in her hands, which tells me it’s likely very good news.

  “Ian,” she says with a huge smile as she marches past me into my home. “I bring good news. Where should I sit?”

  Closing the door, I follow her into the living room and offer her a chair I never use. “Please, sit. What good news?”

  Sheila sits and awkwardly folds her long legs to the left, but the effect is almost grotesque and I can’t take my eyes off how large and bulbous her kneecaps are. For a moment, I’m unable to concentrate as I wonder if I’ve ever seen knees like hers. She’s already talking by the time I regain my focus, so I’m forced to admit I need her to repeat what she’s just said.

  “Sorry, Sheila. You lost me there for a second. Can you start from the top?”

  Her face twists into a look of suspicion as she narrows her eyes. “Have you been…?” Her question trails off, and I know she’s afraid to finish the last part because of what my answer might be.

  I shake my head. “No, I haven’t been doing anything like that. I promise. I just lost my focus for a second. Nothing big. Just early in the day for me.”

  She’s silent for a long moment, almost like she’s mentally weighing the veracity of my statement against how I look, but then she smiles. “Okay. As I was saying, the publisher loves the idea of Marc Antony. Seems he’s all the rage because of some biopic that’s due to come out early next year. I had no idea about it when I told you to basically shelve the idea, of course. I hope you won’t hold that against me.”

  I wave my hand in the air. “No bad feelings. Everyone’s entitled to their opinions. I know you love my work and how much you’ve done to get it out there.”

  “I really have, and I think the publisher is thrilled to be having this to run with. I hope you can begin immediately. They want this for next fall’s releases. That means you literally have weeks, Ian. Weeks. Can you do it?”

  Real fear settles into my brain at her words. Weeks. A Marc Antony book will take weeks or months just to research, even if I do decide to go with a similar format to my past two historical fiction novels.

  “How long do I really have?” I ask knowing I likely have months instead of weeks.

  “Maybe three months,” she says in the most somber tone she’s ever used with me about writing. I know what’s coming next. “Is that going to put too much pressure on you, Ian?”

  Her question is like a life size reality check dropped into the center of the room. I practically have to lean to the side to see her it’s taking up so much space between us. The fact is I’ve never been very good under pressure after the book’s been written. Adding pressure to the normal stress of writing a book sounds like a recipe for disaster, I’m sure.

  But I’m different now. I have Kristina, and I don’t think about snorting that shit up my nose every other minute of the day. For the first time since I wrote my first book, I know I can write without the junk coursing through my veins.

  I can’t tell Sheila any of this, though. Kristina must remain my secret. So I do my best to convince my agent that I won’t become a doped up mess over this book. “I’ll be fine. Months is very different than weeks. I’m more concerned with the research required for a Marc Antony book. Guess this means I’ll be heading back to Rome.”

  A sheepish look crosses her face. “They won’t give you the advance until you submit the manuscript, though, Ian. I’m sorry. I tried. I really did. But I couldn’t fight them with much when they threw your past in my face. I really am sorry.”

  The truth of who I am stings, but she’s not to blame. Either is my publisher. My past isn’t going to disappear simply because I say it should. “I understand, Sheila.”

  “I was able to get you a very healthy advance of $75,000, though, when the book is submitted. I hope that helps a little.”

  “It does,” I say, admitting while it’s the smallest advance I’ve ever received, especially after having two bestselling books, it’s not bad considering what’s happened in the past.

  “And they want a book tour this time. Well, actually, I convinced them that a book tour would be a great thing. They were hesitant to agree after what happened on the Caligula’s Dream tour, but I told them those days are behind you.”

  I see the fear in her eyes as she talks about my first and last book tour. I’d fucked that up royally, for sure. Ten cities in two weeks and I’d barely made it through three signings before I fell apart and the rest of the dates had to be cancelled. Cringing as I remember her showing up in my hotel room with two of Albert’s assistants to whisk me out of the building before anyone else found out how much a mess I was, I hang my head in shame. She really does take care of me, and until recently, I’ve been little more than a hassle.

  “Thank you, Sheila. I really mean that. I know I’ve been a lot of trouble, and the fact that my books do well doesn’t make up for what you’ve had to deal with in the past.”

  A smile brightens her face making her almost appealing. “As long as you’re taking care of yourself and not doing that terrible stuff anymore, I’m happy. You’re one of my favorite authors, Ian.”

  I think she’s telling the truth, as hard as that is to believe. As she hands me the bottle of champagne to open, she adds, “And at least I don’t have to worry about you sounding off on Twitter or Facebook, for God’s sake. Just that alone makes you a treasure in my book.”

  Walking into the kitchen, I ask, “Is your newbie author doing any better?”

  “No,” she yells from the living room, “and I’m seriously thinking she’s enjoying the notoriety she’s receiving from angering people. I think she actually believes that nonsense of there being no bad publicity.”

  I pop the cork and return to my seat with the open bottle and two champagne glasses. Placing them on the table, I pour each of us a drink to toast her great work for me. “Not in this business. Your reputation is everything in the book business. I learned that the hard way.”

  Sheila takes her glass and lifts it in the air. “But you learned. I’m worried this one isn’t interested in learning from her mistakes.”

  Raising my glass, I make an apropos toast. “To learning from one’s mistakes before it’s too late.”

  “Hear, hear!” she says with a smile before she takes a sip of champagne. “So now for the question I have to ask, Ian. Have you written anything for the Marc Antony project?”

  I know I’m fortunate enough to have some good in my history with my publisher, which means I don’t need much more than Sheila’s first-rate agenting skills to persuade them on a project. The problem that creates is that I don’t need to write anything, not even a synopsis, before they agree to run with an idea. Now that they’ve said yes, the writing has to begin immediately.

  Deciding to answer with the truth, I shake my head. “Not yet. But I’ve got a lot of ideas, so there’s no
need to worry. You can count on me. As we’ve been talking, I’ve already been planning a trip to Rome and what I’m thinking the story will be about.”

  Sheila lets out a heavy sigh, as if my answer has taken the weight of the world off her shoulders. “That’s good. That’s what I want to hear. Well, actually, I would have loved it if you said you’d already begun work on this, but I’ll take planning over nothing.”

  “What is it they say? Baby steps? I promise I won’t let you down.”

  I finish my glass of champagne quickly, knowing that she’s eagle-eyeing every move I make, and place my empty glass on the table even though I want another drink. I don’t need to have her worrying about my alcohol consumption too.

  “I believe you. I do. I just worry. You know how I am. All my authors are like my children, so I worry about all of you. I like to think that’s what makes me such a good agent.”

  “You’re a great agent. Don’t ever doubt that because we’re assholes who don’t know how to behave.”

  My sudden expression of caring makes her uneasy, and she shifts in her seat. “You’re not an asshole, Ian. You’re one of my favorites. It’s just that with your issues—” She doesn’t finish her sentence, as always uncomfortable saying the word heroin.

  “I’m better now. I promise. I wrote all of Nero’s Nightmare without the heroin, so I’m good now, Sheila.”

  Leaning forward, she places her glass on the table. “Good. I’m happy to hear that, Ian. I really am.” She rises from the chair and flings her purse over her shoulder. “I’ll leave you so you can begin working on Marc Antony’s story. You’re going to go to Rome again, but call me after you get back.”

  I walk her to the door. “I will. As soon as I get back.”

  In her typical fashion, she pulls me to her in a bear hug and whispers in my ear, “I know this one will be great too. Don’t forget that if the going gets tough I’m just a phone call away.”

  As she releases me, I smile at her kindness. “I won’t. And thanks again for coming by. I’ll talk to you soon.”

  Sheila walks away with a pleased look on her face that tells me she believed what I’d said. Not that I’d lied, but I can’t deny how much I’d had to pretend for her. It was all for the best anyway. If I told her about Kristina and Silk, it would just cause her more grief, and I don’t want to be that for her anymore.

  Eager to put that thought out of my mind, I busy myself with preparations for the trip to Rome. I need to make air and hotel reservations, along with contacting Dr. Farelli again. Hopefully, his secretary still likes me well enough to let me past her or I’d have to sic Albert on her again.

  I can’t wait to tell Kristina about the trip. During the day, I’ll conduct my research while she shops or visits tourist attractions, and afterward we’ll have dinner in the finest restaurants and take long walks to the Trevi Fountain and the Forum where I’ll tell her the history of the city and all about my previous trips there.

  Everything finally had turned the corner. My work. My private life. Everything.

  My publicist calls me just as I’m on my way home to tell me she has to see me. Joanne sounds hyper on most days, but today her voice reminds me of an old style record put on the wrong speed or some overexcited cartoon chipmunk. I’m barely able to understand her, but I agree to see her, knowing if I don’t that she’ll simply call Jennie, my agent, and God knows I don’t need her worry piling on top of my happiness.

  During my cab ride to Joanne’s office, I think about my reunion with Ian. Finally, after all my silliness, we’re back together. But I can’t help silently admit to myself that even thinking about him comes with a shadow of hurt from knowing he slept with that other woman.

  I imagine what she looks like since all I know about her is how she sounds while Ian was inside her. I hate the fact that all I know about her is something so intimate yet I don’t even know her name or what color hair she has. In my mind’s eye, I see her as a blond. Yes, she must be a blond so she can be different from me. No, a fake, platinum blond so she’s the opposite of what I look like. And she has beady little eyes and mascara that clumps on her skimpy eyelashes.

  Is her hair long like mine? Did he bury his hands in her hair as they made love and tug, sending a mix of pain and pleasure down her spine like he does when he pulls my hair? Did she enjoy it like I do, or did she tell him to stop hurting her?

  Quickly¸ my mind spirals out of control with images of them together. His eyes staring into hers as he enters her, their darkness seeming to fill his entire eyes as passion takes him over. His lips kissing her neck and breasts as he murmurs the sexiest, dirtiest thoughts he has. His hands sliding down her side and grabbing her hips as he pumps his cock into her.

  Shaking my head, I struggle to push the images out of my mind. No! I can’t think like this. I can’t let my insecurities overrun me until all that’s left of what I have with him is petty jealousy. I left him. Left him with no explanation. I did this to us. If I wanted Ian to be mine, I had to accept my responsibility for him ending up with another woman. If I wanted us to work out, I had to face my fears and self-doubts.

  I had to stop running away.

  The cab stops in front of Joanne’s building, and as I hop out onto the sidewalk, I take a deep breath to clear my head. I can be the woman Ian thinks I am, the sensual woman he professed his love to and wrote that beautiful story for. All I need to do is believe in myself. He loves me, and I love him.

  Now to deal with my publicist.

  Joanne Jenkins has been my publicist since I began in this business, and in all the time I’ve known her, her office hasn’t changed. It’s still that tiny white box with walls cluttered from too many framed clippings in newspapers and magazines. The rest of the world may be online, but not her. For Joanne, life still revolves around getting mentioned in gossip columns people can hold in their hands and stuff into their briefcases and purses.

  Her assistant sits outside her office at an old desk that reminds me of the kind the woman at the DMV in my hometown in Indiana sat at the day I went in to take my driving test. Metal and tan, it makes a hollow noise every time her knees bang into it. Charlene is a lovely person, but I can’t imagine how someone so jittery can work with another so hyper person such as Joanne. It’s almost as if they create too much energy for the tiny space they occupy.

  A pretty woman with a round face, Charlene has the kind of blond hair I imagined a few minutes ago for the woman Ian had sex with, and I find it hard not to frown as I approach her today. She sees me and with her usual perkiness says, “Kristina, it’s so wonderful to see you! Joanne will be just a few minutes, so please take a seat. How is everything going?”

  I look around at the chairs near her desk and choose the one farthest away. “Fine. Everything’s fine.”

  “That’s great! Let me buzz Joanne and see what’s holding her up.”

  I want to say it hasn’t even been thirty seconds since she told me she’d be a few minutes, but I don’t, instead choosing to just smile. Joanne answers her in a sharp tone unmistakable over the loudspeaker and before Charlene can begin to talk me up again, my publicist appears in her doorway waving her hand to beckon me in.

  She ushers me into her tiny office and begins talking before I can even sit down in front of her desk. Excited about some gossip concerning another actress, she rambles on and I catch bits and pieces as I try to get my bearings. I’ve spent so much time with Ian recently that I’ve gotten used to the calmness he projects. Between Charlene and Joanne, I feel like I’m being assaulted on all sides. I don’t know how much my psyche can take of them today.

  “So I wanted to talk to you about Vancouver. Have you heard anything yet? What do you think?” she asks in Gatling gun fashion.

  Shaking my head, I say, “No, not yet. I hope to hear something this week, though.”

  Joanne flips her hand through her brunette bob and pops a stick of gum into her mouth. “Okay, well when you hear anything, we need to promote the hel
l out of this. You’ve been entirely too quiet lately, and I don’t like that. I want the press to be dying to get at you.”

  “I’ve just been taking some down time, Joanne. The public understands that.”

  “The public understands nothing but what we feed them, Kristina. I thought you knew that. If we tell them you’ve been sick, we’ll get sympathy. If we tell them you just needed time off, we’ll get resentment at the idea that an actress needs time off. They don’t understand that becoming an entirely different person for their amusement is hard work.”

  “I think you might just see the glass half empty,” I say, half-joking and half-serious.

  “Call me Machiavellian, but I understand the public, honey. I’ve been doing this since you were an innocent baby out there in the Midwest. Do you remember Eliza Gibson?”

  Quickly, I try to remember hearing that name somewhere, but I can think of nothing. “No. Who’s she?”

  “She was an actress who decided that her career shouldn’t dictate her entire existence. Foolish girl! I warned her. I told her the public has a very short attention span and even shorter memory. I told her they’d forget her if she didn’t tend to her career like a careful gardener tends to his garden. She wouldn’t listen. She needed some time off to get her head together or some bullshit like that. And before she knew it, she was yesterday’s news and there was nothing I could do to fix that.”

  I can’t help but roll my eyes. Some down time between projects and Joanne already thinks I’m on my way to becoming a has-been. “It’s not the same, and you know it.”

  Her arms flail out to the sides of her head. “What I know is my job, and my job is to keep you front and center so Middle America doesn’t forget you.”

  “What would you have me do? It’s only been a few months. I can’t help it that I’m not a drug addict or alcoholic in and out of rehab every other month.”

  Joanne leans forward and sighs. “I wish we could have gotten more mileage out of that John Stinson business.”