Total pages in book: 130
Estimated words: 126425 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 632(@200wpm)___ 506(@250wpm)___ 421(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 126425 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 632(@200wpm)___ 506(@250wpm)___ 421(@300wpm)
“What? What the fuck?”
“Yeah. So. We’re staying up in the hills at the new place.”
“New place? That house doesn’t even have a roof, Mike.”
He put up a hand, trying to assuage me. “No, no. It’s fine, Steve. We bought an Airstream and we’re… camping.”
I just blinked at him. “Dude. You and Essie own fifteen million dollars in beachfront trailers and you’re staying in a camper on some wilderness hillside?”
“It’s fine. It’s no big deal. This whole thing is gonna blow over soon. These people, they have short attention spans. Two weeks, that’s what I give it. Two weeks.”
That night I tried to order a pizza from that awesome place down the highway and they said no. They would not deliver to me because I hate women and I’m a jealous asshole. And they hope Raylen Star sues me and takes my house.
People I don’t even know are now literally hoping I will be homeless.
So… yeah. I’m hiding in Terry’s man cave for the foreseeable future.
But hey, I’ve got video games, and darts, and I don’t have to travel to make our weekly D&D game.
Life is still good. It is. It will be again soon.
Fuck. Who am I kidding? This is a complete shit show. I’m sinking. And while maybe I would be able to wrap my head around that—I did lie about who was writing the books—I can’t wrap my head around the lies they’re telling.
I’m Steve. The Ro-Bro. The guy who makes people happy, and makes the award ribbons, and tips the maids, and moves Raylen Star’s stupid table away from the catering door. And fine, I did that a day late. I get it. But I didn’t know. No one told me that the door was hitting her table.
How did I become the bad guy so fast? Overnight. It was literally overnight.
Like… where did I go wrong?
Inviting Leslie to Sin With Us, obviously.
Which I didn’t even do. Mike did by mistake. Essie and I traced back Leslie’s invitation to one night about two months ago after they finished their last reno when Essie was super-drunk and tired, and I was fucking around with the waitlist.
Ironically, that was the same night I picked Cordelia to be invited. I had circled her name. And I was supposed to pick a second person—I do remember that—but I saw Raylen Star’s name on the waitlist and just laughed.
I did circle her name. But I was gonna write a note to Essie: Can you believe the balls on this lady? Or something to that effect. But I got distracted and never wrote it.
Mike did say he thought I was crazy at the time, but I was the boss. He generally just follows instructions about the book stuff.
I still can’t believe that Leslie had the balls to put her name on our waitlist. And now, thinking back, thinking about how everything was us—our waitlist, and our convention, and Sin With Us—I’m sad.
There is no more us. It’s just me.
I don’t like it. I don’t like it at all.
I miss Essie being my other half. I’m not sure I can do this SS thing without her. In fact, I’m not sure I want to do this SS thing without her.
And to be completely honest, I’m not sure I can do this SS thing without her. “Maybe I should just quit.”
“What?” Terry is messing with his gaming set-up. We’re gonna stream a game on Snitch with Luke and Shawn in a little bit and he’s fucking with an extra desktop so I can join in.
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to say that out loud.”
“You’re not quitting nothin’, Steve. You’re the world’s greatest romance writer. One day you’re gonna look back and realize everything that’s happened is romance-novel gold.”
“Oh, my God. How many times do I have to tell you? This is real life, not a romance novel.”
He puts his hands up. “I’m just saying, dude. This is building character.”
I scoff. “Right.”
My phone buzzes. I almost ignore it because it’s probably my dad. And that fucking meeting is probably over and he’s calling to tell me they got kicked out and they’re gonna move back here to Encino and rent a one-bedroom—
Never mind. My fucking imagination, I swear.
I check the phone and it’s my lawyer. “I gotta take this,” I tell Terry. Then I exit his man cave and go outside to his pool. There are no kids swimming, so it’s nice and quiet and peaceful. Terry lives in Westlake Village, right on the lake. A massive, beautiful house that holds his giant clan.
I let out a breath and tab accept. “Yeah. Hey, Rod. What’s up?”
“Well…” Rod, who’s been my lawyer for nine years now, sucks in a breath.
“Now what?”
He lets that breath out. “This lawsuit is not good.”
“Shit. What? She’s got no evidence! I didn’t do any of this! How could she win this thing?”