Play Maker(76)

I wave her and her potty-mouth off. “Nope. No guts, no glory.”

“Unless I write about banging a triceratops,” she clarifies.

“That has to hurt.” I make a face and pour the rest of the wine in her glass. She tries to stop me, but I ignore her. No one refuses wine in my house. “Think about it! All those spines or horns or whatever. Sex isn’t pain. I mean, it can be pain. There can be a lot of bondage and submission and it can all be delicious, but boinking a creature whose mythological dick could literally rip you in two? Awful.”

“Dinosaurs were real. There isn’t anything mythological about their dicks.”

“False. We’ve never seen a dinosaur dick.”

I think.

“So you’re an anthropologist as well as a writer? Quite impressive, Miranda.”

“I’m an author,” I correct her. Bitch, please. “Which means I know everything about everything. That’s how I write so many books.”

“You are quite prolific.”

“I’m not Bethany Bonafont,” I sigh listlessly. If only I could be. She writes the same stupid book over and over again and everyone rushes to buy them. Am I the only one who notices every single dirty-talking hero and sassy heroine is completely interchangeable? “I’m just a sad mid-lister with a small but mighty following.”

“And I just get felt up by old men in paper gowns.” Jane shakes her head. “You win.”

“I do win.” We clink glasses.

“Okay, lady.” Jane slides her half-full glass of wine across the counter. “I have to get back. Bobby is waiting for me, poor man.”

“Tell the hubs I said hello and thanks for the wine.” I pause. “Actually, don’t. He doesn’t know you’ve been bringing the bottles over, right? Fuck him.”

“I plan on it.” Jane winks and waves goodbye, letting herself out.

I finish up the glasses on the counter and take a bottle of cabernet upstairs to my writing cave. In my head, it rivals the Beauty and the Beast library, full of books and ladders and stories that are not about f*cking dinosaurs. In reality, it’s a wall of cramped bookcases, a desk full of sticky notes, and an overstuffed recliner in the corner. Small, but it’s my domain.

I pour another glass and review the last things I wrote. Ah, yes. My poor heroine learns her broody, muscular lover is promised to another. A business arrangement to save his ranch. Already, my tears are flowing. It’s not like this is personal or anything.

You should know I’m also a pathological liar, because I’m an author. It’s absolutely personal, and I jab my finger against the return key, pretending it’s Matt’s stupid handsome face I’m poking. Screw that guy and his high school girlfriend who came back to town and wooed him away, leaving me alone in a big, empty, trashed house to sob over wine and stories at night.

I could totally be getting laid right now.

Then again. Sex with Matt wasn’t exactly the stuff of romance novels.

“But—why not?” Stefanie pulls back, tears pricking her eyes. “Don’t you know I only want to be with you?”

“I can’t tell you why. It’s complicated, and also a secret. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner.”

Yeah, *. You should have told her in the beginning, because that’s what respectable broke ranch owners do. Then again, if everyone did what they were supposed to do, I’d have nothing to write about. I finish out the chapter, weeping into my wineglass like the sad person I’ve become, and decide another break is in order. Too much and I’ll become an even bigger mental headcase.

Ding-ding!

I scowl. If it is my mother again, so help me, I’m going to throw my phone against the wall. She needs to learn a lesson. As in, don’t tell your daughter about your incompetent lovers. Because gross. Because no. Because all the f*cking reasons.

Ah, an email. Maybe, just maybe, it’s fan mail. I love fan mail, especially when it comes after I’ve cried over four pages of agonizing writing in the middle of the night, two bottles of wine in. Those are my favorite letters in the whole wide world. Bethany Bonafont could probably wallpaper her entire house ten times over with fan mail, those goddamn crowd favorites, and I could wallpaper…my bathroom…but at least I get fan mail? It could be worse. I could be writing atrocious dino-smut and receiving unsolicited naked pictures from fans.

At least, that’s what the rumors say happens. I wouldn’t know because I’m f*cking classy, thank you very much.

Not a fan letter, disappointing. But it’s almost as good, when I’m already drunk and not super happy. Instead, it’s a notification from Amazon about a new book coming out from my archenemy, Charlie Shivers. He’s the douche Jane wants to be like, writing ridiculous books about sexual cactuses and ramming people up the butt with unicorn horns. (I’m putting mental quotes around the term “Books.”).

He’s hardly even considered an author, but the * makes more money than I will ever likely see in my lifetime.

Not that I’m bitter or anything.

Not that I’m a pathological liar or anything.

I click the link in the email and almost spew wine all over my keyboard. It’s already ranked in the top 200 and has like ten five-star reviews. How is this even possible? He has to buy off his reviewers, that’s the only way this makes sense. Or maybe he has a street team and sets them all on his links as soon as they release.