“Graham is right,” I said to the woman staring back at me through red eyes. “You do not know how great your life can be.” I hung the towel over the rack and leaned in close to the mirror. “Maybe it’s time you take control of your life rather than letting your life control you.”
I turned off the light and went into the living room. Graham had sent over two-hundred books for me to sign in advance of the Good Morning Manhattan appearance. The producers agreed to let me give away books, but didn’t have time for me to sign them onset, so I was doing it head of time. I sat down at the coffee table and opened the first box, calculating in my head how long it would take me to sign two hundred copies.
My mind wandered as I opened the first book and scribbled my name across the page. I tried to remember the first book I’d ever signed. It had been so many years now, so many books.
I had started my career ghostwriting sweet romances for a publisher who put them out under another name. Gradually I went from writing sweet romances to risqué to all out erotica. When I saw my dirtiest books regularly selling thousands of copies for the publisher, I started writing and self-publishing my own books under my name. After a few books, I started hitting the Amazon charts. That’s when Graham found me and the rest is history.
That’s when I started calling on my own sexual memories for inspiration. It wasn’t until I wrote Pleasing Him that my relationship with Chad Walters ended up in a book. Only his name wasn’t Chad. It was Brad. Brad Wallace. And the heroine’s name was Chloe Manning. I know, pretty close, but I seriously doubted Chad would ever read the book, much less make the connection.
Pleasing Him was my hottest, steamiest, filthiest book yet. And readers loved it. Little did they know that every sex act in the book was based on a real memory of sex with Chad.
There was nothing made up in this book.
Every fuck and suck and probe and tuck were real.
I had to sit on a towel when I wrote the book because my cunt would simply overflow.
Maybe that’s why the book was climbing the bestseller lists and the crowds at the book signings got bigger every week.
It was all so real , one critic wrote, like it really happened .
Sister, if only you knew.
CHAPTER SIX: Chad
I hung up the phone when I got Zoe’s voicemail.
I couldn’t believe after all these years, she hadn’t changed her phone number. Of course, I was too embarrassed to leave a message and I’m glad she didn't answer. I had no idea what I would have even said. Hell, her husband could have answered! Or one of her kids… Fuck.
I probably would have just hung up or said sorry wrong number. But since no one answered, I was completely off the hook.
“Another whiskey, sir?” the male bartender asked.
“One more,” I said with a sigh. I stifled a yawn with the back of my hand. Good thing I just had to ride the elevator up to the penthouse. The combination of the long flight and the four shots of Jack had me teetering on the stool.
I noticed movement to my left and glanced over to see a brunette with a short skirt and big tits sidle up to the bar next to me.
“Can I sit here?” she asked as she slid onto the stool and leaned in close. I looked at her in the mirror over the bar. Either I was drunk as shit or this babe was smokin’ hot! I turned sideways to give her the once over. She gave me a drunken smile. She was tall, thin, with the big jugs in a tight tank top. She was at least a 9, bordering on a 10. Her hair was blonde and curly and her lips painted a dark pink.
“Be my guest,” I said with a nod. I called the bartender over and she ordered a Long Island Iced Tea in a tall glass and I ordered another shot.
“Thanks,” she said with a smile. “So, where are you from?”
“California,” I said. “You?”
“I love California. I used to live in San Diego. Haven’t been out that way in ages.” She grinned as she stirred her drink with the straw and gave me the eye.
“It’s still sunny and hot,” I joked.
“Kristin,” she said as she extended her hand. “With a K.”
“Bob,” I said, giving her a fake name because I didn’t need the headache of her knowing who I really was. You met some crazy bitches in hotel bars. The kind of crazy bitches that showed up outside of your house at three in the morning claiming to be pregnant with your baby.
“Nice to meet you, Bob. What brings you to New York?”
“Business.”
“But not pleasure?” she said with a laugh. She wrapped her lips around the straw and gave me a sexy look. “You staying here?”