The Boy Who Has No Faith (Soulless 5)

The door opened again, and he looked down at me with an even more potent dose of hostility.

“Look…” I held both hands up, trying to defuse the situation instead of escalating it. “I’m sorry that I caught you off guard, but your novels are the best there is, and I want these stories to be published so everyone can enjoy them. If you haven’t written it, that’s okay. But please keep me up to date on your progress. That’s all I need.”

With the same expression, he stared me down, one hand on the door. He had a masculine sharpness to his face, a cut jawline, hard eyes, full lips surrounded by the shadow of stubble that moved over his chin and slightly down his neck.

Authors were usually a little odd because they were creative in solitude, so they didn’t exactly play well with others. They also didn’t like being told what to do, having their work criticized in the editing process. I’d had an author bring my revisions to the office, light them on fire, and then throw them at me. But this man…was by far the most difficult one of all. “How about this? In a few days, you give me a call or send me an email about where you stand with the story, and we’ll go from there.”

His stare was still empty.

Did he need to make every conversation so painful?

“Alright.”

I hid my reaction, but inside, I felt like I’d just won the lottery. “That’s great—”

He shut the door.

My hands moved to my hips, and I released the breath I was holding as I turned down the hallway and headed back to the elevator. “Wow.”

Two

Emerson

After a few days, I received an email from Derek Hamilton.

I couldn’t believe it actually happened.

Emerson,

I’ll need a year to complete Starfire: The Orion Galaxy. I’ll let you know where I’m at every few months.

-Derek Hamilton

Kelvin Enterprises

Chief Aeronautical Engineer

“A year…?” We didn’t have a year. We’d already given him a year. And he was an engineer? I didn’t know he did anything other than write since his biography on his books was just two sentences.

I went to Mark’s office. “I’ve got an update on Hamilton.”

“A good one?” He leaned back in his chair and looked at me through his glasses.

“Well, I finally got a response out of him…”

He wasn’t amused.

I cleared my throat. “He said he needs a year to write it…” Mark wasn’t my favorite boss in the world. He didn’t have a passion for literature like he should, and he was kind of a jerk all the time. I missed my old office. But I’d left it all for Derek Hamilton…who ended up being a huge tool.

So much for that.

Mark stilled for a few seconds before he straightened. “We already gave him a year to write it.”

“I know, but that’s what he said.”

“I don’t give a damn what he said. He owes us that book, and he needs to deliver it.”

“What am I supposed to do? I told him we would freeze his royalties, but he didn’t care.”

“Be an editor,” he snapped. “Get your client to write his story. Inspire him. Light a fire under his ass. Do your job.”

It was hard not to talk back because I was a bit ornery by nature. But I kept my mouth shut. “You don’t know him—”

“Exactly. Because that’s your job—not mine.”

Why were all men big fucking babies lately?

“Make it work, Emerson. A year is just ridiculous. He has a few months—at the most. Has he not written anything at all?”

“I’m not sure…”

Rage moved into his eyes.

“But I’ll figure it out.”

“Yes. You better.”

I called him even though I suspected he wouldn’t answer.

But he did. “Derek Hamilton.”

“Hey, Mr. Hamilton. It’s Emerson—”

“I emailed you this morning.”

“Yes, I got it. And thank you so much for that.” I had to kiss this guy’s ass when I should be demanding him to do his job and fulfill his obligations. It was totally ridiculous. “I was just wondering if we could cut down that time frame. A year is a long time…and you’ve already had a year.”

Silence.

“Maybe we could work up a system. You write ten pages a week, and I’ll edit them as you go along—”

“You have no idea how busy I am, Ms. Lane. Frankly, I’m too busy for this conversation as it is. Just be grateful you’re getting a book at all.”

“Mr. Hamilton—”

Click.

“Ugh.” I threw my phone down. “Motherfucker.”

Janine glanced at me from her desk. “You okay?”

“Authors. I love what they make, but I hate who they are.”

I’d taken a leap of faith and left a job I loved in the hope of getting a better one. The pay was five percent more, so that was a nice perk, and I could always use more money. But I suspected if I didn’t get this straightened out with Derek Hamilton, I would lose my job—and be left with nothing.