The Last Person

Her eyes turn red with unharnessed emotion.

“Why?”

Her head inches side to side. “I was afraid.”

“If you’re afraid, you don’t pick your own damn book for book club. You had to have a certain level of confidence to do that.”

She continues to shake her head. “I wanted honest feedback, more than just a review online. But I didn’t want anyone to feel obligated to say nice things because they knew it was my book.”

“Bullshit!” I stand, forcing her to take a few steps backward.

She flinches.

“If you wanted honest feedback, you would have asked me for more of my thoughts on the book. You wanted your ego stroked, and when I refused to comply, you acted like a fucking child.”

“Screw you.”

“You did. You screwed me. Only I didn’t realize we were a threesome. Had I known in advance, I might have slipped on my kid gloves and been slightly less honest. That’s what you really wanted. Right? Sugar-coated honesty? Did you want to know about the thirty-seven typos that your editor missed? Did you want to know that your timeline is off? Or is that too much too? Because I can guarantee you a publisher will not hold back. They will tell you exactly what needs to be changed to make your story better. They’ll probably take out all the parts that you love the most. They’ll ask you to rewrite entire chapters and frown upon your excessive use of passive tense. They’ll make judgments on your characters and suggest you do something to lessen the extreme bitchiness of your heroine. And you’ll get your back up because you know that deep down, that heroine is you.”

She tips her chin up. “The reviews online are excellent.”

I shake my head. “I looked. Two-hundred reviews. Let’s talk about reviews when you have two-thousand. That will give us a better idea of what twenty-thousand might look like if you get published. Right now, for all we know, you have two-hundred loyal friends.”

“None of my friends know it’s my book!”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“You just hate it, so you assume everyone else will hate it. Well you’re wrong.”

“I never said I hated it.”

She flips her hip out and crosses her arms over her chest. “So you’re going to publish it?”

“No.” I chuckle. “You self-published. You tested a tiny market. Good for you. The fact that you self-published at all makes you a little less appealing to publishers. Write another book and keep building your audience. Or write another book and submit it before you publish it.”

“But I already wrote a book. And I don’t care what you think … I left my soul in that book. I worked my ass off to write that book. That could be my best work.”

“Well,” I shrug, “then I’d suggest you keep your day job. Good luck.” I brush past her toward the door.

“You’re an asshole.”

“Okay.” I don’t give her a glance back.

“I’ll just send it to more publishers and agents. I’m not giving up.”

“Okay.” I keep walking.

“And you’re going to feel like such a fool when this is a bestseller and you passed it up.”

“We’ll see about that.” I open the door and leave her behind with her gigantic ego and stubborn armor.

Chapter Thirteen

Anna

After I take the trash to the dumpster, I return to the loft only to be greeted by Freya’s sex chants from her bedroom. I gave them two nights alone to work that shit out, but she has no self-control. Dare I knock on the door and ask Adrian to shove a pillow over her face?

Just when I finish putting away the leftover food, she stops.

Thank you god.

Her bedroom door opens, so I stay hidden in the kitchen. Last night I got to see all of Adrian, and it’s not something I ever want to see again.

Little man. Big dick. It’s too weird.

“Anna?”

Thankfully it’s Freya. I close the fridge and face her wrapped in her robe, red hair a mess.

“Yes?”

Her nose wrinkles. “Do you …”

“Do I?”

“Have any lube?”

I blink several times.

“We wanna try something.”

“It won’t fit.” I cringe. Those words came out on total instinct. “I mean … no, I don’t have lube. Freya, just go to sleep. Don’t you have to work tomorrow?”

She rolls her eyes and walks toward me. “Yes, but it’s only nine thirty. I wonder if something like olive oil would work.”

“Whoa!” I snatch the bottle by the stove before she grabs it. “No. I bought this. I don’t mind you using it for cooking, but I’m not letting you take it into the bedroom.”

“I’ll buy you a new bottle.”

I continue to hug the olive oil to my chest. “What if it’s not safe? What if it reacts with the latex condom and weakens it?”

Her brow furrows. “You think we should use a condom? We’ve both been tested. We’re done with …” She rubs her lips together and somewhat indiscreetly points her finger toward south. “The front hole.”