Tate

I was getting out of bed when the phone rang. As it was not quite 6:00 a.m., I suspected it was one of two people. Crip or Michelle. I flipped my phone open and looked at the number. “What’s up, Michelle?”

“I have three things to tell you. First, I’d ask if you’ve seen this week’s lists, but I know you haven’t.”

“What lists?”

“Wall Street Journal. New York Times. The lists.”

I didn’t want to tell her about going back to prison, so I condensed the truth. “Haven’t had much time.”

“I can imagine the life of a tattooed bad boy can get pretty busy, especially when you’re on the top of every list out there.”

“Did I hit the New York Times?” I asked excitedly.

“Hit it?” she laughed. “You crushed it. You’re number one on the New York Times bestsellers, and number one on Wall Street Journal’s list. Believe it or not, that’s not the main reason for this call. The second thing is this, Fred Freedman called me. The Fred Freedman. His wife read the book at the recommendation of her eldest daughter, who, incidentally, had read the series. Based on Fred’s call, I read it.”

“Cool.”

“Cool? That’s your response? Do you know who Fred Freedman is?”

“Can’t say I do, but I don’t get out much.”

“He’s a movie producer. Rigger’s Pass, The Vocalist, The Girl with One Blue Eye? Sound familiar?”

The movies she named were all titles I had heard of, but hadn’t had the luxury of seeing. “I’ve heard of ‘em, yeah.”

“His wife read your book, Tate. He called me.”

“Cool. Hope she likes it.”

“She liked it. He liked it.”

“He read it?”

“He sure did.”

“Cool.”

“Okay, Mister Humble. Listen. Fred liked the book. A lot. His screenwriting company wants to make an offer to buy the rights to the book. It’s not my recommendation at this point that you sell it, but it’s my job to give you his offer. As your agent, it’s my duty to tell you regardless of how sweet this offer may sound, that it’s my opinion that you should think about it. Realize this is still very early in the game to be selling the rights, especially the exclusive rights.”

“Okay.”

“Are you ready?”

“Sure.”

“Seven-fifty.”

“Seven fifty what?”

“Seven hundred and fifty thousand.”

My heart faltered. “Three quarters of a million bucks for that rag?”

“It’s not a rag. And, yes. That’s their offer. But. Every cent they make off the movie? You’d get nothing. No matter how successful that movie is, you don’t see a penny.”

“Tell him to go fuck a goat.”

“I knew you were going to say that. What would it take to buy it? Do you have a figure?”

“I don’t know if I want to sell it. It’s kind of about me. In a sense, anyway. I don’t know if I’m ready to have that on a movie screen. To tell the truth, I wish I wouldn’t have written it. At the time it seemed like the thing to do, but I was trying to get a girl to pay attention to me. I was, you know, inspired.”

“Isn’t that cute,” she said in a snide tone. “Where is she now?”

“Probably on her way to work.”

“What does she do.”

“She’s a prison guard.”

“You’re fucking kidding me?” she gasped.

“Nope.”

“Jesus. This just keeps getting better. Back to the price. Do you have a price in mind?”

“I already told you. I don’t think I want to sell it. I was sending a message to this girl, and I wanted to touch her heart with the story. I put too much of myself in there, and if it gets to the big screen, it’ll probably take the other books with it, and they’re all just too close to real.”

“They’re fiction, though. Right?”

“Pretty much, yeah.”

“Pretty much?”

“They’re fiction. Loosely based on fact.”

“How loosely?”

“Loosely enough that no one is going to get in trouble. I’m not an idiot.”

“When I tell them to go fuck a goat, they’ll counter. I suspect it’ll be double.”

“Jesus.”

“It’ll be hard to say no to one point five million.”

There weren’t many people who couldn’t be bought. I was one of them, though. If my mind was made up, no amount of money would convince me to change it. I wasn’t sure that I’d never sell the rights, but I sure wasn’t going to at this juncture in my life.

“I’ve got all I need right here. One more bedroom than I need, a bike that runs, and a brand-new pack of wife beaters. I went shopping, and splurged.”

“You might need to splurge again.”

“On what?”

“The third thing is this: Ellen’s people got ahold of me.”

“Ellen who?”

“Ellen.”

“Ellen fucking who?’

“Ellen. Short blond hair, wears sneakers, has a television show? Ellen DeGeneres.”

“What’d they want?”

“They want you on the show. They’re doing a from rags to riches week in two weeks, and they think you’ll be the perfect draw for their ratings slump. A good-looking tattooed bad-boy who writes romance novels.”

I let out a sigh. “Not interested.”

“Seriously? This could be the turning point in your career. Whoever hasn’t heard of that book already will sure know about it after the show. You backlist will explode.”

“I’m good on the explosions for now, thanks.”

“Your serious? You won’t do it? You might even be able to take your prison guard with you and explain how she inspired you. They’ll love the connection.”

“Sorry.”

“Think about that, would you?”

There was no way I would make it through an interview on a television show without losing my composure. One off-hand comment, rude bystander, or snide remark, and I’d be in a fist fight.

“I already have,” I said. “The answer’s no.”

She sighed. “I’ll call Freedman. Expect a counter.”

“Expect a no answer.”

“You’re impossible.”

“Is that all? I need to take a shower. It’s early on the West Coast.”

“I always forget,” she said. ‘Sorry, I was excited.”

“So, that’s it?”

“There’s one more thing.”

“What?”

“Write me that manuscript,” she said.

“I will.”

“Promises, promises.”

“Talk to you soon, Michelle.”

“Bye.”

I closed the phone, tossed it on the bed, and smiled. I’d somehow managed to achieve a long-standing goal in my writing.

Now I needed to accomplish one of my long-standing goals in life.