I hear my stomach growl and I look around the kitchen.

Fuck, I'm hungry. I need to resist the urge scarf down something I'll regret—like that box of cookies in the back of the cupboard.

I want to throw together something healthy. I grab spinach, pineapple, kale, green apple slices—don't look at me like that—a cup of ice, a splash of juice, and a scoop of protein powder, and throw all of the ingredients into the blender.

The machine purrs to life and I watch all of the contents liquefy, turning a deep shade of green.

What? Does this look disgusting? Well, let me tell you something. It isn't easy keeping this physique. If I've learned anything as a personal trainer it's that fitness starts in the kitchen.

As soon as I push the button to turn the blender off, I pour the contents into a glass, raise it to my lips, and before I can drink it, I hear a knock on the door.

Who the fuck is that? I'm not expecting anyone.

It can't be Abby; I know she's got a full plate this afternoon.

For a moment, I debate whether or not I should put a shirt on before answering the door, but fuck it. I decide that whoever this is can see me shirtless.

I open the door and I'm confused.

Standing in front of me is a man in a grey suit. His hair is slicked back, his hands are buried in his pockets, and he's rocking back on his heels. He seems to be in his early 30s … maybe? But if I'm fucking honest, I'm a terrible judge of age.

He seems vaguely familiar. But the important question is: what the fuck does he want?

"Can I help you?" I ask.

He eyes me up and down for a moment, and his lips crack into a smile.

"That's exactly what I'm here to find out," he says, pointing to my apartment. "Can I come in?"

I step aside and figure what the hell. If this guy is some sort of marketer—maybe trying to sell me on the latest Tupperware, or the next big pyramid scheme, or something—I guess it won't hurt to hear his spiel. I must be in a good mood because I decide to give the poor schmo a few minutes to say what he needs to say before giving him the boot. But something tells me he came here for a specific reason and that he knows who I am, in other words, that his visit isn't an accident.

"Sure, come in," I say, stepping back into the apartment. He follows after me, shutting the door behind him.

I grab my glass of liquefied greens.

"Want a drink?" I smile.

"No, I won't be here long."

There's something about the way he quickly dismisses me—and yes, I realize this glass of liquid green doesn't look appetizing, but still—that rubs me wrong.

"Why are you here?" I ask.

"I have an offer."

"Look, I'm not interested in buying Girl Scout cookies, or installing new cable, or trying to convince the Home Owners Association to install a solar system on the roof of this apartment, or whatever the fuck you're here to sell me—so thanks, but no thanks. I'll pass." My good mood is fading. I'm suddenly kicking myself for letting this guy in.

"It's not like that," he says.

"So, what is it?"

"Let's just say it's more of an ultimatum."

An ultimatum? Who the fuck does this guy think he is? Lesson number one: don't invite nut jobs in grey suits into your apartment.

"You know what? I think you should leave now."

I walk toward the door, leading the way for his exit, but he doesn't budge and continues, "I know all about you and Abby."

As soon as he says Abby's name, my pulse quickens. Who is this guy and why the fuck is he bringing Abby into this? I decide to challenge him.

"Yeah, and?"

He just smiles. "And that puts you in a compromising situation."

"What the fuck are you talking about?"

"I have photos."

Great. Now this is getting personal. Really personal. "What kind of photos?" I ask.

"Of both you and Abby … ones I doubt you'd want circulated."

All of a sudden, it fucking dawns on me. I put a name to his face. I know who this fucking guy is.

"Wait a minute … you're Grady O'Sullivan, of Bad Boy Publishing."

"Indeed, I am," he says, nodding. His hands are still shoved in his pockets.

Now it all makes sense. This is the guy Abby told me all about… her ex; the man with the tiny cock who fucked her over with Alyssa Moore. The guy who apparently likes sloppy seconds. I walk to the door and open it.

"In that case, you can leave. Now. Your time is up."

"Don’t say no to me, Aidan," Grady says, not budging.

"Listen, fucker," I tell Grady, snarling my teeth. If this is some jealousy thing because I fucked Alyssa before you and took Abby away from you…"

Grady doesn’t let me finish.

"If it weren’t for you, she would have come crawling back in a less than a week!" he yells. "She didn’t know the first thing about being a publisher when she left. And now she’s becoming unstoppable!"

"So what?" I ask. "You’re here to stop her?"

"If I can’t have her talent, then I’ll at least have yours," Grady sneers. "Trust me when I tell you that you’ll cooperate if you know what’s good for you."

I remain silent, wondering if I should just kill this man now.

"I was selling her work to other authors before she left, mirroring it and chopping it up and selling it under different pen names, and it was pretty fucking lucrative," Grady says. "And since that’s gone now, I’m going to need you to provide me with an alternate source of cheddar. You feel me?"

It's better that he leave now before I do something that I might regret, like put my fist through that smug face of his.

"Listen, this can be an opportunity for you," he says, switching tack. "Come work for me … at Bad Boy Publishing. Just think, with our market reach and your skill, we'll create an empire."

"No thanks," I reply. I mean, this is a no brainer. This is Abby's ex we're talking about. Who just admitted to stealing her work. No wonder she was falling in the author rankings.

There's no way in hell that I could go work for him. I don't care how big his publishing house is.

"Think about it," he continues, pressing his offer.

"I have. And I say no. Final answer."

"Well, that's the wrong answer," he replies.

I can't help but ball my right hand into a fist. This guy is testing my patience.

"Wrong answer?" I ask. "Who the fuck do you think you are?"

"I think I'm a man holding a winning hand."

"So what—maybe you have a few pictures of Abby and I? Who the fuck cares?"

"The world will care because I have more than that," he smiles. "I have pics of that 12-inch cock of yours that will create quite an uproar fucking Abby on the beach, and I won't hesitate to share them publically."

"What pictures are you exactly talking about?"

"I told you—your cock … for starters. I'll upload them to Facebook."

"You're an idiot. Go ahead. I really don't give a fuck."

Of course I'm bluffing. I don't actually want pictures of my cock going viral and getting passed around all over the world, but I'm having serious doubts that Grady even has his hands on any pictures to begin with.

"That's where you're wrong; you'll care because not only will I release pictures of your cock, but I'll release them as teasers for your next book … and I've taken photos of both you and Abby … and you should know, deeply personal ones … does Python ring a bell?"

"You fucking bastard," I snap. Who the fuck does he think he is, intruding on my personal space like that. And now he isn't just threatening me; he's threatening Abby too. I can't let that happen.

"It doesn't have to be this way," he shrugs. "It's simple. Come work for me. Write for Bad Boy Publishing. Together, we'll create an empire."

"Not in a million fucking years."

"I’m urging you to think carefully about what you're saying. Work for me, and I'll destroy the photos; Abby will be spared the humiliation of that kind of exposure. But toss my offer, and I'll upload every picture I have across Facebook faster than Abby will know what to do with it."

Fuck. Why is this happening right now?

"The question you need to ask yourself is, would you like to see pictures of your girlfriend splashed across the internet for the world to jerk off to?" Grady asks me.

When I opened my door today, I never could've guessed I'd be faced with a dilemma that'd knock the wind out of me.

Only one thing to do in this situation to set things right.

What is it?

You’re not going to like the answer, darlin’.

No, I’m not going to tell you.

Not now.

Time for you to switch fucking POV.