Maybe for the fifth time in the hour I refresh my screen.

I don't really know what I'm hoping for.

Somehow maybe the large groups of readers that roam the marketplace will realize that oh hey, Abby Cleveland has just released a book, we need to buy it?

Yeah, that can only happen if the people are made aware that I released a book. And right now, honestly, I'm having trouble believing that I wrote a book—and I'm the author.

I know I should trust my publisher, but I just can't help but second guess myself and wonder if maybe my publisher even cares.

I mean, I know the book is good. And honestly, if it isn't good, I'm okay with reviewers telling me it's crap. I'm not one of those authors who's getting their panties in a twist because they got a 1 star review. Some of my favorite authors are gonna get 1 stars because not everyone is gonna like everything. And that's okay.

But it seems that no one else is being given the opportunity to even give me a 1 star review. Because no one is reading.

And you want to know the worst thing, hun?

This isn't even the first time this is happening. This is probably around the third flop I've got. This entire series has just flopped. Hard.

Like a limp fucking dick.

Sorry. You just met me and I'm more worried about my declining book sales than anything else.

Let me take a moment to introduce myself.

My name is Abby Cleveland and I'm a 23-year-old single woman who lives in New York City. I graduated from NYU about a year ago with an English degree and a boyfriend. I kept the boyfriend but really didn't use the English degree as much. That's because my boyfriend went right to work for Bad Boy Publishing—one of the largest book publishers to come out of the carnage of the publishing world, and he got me a contract with them to be an author.

And for like about the first year, everything went super. I was writing a book a month and people were liking what I was writing.

I write primarily contemporary romance. I focus on bad boys. The badder the better and the more the merrier is what I've always said.

Sure, what I write is sexy. I mean, there isn't a lot of sex in my books. Not as much as some of the people I look up to. And there's no way I'm as good a writer as some of my heroes and role models that got me into the game—like Eddie Cleveland and Alexis Angel. But yeah, I enjoy what I do and the weird part is that I was so young and got a publishing contract.

So yeah, I'm traditionally published, getting advances and making enough money to live in a one-bedroom apartment in New York City.

Except until the last three months.

Where I had flop after flop after flop.

I swear it was like everyone who ever wanted to read my book decided that they were done reading about my bad boys. That they wanted, for some reason, to move on. I honestly don't understand it and I can't quite place my finger on it.

Every other indie author I've talked to has been telling me that it's not me; it's my publisher. But I can't just leave my publisher because they're the reason I'm even here in the first place.

So instead, I've been hoping for the best.

It doesn't help that last month in an effort to actually get more work done I rented an office here in Midtown. I know it was a bit of an extravagance, but rather than write at home, I wanted to commute form the Upper East Side to Times Square. The hope was that I'd be able to focus.

Well, that was the hope.

In reality, all that's happened is I'm paying for an office in a serviced office setting while my book is bombing.

But there's nothing I can do by looking at the Rainforest.com store ranking right now. I need to find out why nothing is being done to promote my book.

I call Grady.

Oh yeah, remember the boyfriend I mentioned? The one that I brought with me from NYU?

That's Grady. He manages my account over at Bad Boy Publishing.

And as usual, he's not answering.

Whatever, my serviced office is only really a two-minute walk from him; I'm in one end of Times Square and he's a block from me on 42nd and 8th.

And I have nothing better to do, so I shut and lock my door and head down the building.

It takes me almost no time to cross the street and go into the building that houses Bad Boy Publishing.

They're on the 5th through 10th floors, and Grady has his own office on the 7th floor.

He's always going on and on about how proud he is at his level of advancement at Bad Boy Publishing. I get that he's proud of his job, but he's an account executive still. Sure, he's climbing the ranks, but sometimes it's hard not to roll your eyes when he acts like he's the CEO.

I mean, if he were the CEO, he'd have a secretary or administrative assistant outside of his office, but he doesn't. Which means that despite the fact that his door is closed, I can still knock and go inside.

And that's when I freeze.

Because Grady is in his office alright.

But so is someone else.

She's got long blonde hair and a set of perfectly fake tits that have to be at least a C cup. She's anorexic thin and she's bent over the desk. Grady is naked from the waist down and he's pumping into her.

I smirk.

Grady pumping his cock into her as she's bent over his desk?

I mean, can she even feel him?

No offense to my boyfriend or anything, but sex really isn't his forte. Not with the 4-inch cock that God blessed him with. I mean, to Grady, those 4 inches are equivalent to about 16 on a regular human being, but to any regular woman, they're equivalent to about 0 I've always thought because whenever he's penetrated me, the first thing I've wanted to ask is, "Is it in?"

But of course I didn't. I mean that would be such a bitch move to do.

"Grady, you're fucking me so good, don't stop baby," the girl moans and all of a sudden I think I know who it is.

That's Alyssa Moore.

She's the model and author that recently had that whole thing with her ex-boyfriend fucking her sister at the RWAA convention.

It looks like she's moved on.

I guess she's come to Bad Boy Publishing instead of whatever publishing house she was at.

"Your cock is so big," she moans.

So they don't see me yet. Which is fine.

I clear my throat. Nothing.

"Grady," I say, knocking on the open door.

That's when he turns his head around.

Seriously, it's hilarious because his eyes go wide and he pulls his tiny baby dick outside of Alyssa who whimpers at it leaving.

Seriously, I've heard of women playing it up and pretending that a guy's cock is really big to inflate his male ego, but she actually seems like she's missing his cock.

Could she think his cock is big?

I mean, she's anorexic skinny and come to think of it, that's the only kind of woman Grady could probably satisfy at this stage in his life.

Yeah, I think this relationship is pretty much over at this point. I mean, it was nice while it lasted, I guess.

But I never expected that I was going to spend forever with him. God knows I didn't love him.

So, whatever, you know?

But Grady doesn't know that. I mean, he could be a little bit more dignified about it. Because all he's doing now is hopping from one foot to the next.

I look at him with curiosity.

"Abby!" he yells, and I see Alyssa turn around, her mouth turned into a perfect O.

Yes, I'm still a big name author in the publishing world. I may not have had many successes lately, but people still know who I am.

"So this is why you're not answering your phone, Grady?" I ask, putting one hand to my hip. "Because you're too busy with a new client?"

"It's not like that, babe," Grady tells me, running over to me.

I back off slightly. His cock is swinging. But it's not even like a big swinging dick. It's a little tiny sausage link that's waving its tail like a little Dachshund.

I make a face and Grady steps back.

"I thought you were writing, too!" he yells at me. "What're you doing here?"

I look at him with a mix of confusion and absolutely fucking puzzlement.

"So because you thought I was off writing, you thought it's okay to fuck another author?" I ask him, my voice rising. "And her?"

I'm pointing at Alyssa. Don't get me wrong. I have nothing against models and authors. But seriously, Alyssa Moore?

She never writes anything. She just puts her face on the cover in a skimpy bra and gets author credits.

I don't know if I'm more upset that he was fucking another woman or he was fucking her.

"Alyssa and I have been talking for a while, babe," Grady says, trying to explain it to me. "I'm sorry."

"No, Grady," I tell him coldly. "I'm the one that's sorry."

And then, the fateful words. "Consider this visit my termination visit for any arrangements with Bad Boy Publishing."

I turn around. Really, that's all I really need to do here. Very simple. Very civilized way of saying fuck off.

"Abby, you can't fucking leave," Grady says, his voice reaching ever higher octaves.

I turn around to look at him.

Don't get me mad, Grady. Please don't go there.

"We had a deal," he tells me. I look at him to see if he's really being serious.

He's not joking.

"You can't back out now," he says to me.

"Really? I can't back out of an arrangement that specifically says I can back out at any time?" I ask him, cocking my eyebrows.

"If you back out now, then it'll look very bad for my career, babe," he tells me, completely serious.

I swear to God, Grady has made thinking only about himself an art form.

I reach down and grab his pants and his boxers and bunch them up. I take Alyssa's short skirt. I bunch all of it together into a tight little ball.

"I can't leave?" I ask him, walking toward him.

"Not if you want to keep your end of the bargain," he says to me, sagely.

I smile and go toward his window that's cracked open slightly. The cold New York City air is coming in. Helps the building save on air conditioning.

Then without a second glance I stick my hand out the window.

Alyssa gasps because this is the hand that has her skirt, her thong, Grady's pants, and his boxers.

And I let them go.

They flutter in the wind, dropping down toward the ground.

"That's what I think of my fucking end of the bargain," I tell him. "And it looks like you have a bigger problem at work than worrying about losing me as a client."

And that's it.

My exit. I head to the door.

"You're going to regret this, Abby," Grady says to me.

"Fuck off and die, asshole," I say without turning back. "You're the one that'll regret it if you come after me."

Don't look at me like that babe.

I may be an angel most days.

But fuck with me, and I'll go from sweet and cute into the Angel of Death.