CHAPTER EIGHT
Ian
I wake up alone and instantly miss Kristina’s gentle touch against me first thing in the morning. The bed feels too big for one person now since she’s been in it. Stretching my arm out to the side, I run my hand over the cool sheets where she would be. I bury my face in the pillow next to me and smell the faint scent of her perfume, soft and flowery.
Two weeks. That’s all it’s been and already I can’t stand to be away from her for more than a few hours. My limbs ache from want as my mind replays our time together last night. The feel of her tight cunt gripping me like a glove as she rode me so wildly. The taste of wine on her lips when she kissed me just as she came so hard I thought she’d strangle my cock. The sound of her voice when she told me how much she’d miss me when she was leaving.
I know I should slow things down between us. The warning signs are all there. She’s tender and sweet, and when she finds out the monster addiction makes me, she’ll run away. I won’t be able to let her, but she’ll want to. She’ll say it’s too much—too fast—too overwhelming. I’ll tell her I can’t live without her and mean every syllable.
What I don’t know is how she’ll react after that. The problem is that I do know how I will react. As much as heroin or alcohol, I’m addicted to her, and just like with them, she controls every moment of my day.
And I can’t imagine a day without her.
I take a deep breath and hold the air in my lungs until I can’t hold it anymore, letting it out slowly until there’s nothing left to release. I feel the tiny bit of control I still possess begin to slip away.
* * *
Sheila’s office reminds me of what I imagine a study in a college professor’s house would look like. The predominant color is brown. Dark walnut wood bookcases line the walls to each side of her desk, which is also dark walnut. The three leather chairs, including the one she sits in, are a caramel brown with black metal studs that look brown.
The room has a warm feel I’ve never found anywhere else in the world, no matter how many beautiful homes I’ve been in. That’s pure Sheila, though. Warm. Comforting. Nurturing.
She’s summoned me to her office to talk about my next book, which in fact doesn’t even exist as the kernel of an idea yet. I haven’t decided what I’m going to tell her when she gets around to asking about it. Right now, she’s going on about the dozens of calls she’s been fielding for another of her authors who committed the cardinal sin of sounding off on social media about some reviewer or something. This is why I pay people to be me online. I don’t have the time for that bullshit.
“So I’ve been putting out fires for the last twenty-four hours, and Ian, you have no idea how big this might have gotten if I hadn’t reeled her in,” Sheila says frantically, her eyes darting left and right over the edge of her desk as she looks for something.
“You know how it is with the new ones,” I say in my most comforting voice as I pretend to care. “And it’s ten times as hard nowadays with everything you say being scrutinized. Better to say nothing at all, but then you’re not social enough. It’s a Catch-22. She’ll find her way.”
“A hundred times harder than when you got into this business a decade ago. Thankfully, I don’t have those issues with you. You’re smart enough to delegate your social media presence to those two girls, who I must say do a wonderful job. Maybe I should find a couple like them for Eva.”
I’m not listening closely, but just to be polite I mumble, “Sounds good.”
What I’m thinking about is how long this is going to take and when I’m going to see Kristina again. Just five more hours.
“So, we need to talk about your next book. The publisher isn’t going to wait forever, Ian. They’re dying to know what’s next. Nero’s Nightmare was a huge success, so capitalizing on that is key. What do you think you might want to do?”
I have a brand new three book deal that I have to honor, based on the early sales of Nero’s Nightmare. Within the past three months, I’ve thought of exactly zero ideas for the next book. I know Sheila understands, but the reality is that writing isn’t something like factory work. You don’t just churn out ideas every day. At least not good ones. Good ideas take time. Great ideas take even longer.
But the publisher doesn’t give a fuck about good or great ideas. They want books that will make money. Not that I’m against money, mind you. I’m a capitalist, so money is fine with me. But their wanting more money doesn’t coincide with my ideas coming any faster.
However, if I don’t tell Sheila something and make her think I’m working on the third book, she’ll worry and then I won’t have a moment’s peace until I give her an idea.
So I lie.
“I’m thinking something with Marc Antony.”
There. That should make her happy.
But it doesn’t. Not really. I watch her unattractive face twist into an unsatisfied grimace. “Marc Antony? Are you sure?”
“Is there something wrong with Marc Antony? I’m not tied to the emperor idea as I was with the last two books. This is an entirely new series. When you pitched them the idea for this one, you told them it would be ancient Rome as the setting. So what’s wrong with Antony?”
“He’s just been done a lot in the past. What about that Pontius Pilate book you once mentioned to me? Now that would be a bestseller for sure.”
Her enthusiasm for my jumping into some ugly religious fray makes me smile. “I did have some ideas for that, but that was years ago.”
Sheila leans forward, a clear sign she wants to encourage this whole Pontius Pilate thing. “Why not explore it? An historical fiction book involving Pontius Pilate would be a hit!”
“I wrote the last two from a crime and political scandal perspective, Sheila. That wouldn’t work for this, although I have to admit I’m no Pontius Pilate scholar.”
I’m not trying to be self-effacing or humble. I truly only know marginally more than the average human being does about this historical figure. When I first mentioned it to her, I think I had just gotten out of rehab for the first time and was ingesting a healthy dose of religion to keep myself from going back to my old ways. Normally, I’m not really a religious person at all. Spiritual at times, but not religious.
“Well, think about it. I’ll mention it and feel them out about it to see if it works for them.”
That statement right there bothers me. Crossing my arms, I say, “How about an author writing what works for them? Does it always have to be what the publishers want?”
She sits back in her chair and sighs. No doubt, I’m becoming more difficult, like her young author who can’t keep her mouth shut on Twitter. I don’t care. Something about being a pawn who’s supposed to write whatever the powers that be deem interesting has gnawed at me for a long time, and now that I’m secretly writing something on the side, their demands chafe me more.
“You know I’m a champion of artistic integrity, Ian. You know that. You also know that money is what makes this industry go ’round. If your books don’t sell, I won’t be able to get you those advances you like. I would never let them tell you what to write, but understand my job here. I need to make you as marketable as possible.”
I wonder aloud in frustration, “What happens to all those people who have great ideas that the publishers don’t like?”
“They self-publish. It’s all the rage. I’m not sure anyone writing historical fiction is terribly successful yet, but some are doing fantastic numbers. I know agents who are representing these authors and their numbers are impressive.”
“Are we talking paying to print a book and getting stuck with boxes and boxes of them in someone’s garage?”
Sheila smiles and her awkward appearance softens. “No. I’m talking about ebooks. You know, the Kindle and Nook. Millions of people around the world read books like that these days.”
“Not until they come with the ability to produce that book smell I love.”
“Well, you’re old fashioned, Ian, but many people love them.”
Suddenly, an idea comes to me. “You say there are people selling their own books without publishers? What genres?”
“Romance and science fiction, mostly, I think. The Kindle basically exploded because of erotica and romance, and they’ve led the way. Those readers buy ebooks by a much greater margin.”
“Hmmm…interesting.” Now the wheels in my head are really turning.
“Oh, my God! Ian, you aren’t thinking about that for your books, are you?” Sheila asks in that panicked voice she used just a few minutes ago when she was talking about that other author. “Please tell me you’re not.”
Shaking my head, I work to put her mind at ease before that vein in her forehead explodes out from under the skin. “No. Don’t worry. I was just thinking that’s going to be something that will make publishers have to change and maybe authors will be able to write more of the books they want.”
Sheila exhales and hangs her head for a moment before she looks up at me with a look of pure relief on her face. “Thank God. You gave me a scare for a minute there. Can we get back to the reality of your next book with a publisher? Can I tell them about Pontius Pilate?”
“Tell them I’m mulling over ideas and deciding between Marc Antony and Pontius Pilate.”
“Okay, okay. I just don’t want to see you become complacent, Ian. You have real talent. After all you’ve been through, I’d hate to see you let it all go because you lost your passion.”
I stand and give her a wink. “Not to worry, Sheila. I haven’t lost my passion. Trust me.”
“Good. And I hope you don’t mind me saying that you look great. I was worried after our last phone call, but I’m glad to see you’re looking healthy and happy.”
“Thanks, Sheila. Nobody worries about me like you.”
As I head toward the door, she yells after me, “I’ll call you when I hear something. And don’t forget about the film deal. It’s almost done.”
I wave goodbye and head out the door with my mind already moving on from what she wants me to think about to what I want to focus on.
Kristina.
* * *
I hop in a cab to head back home and as we get stuck in midday traffic, I think about Sheila’s comments about self-publishing. Could it work for Silk? A bigger concern is using my name on the book. As an author of historical fiction, I likely don’t have many fans who also read erotic books. Talk about an interesting Venn diagram for that group.
No, I’m going to need a pseudonym. I have no idea what I might want to call myself. Should it be something clever or sexy like names in porn? Maybe something like Ian Cox? Or Ian Cumming? I chuckle as I say the names to myself. No, they won’t work. Maybe something with an initial and some generic name.
The cab passes a bank truck with the name Anderson written on the driver’s side door. Nice common name. Now for an initial. My mind quickly moves to memories of watching Wheel of Fortune in my freshman dorm room at college with my roommate who was so obsessed with Vanna White he could barely get through a whole show without heading to the bathroom to jerk off. The most common letters are given in that final round—R, S, T, L, N, and E. I go through each letter, disliking the sound of most of them, but T doesn’t sound bad.
T. Anderson. I like the double entendre of T and A in the name of an erotica author. Chuckling to myself, I decide that name will work. Silk by T. Anderson.
I finally reach my building and jump out of the cab, happy I’ve got a name and a possible means of publishing the book. The sun has finally found a way to peek out from behind the clouds that have obscured it all day, so I choose to go for a walk instead of shutting myself up inside. It doesn’t take long for me to know where I’m headed.
Ten minutes later, I’m standing across the street from Kristina’s building staring up at her second floor windows into her living room. I think about that first night together in that room and how she’d been so afraid I didn’t like her because of what happened with some asshole. I still had no idea who he was. It hadn’t occurred to me to bother to find out.
He was the past, and in this case for me, I didn’t give a fuck about the past.
As I stare up at that room that holds such sweet memories for me, I wonder if she’s home. My mind weaves a scene of her sitting on her leather sofa, her beautiful legs curled up under her as she reads a script. Or a book. One of mine. Her soft brown hair falls over her shoulders, teasing the tops of her full breasts so sensitive to my touch. Those cornflower blue eyes I fell in love with as I watched her films intently read the book in her lap, her perfectly shaped pink lips occasionally moving to mouth a word as the story comes alive for her.
I crave that mouth. I crave every part of her. In just a few short weeks, I’ve become a slave to my need for her. Addicted. Obsessed.
Lost.