His Dirty Author

Erin

My mother always told me I was too young to be so stressed.

She told me when I was just six, learning to tie my shoes, furious the older kids could do it.

She told me when I fussed over going to the prom or not-- not, by the way, because all the boys were too immature.

And she told me when I sent my first query letter to an agent for my books.

Maybe she was right those other times, but now, as I pace outside the far too grandiose doors of that very same agent who agreed to take me on, I know this is when it's okay to be stressed. Who cares if I'm only eighteen? I’ve always felt older, anyway. An old soul.

Which, my agent Michael told me, is a great quality. Now I'm here, pacing outside his office with its elaborate doors. All he cares about are those fucking doors. He constantly tells the story about buying them off some church in South America. Or something like that. If I’m honest, I don’t really listen when he goes on tangents about places I've never been in my short time on this earth. I let him talk and I go back to working out a plot problem or tweaking a piece of dialogue. All in my own head, of course.

Right now, I’m waiting for him to finish reading the final chapters of the book that I’ve been working on for months, before I finished high school, in fact. It's been slowly coming together, put aside for other ideas that seemed better but weren't. That's why they were always rejected. But this? This is the one. Finally, I think that he’ll agree to send me on submission. I can practically taste it with this book. The characters leap off the page, the emotions are there; the dialogue is snappy, and the sex is hot.

I’m not one of those writers that thinks everything they write is god’s gift to man and that it’s going to be a worldwide bestseller, but I can see this one doing well. Hopefully. Optimistically. God, I hope that he likes it. I can’t stop biting my nails and wearing a path in the plush carpet.

My heart jumps into my throat when I hear footsteps. The door opens and he puts his head out. “Come on in, Erin.”

There are approximately a million baby kangaroos jumping up and down in my stomach. Joeys. That’s what they’re called. I sit in one of the big chairs on this side of Michael’s desk and do my best not to fidget. He was happy to take me on as my first agent, but nothing I've given him has stuck. Either I’ve been just behind a trend, didn’t hit the tropes hard enough, or I just wasn’t writing well enough. He'd always assure me the big idea was coming, that I was just too fresh, too young. I’ve been driving myself crazy trying to get a book exactly right.

It’s not like he’s stifling me. Michael Collins is one of the best literary agents in New York. Maybe even the best. The fact that he took a chance on me at all is a miracle.

He drops the stack of pages on his desk. “So,” he says. “How do you feel?”

“Nervous,” I say.

“Why?”

I shake my head. “Because I finally feel like this book is good enough to be the one and I’m dying to know what you think about it.”

He smiles, but with that smile my stomach drops, because I’ve seen that smile before and it’s the smile that comes with an apology. “I think that it’s almost there.”

The urge to tear up is immediate, but I force it back. I need to be a professional. “Revisions?”

“Actually,” he says, “I have a bit of a different idea. I think you need to get out of your own head and expand your writing in a different direction.”

“How am I going to do that?”

“Help Malik Ellis on his latest book.”

I stare at Michael, feeling my eyebrows rise into my hairline. Malik Ellis is the king of erotic romance. Against all odds, he’s carved out a name for himself in a female dominated genre and has managed to do so without being a complete prick and misogynist. Or at least that’s how it appears from the outside.

Not to mention that Mr. Ellis happens to be smoking fucking hot, and everyone who’s ever read one of his books has ended up with one hand in their pants, thinking about one of his characters. Or possibly him.

And I do mean everyone. Men and women.

Including me.

My mother never found the books of his that I'd sneak home. Lying in my bed at night, Malik's words guided me to discover more about my inexperienced body than I ever would have guessed. He was my first crush, in a way.

I watch Malik down what must be scotch in one go. “What is she, like nineteen?”

“I am eighteen, in fact," I say, crossing my arms. "And in the room with you. Hearing you speak about me.”

He has the good sense to look a little chagrined. But his expression is still dark and unmoved. "Christ, not even nineteen, then." He looks at Michael. “No.”

“You don’t really get it, do you?” Michael says. “Your publisher, your editor, and even the fucking marketing and sales team are breathing down my neck for this book. They’ve delayed production three times. This book is getting written, whether it’s by you or not. So, get with the program.”

Slowly, Malik turns to look at me. “And where did you come from, exactly?”

I straighten. “I’m one of Michael’s other clients.”

“Oh? What’s your name? Not published yet?” He doesn’t even give me a chance to answer. “You’re here for the payout.”

“Like you wouldn’t have done the same when you were younger,” Michael says.

I flush hot. He doesn’t say that I’m a good writer and that I’m almost ready to go on submission. But I don’t think anything I say to defend myself right now will fall on willing ears. So, I wait.

Malik looks me up and down, and fuck, I wish that it wasn’t because he thinks I’m some scrawny kid who’s trying to steal his stardom. Because in any other situation, that look would just melt my clothes right off.

Looking down, I check to make sure that they’re not. “Well,” he says, “at least she’s pretty.”

My mouth drops open. Is he fucking serious right now? Now I truly understand what people mean when they say never meet your heroes. Malik Ellis’s books have been comforting for me to read. I’ve learned a lot from his writing, and some of my favorite fantasies are influenced by his books.

That’s pretty much ruined now.

Straightening my spine, I stare him down. “I’m so relieved that you approve of my appearance.” Every ounce of sarcasm that I have laces the words. “Thankfully, me being pretty has no bearing on whether I can write a book. Maybe being nominated as Publishing's Most Eligible Bachelor has eaten your brain from the inside out? If you’re so stuck.”

He’s frozen, and then he looks over at Michael. “You’re going to let her talk to me like that?”

I don’t give Michael room to answer. “In case you’ve forgotten in the last couple of minutes, I’m an adult and I’ll speak to anyone whichever way I please."

"Are you?" Malik muses. "An adult, I mean."

I curl my upper lip but press on. "Considering I’m actually doing you a favor, maybe you could get your head out of your ass and speak more than a sentence directly to the person who’s going to save said ass.”

The corner of his mouth ticks up into a smirk that he barely hides. “What’s your name?”

“Erin Bailey.”

He glances at Michael again, and in the corner of my eye I see him nod. Our shared agent isn’t going to let him get away from this. “I guess I can sit down with you at the very least and see what you’re made of.”

“Here,” Michael says. “You can use the conference room. I’ll have coffee sent up.” When Malik shoots him a scowl, he shrugs. “You forget that I’ve known you too long, Malik. I’m not going to let you invite the girl out for coffee and then magically disappear before you talk to her. You’re doing this. Go to the conference room.”

Malik bristles. His jaw tightens and his fingers curl. But he goes, and I’m left with Michael. “That went well,” I say sarcastically. “When you offered me the job I kind of assumed that he already knew that he was going have a ghost?”

“Malik has a unique temperament sometimes. Very artisan. Usually with him, it’s better to ask forgiveness than permission. Something that you should remember when you’re writing for him. If you think that something needs to happen and he doesn’t? Do it anyway. He’ll change his mind if it really fits and he sees that it works.”

I’m still reeling over all of this. First, I’m good, then I’m only good enough, then I’m supposed to not listen to the man whose book I’m actually writing. At this point I’m not even completely sure what my job is supposed to be. Except to apparently write a book. “When is the book due?” It’s the last thing that I can think to ask.

“Three weeks.” Michael takes a sip of the whiskey.

“Three weeks?” I gawk at him. “That’s not possible.”

He fixes me with a stare. “For that amount of money, it better be possible.”

I’ve never written a book in three weeks. Most people haven’t. That’s like being the world champion in the hundred-meter dash. Way too fucking fast compared to us mere mortals. But he does have a point. The amount of money they’re offering is well worth it. I’ll just write all day.

That will work, right?

“Okay. I’ll do my best.”

A thin smile. “You’ll have the contract by tomorrow.”

I nod, sensing the dismissal. I leave the office and head toward the conference room and the man who doesn’t want me there. Someone that I really should be avoiding at all costs.