Page 4 of Outlaws' Dirty Secret

Ghost snorts, but I notice he doesn’t disagree. I’d feel the same if I had someone waiting for me after a hard run. I didn’t think about shit like this until some of the brothers started claiming their women. Sure there’s always sluts around who are willing to take the edge off, but sometimes… fuck. It would be nice.

“Anything else I can help you with?” Hellfire asks sarcastically, and I realize I’m the only one left.

“All good here.” I grin and head for my quarters. I could use a shower, and might just spend some time imagining a certain girl next door wearing dusty overalls and nothing else.

3

WILLOW

The next morning,I close my eyes, turn my head and scrunch up my nose as I click on the email I’ve been avoiding for a week. When nothing explodes, I cautiously peek, ready to snap my laptop shut if needed.

Hey Willow! Do you know when you’ll have the draft for the first half ready? I'm doing my best to give you time, but I can only push back for so long if you want to hit the spring release schedule. I know this is your first book with us, so let me know if there’s anything I can do to help, okay?

Uuuuuugh, I feel so guilty.

My agent Colleen is the nicest, most supportive person on the planet and I feel like a big fat phony. What was supposed to be my big break with a major publisher is turning into a nightmare.

I’ve been coming up with stories for as long as I can remember. Books are pretty much my whole personality, and writing was one thing I could always rely on, but now, every time I put my hands on the keyboard, it’s like someone pulled the plug on my word machine. This wasn’t a problem when I was writing myIce Fairy books, the young adult series that I self-published on a whim and did so well I never looked back.

Sometimes I think I should just go back to what I know. Teenage drama and impossibly cool, magically powerful book boyfriends. But I started writing that series when I was sixteen, and now I’m almost twenty-four. I want to let my characters grow up, too. To swear and fight and have as much dirty, kinky sex as they want.

But my last boyfriend’s words still live rent free in my brain, like a squatter I'm powerless to evict, making me doubt everything I write. Because no matter how much of a jerk he ended up being, he hit me right where it hurt when I told him my plans.

“Really, Lo? You’re so vanilla it’s funny. You can’t even say the word ‘cock’ without blushing. I thought authors were supposed to write what they know.”

Frustrated, I slam my laptop shut and march to the kitchen, intent on a caffeine injection. While I fire up the coffee machine, I tap Grace's number on my phone and put it on speaker. As my best friend, she’s read everything from the insane stories I wrote about my Sims' lives when I was ten, to the cringeworthy first drafts of what turned into my bestselling series. She's one of the few people I trust to give me an honest opinion.

It takes her a few rings but she eventually answers. “Hey, babe. Everything okay?”

“Please, tell me it's good.” I pull my favorite mug out of the dishwasher. The one Grams got me last Christmas with “A GOOD ROMANCE HERO IS HARD” in bold letters, and “to find” in lowercase underneath. “I really need to hear it’s not as bad as I think. Actually, one sec, the coffee machine is starting.”

I haven’t been in this house long enough to update much, so the kitchen is still straight out of the 1900s, but decent coffee is non-negotiable. I used my advance for two things, moving across the country, and a fancy coffee maker. Right on cue, the built in grinder fires up, the sound of beans being crushed making it impossible to hear anything for a good fifteen seconds.

When it’s done, I lean my butt against the deep, chipped porcelain sink in front of my kitchen window and wait for the brew to finish. “Okay. Go.”

“I need to get myself one of those machines. I deeply regret not asking for one in our wedding registry.”

“Pester Terry enough, and he'll get one. You've got him wound around your little finger.” Grace found the kind of love people like me write books about. Her husband Terry might not be six-foot-five, with a trust fund and a job in finance, but I've seen how he and Grace lean into each other, how they smile and throw little glances at each other, and how he's always there when she needs him. A real life romance hero, waving every green flag in the book.

“Maybe,” she agrees with a giggle. Followed by a sigh. “Okay, so about the book.”

Oh no. I know that tone.

“It's bad, isn't it?”

“No! Not bad, just…”

I shouldn't have called. Right now I need her to tell me that the chapter drafts I sent her are absolutely brilliant, the steamiest, sexiest, most compelling romance she's ever read. Not the truth.

“All the elements are there, but… It's missing your usual spark.”

Ouch.

I turn to stare out my kitchen window, not really looking at anything. “Maybe I should try a different genre. Cozy mysteries are popular.”

She laughs. “Lo, I love you, and I’d read anything you wrote, but do you really want to write mysteries?”

“Noooooooo,” I whine. “I love romance. Happy endings are the best.”

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