Page 7 of Wolfish Player
“But would I have fewer headaches?” I ask. “And how many times would I have to read an article about how my firm has acquired another series that we haven’t delivered on?”
“The traditional authors miss deadlines, too.”
“They don’t post crying videos on TikTok about it…” I clench my fists against my steering wheel.
Today has been a day from hell, and the “Author Goes Viral After Receiving ‘You have one F*cking Month to Finish’ Email from Grey Wolf Publishing” headline is about to send me over the edge.
“All publicity is good publicity,” Theresa offers. “Right?”
“Wrong.” I shake my head. “Tell Marcia I’m not coming to the office tonight. If she needs me I’m at my favorite bar.”
“Take a shot for me.”
“I will.” I hang up and step out of the car, walking into Everly.
Inside, the place is empty and the only sound is the soft rain tapping against the windows.
I settle at the bar and wait for my usual service.
“There’s your first customer.” A soft voice echoes off the wall. “Go and greet him like I’ve taught you, and then I’ll walk you through the rest.”
Heels click against the floor as I scroll my inbox, pausing at a subject line.
Subject: Advance Repayment (Plan)
Dear Mr. Wolfson,
I’m sorry my client wasn’t able to produce the book on time and understand the need to repay the advance.
Attached is her plan to pay it back over the next three years, starting with $50 a month while she seeks proper employment.
Sincerely,
Joanna Parker
P.S.Aren’t you a billionaire? Can’t this be a tax write-off instead of robbing the poor?
I roll my eyes and reach for my typical whiskey, but it isn’t there. The bartender isn’t there either.
I turn around and spot a woman rushing across the room with a tray.
“Sorry, it’s my first day,” she says, sliding behind the counter. “I haven’t actually had to use my skills since college, so… What can I make you for tonight?”
“My usual.”
“I just said it’s my first day.” She shows me a lethal smile. “How would you expect me to know what you usually get?”
“I’m not used to talking to the bartenders when I come here,” I say, not in the mood for small talk. “You can ask one of your coworkers what their bar’s best customer prefers to drink.”
“Or, you can stop behaving like an uptight asshole and just tell me what you want.”
What did she just say? I take a long look at her lips.
“Macallan whiskey,” I answer evenly. “Do I need to show you what type of glass it needs to be poured in, as well?”
“That would honestly be helpful.” She lifts a glass. “Unless you’re okay with drinking from this one.”
“That’s a champagne flute.”
