Page 27 of The Love Interest
“I’ve been trying to save your life for two weeks, but the truth is you’re the one who’s saving mine.”
“Oh, Jack…”
“Tell meyoursecret. Hurry up.”
“Okay. Here it is. I’ve wanted to tell you this for a week, Jack. The truth is when I first met you, I—"
“You what?” Jack said into the corner.
“She knew she’d be mine again, eventually…” whispered a deep, menacing voice.
Jack spun around, pistol drawn and aimed directly at the red-haired man with the scar. Women screamed. People ran—some dropped to the floor. But Catalina was frozen, staring across the gallery at him because the man had one arm gripped tight around her waist and a gun to her head.
Jack wanted to know what Catalina was going to say. He would find out. But he’d have to kill yet another man first. He just didn’t know how he was going to do it yet.
* * *
Yeah, all right. That works.
You’ll have to let the publisher know it’s a little off-brand for our series, but it’s Jack Irons, so fuck ’em. A little sexier and more romantic than some readers might be comfortable with, but it’s still a thriller. The heart of every story is a love story, or so I’ve heard.
It’s not as shitty as the other attempts. Definitely needs a good polish. Obviously, Chapter One will flash back to when he first met Catalina, and I’d bet anything you don’t have a fucking clue where things are headed because you’re a hack who doesn’t outline. But I can ride with this.
Good job.
I’m glad you’re finally inspired. You should have fucked her. Not judging. I mean, we both know that I would have, but I’m a badass former military man who kills people and you’re a giant pussy.
Now go jerk it to Fiona and then take a fucking nap, will you? You had a big night, and you’ve got a big day ahead of you today.
11
EMMETT
Fuck you, Jack.
I’m inspired. I didn’t fuck Fiona because I actually like her and I want to stay inspired. I want to do bad, bad, dirty bad things to that woman. And I’ve already jerked it to her twice since I got home at seven. But I’m not ready to deal with the consequences of having sex with her yet. I don’t want to let go of the magic of our first night together yet. If that makes me a giant pussy, then I’m a giant fucking pussy.
But fuck you, Jack.
What a difference a few hours can make.
Yesterday I woke up dreading yet another day of staring at the monitor, trying to find a way into a story about a widower who’s ready for love again. I couldn’t conjure up a love interest for him in my imagination, and I didn’t have a muse. Didn’t even want one.
Today I’m lying in bed at one thirty in the afternoon with a hard-on and a smile, thinking about Fiona Walker’s pretty face and the way she kissed me. I’m thinking about her perfect ass in those jeans and those perky tits that just looked so young and fun and happy to see me. I need to get my hands and mouth and tongue all over her. I need to be inside her, and I want to know how she’ll look at me when she realizes just how good I’ve made her feel. I need to stop thinking about her. I can’t beat off three times in six hours. I’m not a teenager.
I’m a cliché, it turns out. A man who likes a woman who’s a decade younger than him. But fuck it. Clichés sell. I’m the family sellout.
I need to get up and deal with the voicemails. One from my father, who only said to call him back because he has something urgent he needs to discuss with me. One from my editor asking when he can see pages, followed by one from my agent telling me that my editor needs to see pages soon because my publisher wants an update.
The reviews for my last book weren’t great, and paperback sales were down from the last release. But it was still a best seller and the studio still optioned it. Last I heard, they don’t have a good script yet, so they’re going to wait for the next book. Not my fault their hack screenwriters can’t figure out how to write a decent screenplay from my source material. It hardly matters how successful my debut was or how many units the Jack Irons series as a whole has sold worldwide—as soon as the publishers start to sense a decline in interest, they get nervous. My family starts to feel sorry for me—which is hilarious. I have a best-selling book series that’s been adapted to a hit movie franchise, and I’m still the disgrace in a long line of Pulitzer Prize–winning authors and MacArthur Fellowship genius grant recipients. My sister gets a free pass because she was an attorney for a nonprofit.
I’ll always be the guy who lost his fiancée to leukemia and then sold his soul for a seven-figure book deal.
But not today.
Today, I’m the guy who made out with a twenty-five-year-old woman on a park bench at sunrise and discovered there’s still magic to be found in Manhattan, if you’re open to it.
Magic and a four-foot metal cock.
