Page 10 of The Loves We Lost
I put an arm over my eyes and lie there for a minute as my cock softens. What the hell is wrong with me? I could have grabbed Penny from the bar and fucked her instead of fucking myself.
It takes a minute to clean up the mess. I toss my T-shirt in the hamper, strip the rest of my clothes, and jump in the shower.
As my mind settles, I realize I can’t ignore that it was the best orgasm I’ve had in a really long time. And until I know the truth about her book and our story, I won’t be able to rest.
When I step out of the shower, I wrap a towel around my waist and look at myself in the mirror. I eye my body critically. I’m lean and muscular. I do weights, a shit ton of them. And I jump rope like a motherfucker. Good cardio, and the way I move, it’s kinda like a dance.
There’s ink across my body, much of it done by my best friend, Niro.
I toss on some moisturizer, and as I do, I look into my own eyes.
You’re doing great without her.
I almost believe it.
When I flop back down on my bed, naked—because it’s hot in the clubhouse as our air-conditioning is on the fritz—I reach from my phone and open the photo app she seems to be most active on.
I go to the messages to type my first question as Sophie. It’s hard to think of where to start. What would a fan of her books say? I settle on something simple.
Hey Vi. I love your books. I wondered if any of your stories were based on real life experiences, and if so, which?
Now I put my phone down and wait.
4
VIOLA
With no small child to care for, I’m early to the restaurant, so I hop on a seat at the bar and order the cosmopolitan I’ve been dreaming about. It’s probably an obvious choice while in New York, but I do love them. And I can put a picture on my socials so my readers can see I’m already here, ready for the book signing tomorrow, and I submitted my edits to my editor.
When the cocktail comes, I snap a photo and post it before taking a long sip. It’s cool and strong and tasty. I take a few more sips and realize if I’m not careful, I’m going to chug the damn thing and fall off my stool before my agent gets here.
There are a few messages on my apps, so I take care of them while I wait for Louise to arrive.
Natalie:Will you be doing a book signing in Italy?
God, I wish. I think it’s a misconception that authors with a lot of hype for their books must be doing relatively well. I do okay, but not much better than most blue-collar jobs. It’s enough to look after us, but not enough to fly halfway around the world for a signing, no matter how badly I want to toss a coin into the Trevi Fountain.
Me:I’d love to one day. But I don’t have any immediate plans for this or next year. I do know that Vengeance’s book will be out in October in Italian. Happy reading.
Mairi:Is there a way to get signed copies of your books?
Me:If you go to my website, you can order them there. I only mail out once a month so it might take a while.I attach the link.
Sophie:Hey Vi. I love your books. I wondered if any of your stories were based on real life experiences, and if so, which?
I get this question a lot, but maybe it’s the fact I’m in New York, sitting at a bar with a pretty drink, that makes me want to answer it this time.
Me:Hey Sophie. Once upon a time, I loved a biker. There are pieces of our story in Fortune’s book.
I hit send.
I use a pen name when I write. I kept my first name, Viola, but shortened it to Vi. It gives enough distance from the real me, but also means I won’t mess up at signings when someone calls out my name or when I’m signing it on a piece of paper.
Taking Avery’s father’s last name in a way I never could in real life felt like a fun and edgy thing to do at the time. There are all those games you play as a girl. Where you write Viola Mills loves Miles Graydon and add up the letters to come up with a percentage of just how much you love each other. I remember feeling crushed when ours landed at sixteen percent. But Miles pulled his trusty lighter out of his pocket, set fire to the paper, and told me that all the fates in the world couldn’t measure how much he loved me, so I shouldn’t try.
But taking his name as an author has also tied me to the memory of him in a way I’ve not been able to escape. Hell, if I ever meet a man who will love me as much as I want to love him and perhaps give me the sibling I really want for Avery, I’m going to have to explain why I picked it.
And what kind of woman would I be if I lied to my new love over something as simple as a name choice?
