Page 7 of My Super Sexy Spy
ME:I am NOT going to miss the sex. You want to know a secret?
LEIGH:Always…
I took another sip of wine. This was a step. This was an opening-up step that was probably going to leave me feeling totally vulnerable tomorrow.
ME:I don’t really like it. Sex, I mean—so there, that’s not normal.
Was there a little bit of a pause there? Was I imagining that? Hell, for all I knew she just went up to get a glass of water.
LEIGH:My guess is that has everything to do with the person you’re having sex with—and not about you.
ME:I’m not gay or anything. If that’s what you’re thinking. I like dicks. I really do. I just sometimes don’t see the point.
LEIGH:Again—that’s about the guy dicking you. Not you.
ME:Thanks. I can’t believe I actually admitted that.
LEIGH:That’s what internet friends are for! Total anonymity while we confess our biggest secrets.
I sent her a smiley face and said goodnight. Then I logged off, finished my wine, and got into my nice, soft, comfortable bed. And just like I did every night since I’d learned how hard a bench was, or a cardboard bed, or any of the other shitty places where I slept when I was homeless, I said a silent prayer to whatever gods watched over me back then to get me to this place.
* * *
The next morning I was working on a blog about Kyoto, Japan, when my cell phone started to ring. It was sitting on my desk and started to shake across the wood as it vibrated. I checked out the name on the screen and cringed.
Did I want to deal with this now?
Knowing how persistent she could be, I decided there was no avoiding it.
I hit Accept and answered the phone. “Hey, Andrea.”
“Oh good, I got you. Not sure if you would be around at this hour.”
“Yep. You can usually catch me at this time.” Any time really. I was pretty much always home.
“So, have you considered what we talked about last week? I think this would be a super huge opportunity for you.”
Andrea was the editor from McMillan Publishing.
“What you’re asking isn’t exactly easy for me,” I said, trying to be a little cagey.
“What are you talking about? You’re a travel writer. You go places and write about them. All we’re asking is that you start taking pictures with you in the places you write about. A ‘where in the world is Beth Ryan today’ Instagram account that will explode in popularity. You in Paris, London, Rome. Eating pizza, meeting hot European men. We build your platform, then we turn that into a coffee table book that will practically sell itself.”
Could I do this? Could I actually push myself to go see the places I’d only experienced through the internet? Maybe this was what I needed. Maybe this was the proverbial push out the door that would change my life.
Because the truth was, I probably wouldn’t have done it on my own initiative.
“Selfies, huh?” I said, no doubt giving her hope I was changing my mind.
“We’re willing to go so far as giving you a travel budget as part of your advance. It probably won’t cover everything, but it will give you some cushion to really explore an area in-depth.”
I glanced around my empty condo and thought about leaving it. Yes, it scared the shit out of me. But so had leaving my mom. And that had worked out for the best.
I swallowed once then nodded. Not that Andrea could see.
“Okay. You’ve got a deal. But I’m not using a selfie stick.”
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