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“You’re the writer. Figure it out. Tell me a story.”
“But how?” I whine again, and she pivots on her heel to glare at me, her expression very near to anger.
“Make up a character, Bella, and then live it. Do whatever you have to… I don’t care. But in case you’re really not getting it: the serious journalist you want to be has zero chance of existing if there’s no Riordan Publishing around to publish her works. Understand?”
“Make up a character,” I repeat numbly, letting the words sink in. Make up a fucking character.
“Yeah,” she insists. “Fake it til you make it, like the rest of the goddamn world does every day. Okay?”
“Okay.”
We’re done here. I know I could ask her a million more questions, but it would just be like throwing pebbles up at Juliet's window when Juliet's pretending not to be home.
“Well, I guess, um…”
“Thanks, Bella. You’re a lifesaver,” she mumbles, more calmly, but she's not looking at me anymore. She scowling at her laptop again, seeming to be a lot farther away than just on the other side of the desk.
So I guess that's that, I tell myself as I make my way back to the elevator, retrieving my validated parking stub and pressing the elevator button.
I’m going to invent a new me.
I’m going to date a billionaire.
And the new me — the character with a job she wants to keep — is going to pretend to enjoy every minute of it.
Hannah better appreciate this.
She will; won’t she?
Chapter 25
Dillon
I take the corners too fast, screeching through the parking garage ramp like a kid who’s just stolen his dad's car. This floor is almost deserted except for the back wall. I guide the Ferrari through the lanes, relishing the feeling of its tight steering, sensitive as a schoolgirl.
The back wall is all lined with engraved placards for the reserved spots. Jerking the wheel to the left, I whip into the spot marked Emmet Riordan. He won’t mind. Brothers share, like I'm always trying to tell him.
The engine is almost silent but when I shut it off, and I can see just how low and sensual that sound really was. Kind of a subliminal hum, a vibration that thrums through the whole chassis. Pretty sexy.
Just had a hummer this morning, as a matter of fact. I try to remember her face, and what the hell was her name? She gave me one of my top-ten blowjobs ever, jamming me deep into her throat and still managing to hum like a kazoo band in that sexy, low voice.
It was all her idea. I expected her to leave after I fell asleep, like they usually do. I thought she had to get to class or something, but I guess she wanted to stick around. Then she dropped back under the tangled sheets and started pushing my ball sack around with the tip of her nose. Singing to herself or something, I thought. Then humming, then deepthroating me with a soundtrack. Maybe some kind of voodoo, I don't know. It worked just fine, that I can definitely say for certain.
Now what was her name?
Just thinking about it — the blowjob, not the name ?
?? is getting me hard all over again. I ease the seat back a little bit and settle into the supple, leather bucket seat, my hand jammed against the base of my cock. I feel it twitch, hard. Yeah, I'm ready again. Maybe not such a great blowjob after all? Not a lasting one, in any case.
Should I do it? Actually beat off as I’m parked in my brother’s reserved, special parking space? With my eyes half-closed, I kinda see his name up there, through the windshield. That's a little weird.
I close my eyes. She had the blackest hair I've ever seen. So dark, with highlights as shiny as plastic. She moved her head up and down, and it seemed as though I could almost see a reflection of the whole Chicago skyline, right there on the side of her head.
Beautiful.
Thud.
I sit upright, looking around. I felt the car move. Did some motherfucker just hit me?
