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Sure, what I write is sexy. I mean, there isn't a lot of sex in my books. Not as much as some of the people I look up to. And there's no way I'm as good a writer as some of my heroes and role models that got me into the game—like Eddie Cleveland and Alexis Angel. But yeah, I enjoy what I do and the weird part is that I was so young and got a publishing contract.
So yeah, I'm traditionally published, getting advances and making enough money to live in a one-bedroom apartment in New York City.
Except until the last three months.
Where I had flop after flop after flop.
I swear it was like everyone who ever wanted to read my book decided that they were done reading about my bad boys. That they wanted, for some reason, to move on. I honestly don't understand it and I can't quite place my finger on it.
Every other indie author I've talked to has been telling me that it's not me; it's my publisher. But I can't just leave my publisher because they're the reason I'm even here in the first place.
So instead, I've been hoping for the best.
It doesn't help that last month in an effort to actually get more work done I rented an office here in Midtown. I know it was a bit of an extravagance, but rather than write at home, I wanted to commute form the Upper East Side to Times Square. The hope was that I'd be able to focus.
Well, that was the hope.
In reality, all that's happened is I'm paying for an office in a serviced office setting while my book is bombing.
But there's nothing I can do by looking at the Rainforest.com store ranking right now. I need to find out why nothing is being done to promote my book.
I call Grady.
Oh yeah, remember the boyfriend I mentioned? The one that I brought with me from NYU?
That's Grady. He manages my account over at Bad Boy Publishing.
And as usual, he's not answering.
Whatever, my serviced office is only really a two-minute walk from him; I'm in one end of Times Square and he's a block from me on 42nd and 8th.
And I have nothing better to do, so I shut and lock my door and head down the building.
It takes me almost no time to cross the street and go into the building that houses Bad Boy Publishing.
They're on the 5th through 10th floors, and Grady has his own office on the 7th floor.
He's always going on and on about how proud he is at his level of advancement at Bad Boy Publishing. I get that he's proud of his job, but he's an account executive still. Sure, he's climbing the ranks, but sometimes it's hard not to roll your eyes when he acts like he's the CEO.
I mean, if he were the CEO, he'd have a secretary or administrative assistant outside of his office, but he doesn't. Which means that despite the fact that his door is closed, I can still knock and go inside.
And that's when I freeze.
Because Grady is in his office alright.
But so is someone else.
She's got long blonde hair and a set of perfectly fake tits that have t
o be at least a C cup. She's anorexic thin and she's bent over the desk. Grady is naked from the waist down and he's pumping into her.
I smirk.
Grady pumping his cock into her as she's bent over his desk?
I mean, can she even feel him?
No offense to my boyfriend or anything, but sex really isn't his forte. Not with the 4-inch cock that God blessed him with. I mean, to Grady, those 4 inches are equivalent to about 16 on a regular human being, but to any regular woman, they're equivalent to about 0 I've always thought because whenever he's penetrated me, the first thing I've wanted to ask is, "Is it in?"
