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“Jesus, you are still bringing that up. That was when I was fifteen and besides, you are the one who dared me to do it.”
He has a point. And he deserves all the credit for not throwing me under the bus that day, even though he had to do a stint in juvie.
I still feel bad about that.
“Just write your next book, Levi. That’s the best way to control your future in this business,” Henry says.
“You want me to write another book so you can get your twenty percent.”
He throws his arms up in the air. “Dude, I deserve to get paid for what I do, don’t you think? Don’t discount the expertise I bring to the table.”
Time to dial shit back. I hold my hands up in surrender. “I know. I’m sorry. I appreciate you. You were trained by the best.”
He was. Henry’s mentor and sometime-savior helped him as he was coming up in publishing. He took over for his boss when the man was tragically hit by a car taking pictures of Christmas lights in New Jersey. And not that I’d wish that on anyone, but I was psyched that Henry got to take over as my agent. I’d alwaysthought he was a decent guy and hell, now we’re friends. The three of us hang out on the regular.
That is, when we’re not trying to kill each other.
6
LEVI
“I don’t knowwhy that fucking Julius Bird has such a hate-boner for me. Seriously. If he could critique the way I breathe, he’d find fault in it.” Goddamn. It’s been one of those days where it feels like everyone’s gunning for me.
Henry agrees. “No shit. He sure seems to have some kind of vendetta against you. I say just ignore him, Levi. Book critics are major assholes. They live to tear other people down.”
It bums me out. It really does. You pour everything you have into a book. You do readings, interviews, and even talk shows if you’re lucky. And then one fucker tries to ruin it all. He’s allowed to not like my books. Hell, lots of people don’t like my books. But when someone comes after you the way Julius does me, you have to wonder if he doesn’t have an axe to grind.
I have to push it out of my mind. It fucks with me. It really does. Puts out my fire for writing the next thing. Kills my story-telling itch. And I don’t like that. Hell, writing’s the only thing I’m trained to do. If I can’t tell stories, I don’t know what the fuck I’d do.
At the same time, sometimes I wonder if the literary world is just not for me. It’s teeming with snotty, pretentious pricks. In fact, I’m pretty sure I’m becoming one of them.
“Wy, didn’t you say something about going up to your cabin this weekend?” I ask. I need a change of scenery, big time.
His face brightens. “Let’s do it, man.”
“Henry, you free? Or do you have a date with that hot flight attendant you were seeing?”
Henry shakes his head and picks up the remote to turn on Jeopardy. “No, man,” he says distractedly, trying to find the show. “She asked the wrong question.”
“What’s that?”
“She wanted to know what I was thinking. You know, about the relationship. Such as it was.”
Oof. That’s the nail in the coffin for good old Henry. He sniffs the slightest bit of pressure from a woman and hits the road. That’s what I call baggage, at its finest.
“You already on to someone new?” Wyatt asks.
He leans back in his chair, happy he found his show. As the opening jingle plays, and Wyatt hums along, Henry looks at me like I’m crazy. “I’m taking a break, man. You know how I roll. I keep my distance. I have no plans to walk down the aisle again. Ever. I hate the taste of wedding cake. Always have, always will.”
An ex-wife will do that to you, I suppose.
The new Jeopardy host introduces the evening’s guests, so Henry turns to me with one last pre-show jab. “What about you, dude? That hottie who asked you for a selfie today when she recognized you. Did you get her number?”
I shake my head. I will never get used to strangers walking up to me. Not that it happens a lot, but when it does, it’s fucking weird.
Henry gets lost in his show, shouting wrong answers at the TV, and Wyatt and I try not to laugh.
“I’m not down with these new hosts since Alex Trebek died. I can’t get used to them,” he gripes.
