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Levi steps toward Henry and I glance at the guide to make sure he’s not going anywhere.
“Is that right, Henry? I seem to remember you were on board just fine with the idea of publishing Ryder Night. Dude, you had goddamn dollar signs in your eyes, I could practically see them. It was all about money to you. You didn’t give a shit about what it might do to my career,” Levi fires back.
I decide to step in. A hot, sweaty jungle in the middle of nowhere Jamaica with a scared-as-shit guide who looks like he’s about to bolt is not the place to have a fight.
I hold my hands up and try to step between them. “Guys, let’s head back. We can continue this elsewhere, when we all cool down a bit.”
Wishful thinking.
“And you, Wyatt, you think I don’t know you’re texting her day and night when we agreed to cut ties? Do you think I’m a fucking idiot?” Henry explodes.
“That’s none of your business,” I say quietly, gritting my teeth.
I will not get worked up like these two assholes. I will not.
But when Henry reaches up and pulls a branch off a tree or bush—I’m not sure what it is—I see the guide turn and start to run. And I am after him so fast that Levi and Henry just stand there for a moment, confusion replacing the anger on their faces.
They’re not stupid, and it doesn’t take them long to figure out that if they don’t want to be left behind, they’d better start running, too.
So, in a matter of seconds, three grown men are running as fast as they can through undergrowth so thick we hardly touch the forest floor, all manner of jungle growth whipping against our faces, chasing after a terrified man who keeps looking back over his shoulder until we reach the Jeep, where we double over catching our breath, unsure whether to laugh or cry.
48
AMALIA
I’ve been waitingfor the hammer to fall since Levi pulled his Ryder Night book. I get why he did, he’s all about his career and shit, but in doing so he sure left me with nothing. Why Cameron hasn’t fired me yet is pure testament to his penchant for tormenting people.
Of course, I could just quit. Leave at lunchtime or plain just not show up one morning. Daisy, who’s always advocatingstick it to the man, would be over the moon if I did. Of course, if I no longer had an income, she’d have no sofa to crash on since we’d both be homeless.
My mother has been no help thinking this bullshit through, either. True, she’s focused on her wedding, but the only words of wisdom she has for me ae to get out of romance, and that I’d have better job security working in some other area of fiction.
I, for once, told her she was wrong, completely wrong, and that I didn’t appreciate her dumping on the genre I and so many people love. And second, I told her I don’t know why she thinksany other area of publishing is more stable, and that she has no idea what she’s talking about.
That shut her up and now I wonder if I’m uninvited to her wedding. Which would be sad but at least I wouldn’t have to wear the stupid dress she got for me.
I’ve put out some resumes, but everyone in New York publishing knows I’m at the center of this clusterfuck, and if anyone wants to touch me with a ten-foot pole, it will be a miracle. Seriously. People in this town turn their backs on you so fast you don’t know what hit you.
I should just go back to Victoria’s Secret and be done with it, shoplifters and all.
To bring things to a clean close, I told the guys to leave me alone, and that it’d be best if all contact was severed. That’s the only way we can move on from this. Cold turkey. Rip off the bandage.
The guys, I have no doubt, freaking masters of the universe that they are, will be just fine without me in their lives. Hell, they’ll probably have some new woman or women lined up in no time at all and forget about me, the strange rocker chick who once worked at Empire.
For the most part, the guys disappeared as fast as they came on the scene. No big surprise there. It hurts like hell, of course, that they could walk away as easily as they have. It just really sucks, and nothing was worse than the poisonous look Levi gave me when he told me to pull his book. I know he thinks this is all my fault, but I’m not going to stand for that. I told him so, but he’s just going to think what he wants.
I’ll take responsibility for what I should, but I’m not anybody’s whipping girl. Sorry, not sorry.
I did not leak the info about the Ryder Night book, and if he doesn’t believe me, he can shove it up his ass.
In spite of our split or whatever the hell you want to call it, Wyatt has not stopped texting me. It’s strange. At first, there was nothing, no contact, complete radio silence. I was like, okay, it’s over and these guys are gone from my life. Good riddance to them.
Then Wyatt pops up again.
At first, when I saw his text message, my heart leapt, corny as it sounds, just like it did every time I heard from one of the guys. But when I reminded myself to get a grip, that shit is over and done and I need to focus on what to do next with my life, I found Wyatt’s outreach to be anything but welcome.
The man needs stop checking in on me. I don’t need him or his help.
Even though I miss him so much it hurts. It physically hurts.
