Page 129 of Wicked

When I was running.

I gulp, and nervously I open the email.

Dear Raven,

Loved your novel and showed it to my boss. They want you to come in.

Email me back and ASAP. They want to move fast with a deal.

P.S. How did you hide that crazy and brilliant mind all the way through college?

Email me now, babe!

Congrats! This is it!

My eyes pop, and I gasp. I email back fast, and my excited nervous fingers are clunky. I keep it short, so unlike me, and then I push send.

I buzz and pace the rest of the day, but I do not tell Parker. I do not want to jinx it. Knowing I have one chance in the universe makes me feel electric. There is a small chance I’m not such a complete screw up or fully broken.

That night, an email from the publishing company arrives.

I’m on edge and unable to sit down as we eat dinner on the rooftop. Parker finally pulls me up for acting weird, and I have to come clean. I explain the email that came in, my reply, and I tell her I have a shot. Parker tells me to sit and open the new email. She is likely right. I cannot eat, and I am a complete mess.

I pace more, then she raises her brow under her now cold lasagna.

“Open the darned email, you fool.”

“Too much is at stake,” I say, pacing and shaking my hands like a lunatic.

“Open it, or I will!”

I pounce on my phone next to her, and I know if anyone should jinx it, I should. Nervously, I open the email and mumble to God, the universe and to Gaia. My eyes skim fast as I hold my breath.

The company wants to meet tomorrow. They also tell me their entire team love the book and that they think I have a unique voice.

I scream, tell Parker, and we leap about like morons. That night, I hardly sleep because I am so on edge. As I lay awake, I wonder about tomorrow. I then think of Tito, and I think ofhim.

I then think of things we did together, and I think of things he did to me.

I have not had an orgasm since running from Italy, but I have thought about kneeling in the dungeon. I remember Dante commanding me to do things. To not come, and to come for him.

I sigh and check the time. It’s the middle of the darned night… still.

Rolling over, I tell my mind to go to sleep. It doesn’t because I can’t control myself.

Go to sleep. Go to sleep. Go to sleep.

“Figlio di puttana!” I mumble low. It’s the only swear word I know in Italian, but it slips out.

Motherfucker.

I’manxious at the meeting, but the Manhattan publishing team seems chill and inviting. They also seem cool, and they get the energy in my novel. I explain I rushed the end of the book, and I need to tidy it. To maybe even change it.

For some reason, they fall silent.

I realize I’ve screwed up, but suddenly the team explain that was their favorite part, and they request I do not touch it.

The head of the team even tells me she thought it was cosmic, edgy, and even pure genius.

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