Page 25 of Always a Chance
“But it’s not true!” I only liked Milo because he was mostly evil. “This answer says my favorite movie isThe Notebook, a movie I actually find slightly problematic.”
Aidan reached out and pushed the lid of my laptop shut. “What’s really the problem, Johnny? You’ve never even bothered to read the interview answers they sent out before. Your pen name is just a persona.”
“It’s not me,” I burst out. “None of this is me.”
“Isn’t that the point?”
He wasn’t wrong, but that didn’t make it feel any better. “I’m calling my editor.” I slid my computer onto the coffee table and stood. Retrieving my phone from the kitchen, I walked into my bedroom and dialed the number I’d avoided for weeks.
“Well, if it isn’t my long-lost author.” Simpson didn’t sound angry, only tired.
“Yeah, look—”
“Got new chapters for me, kid?”
“No, I—”
“Why not?”
I gritted my teeth. I’d barely been able to write anything, at least anything good, and it frustrated me to no end. Yet, what was even more aggravating was the constant pressure to turn in words that didn’t exist. “Because I’m a human being who can’t just churn books out like a machine.”
The line went silent for a moment. “Well, we’re paying you to produce. We’ve given you enough extensions, Johnny. If you don’t find a way to get us something soon, we may have to resort to other options.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Trinity. We own her. It doesn’t matter to us who writes her books.”
Everything inside me froze. “That’s not possible.”
“Actually it is; read your contract.”
My fingers tightened their hold on the phone. “You’ll have a book.” I’d figure something out. I always did.
“Good boy.”
Ignoring the boy comment, I pushed on. “There’s an interview I didn’t approve of circulating widely.”
“Which one?”
Don’t kill him. Don’t kill him.The voice in my head reminded me it wasn’t possible to reach through this phone all the way to New York. “It was full of lies.”
“News flash, Johnny, we can’t exactly jump on the honesty train.”
“What if we did?” The words were out before I could call them back, but I found I didn’t want to. “What if we told the truth?”
“Oh, kid.” He sighed. “Readers don’t want to know the real person behind the words. They want the fantasy, the author who can make no mistakes as she writes about their favorite characters.”
“I think you’re wrong.”
“And that’s why we pay you to write your fiction while I’m paid to make the decisions.”
My searing gaze landed on the glass book figurine, an award I had won two years ago for my bestselling book to date. It served as a paperweight on my desk, but right now it was a reminder I didn’t even own my accomplishments.
“This is my life,” I bit out. “I don’t want it to be full of lies anymore.”
“Go eat something. I think you’re just hungry. And get me those chapters.” With that, he hung up. I stared at the phone, wondering how I had gotten myself into this mess. I had been an eighteen-year-old kid when I agreed to the lies, but I knew better now.
My free hand shot out, snatching the glass figure from my desk. I couldn’t have stopped myself if I tried before I hurled it at the wall. It shattered on impact, raining tiny shards on the bedside table below. Me… I turned my back on it and marched into the living room.
