Chapter 1
WARD
“Don’t go dying on me,” says Rob, my agent, and probably the only person whose opinion I value.
“I’m not going to die. I’m taking it easy. That’s not going to kill me.”
“You’ve been taking it too easy.”
Easy isn’t how I would describe the last few months. I throw him a resentful look. “I’ve had stuff to deal with.”
“Do you have to work from bed? The same bed you sleep in?”
“I’m not in bed now.”
“You’re not at your desk, either.” Rob exhales loudly. “I’ve given you the time you need, Ward, but you’re not making any progress. You’re in danger of missing the deadline. This book was supposed to release along with the film.”
I grab a handful of potato chips and shovel them into my mouth.
“So, I’ve made the decision for you. You’re going to Chicago. A change of setting will do you good.”
I almost choke, and get up off the couch, dropping my bag of chips in shock. “I’m not going to Chicago.” Hell, no.
“I’ve rented you a beautiful mansion. It might help.”
“How?” How the hell will being in Chicago help me? My satin robe has fallen open. Rob looked at me oddly and made a sarcastic comment when he first saw me. I quite like this. It’s comfortable. Far easier to sit and write in this all day than wearing sweatpants. I pull the sash tighter, but not before Rob gets a peek at my flabby torso. He winces and I turn away.
I’ve packed on a few pounds. My face might have rounded out a bit. I’m in a funk and have been like this for months.
“It’s not permanent,” Rob insists. “Three, four months. You need to finish the manuscript, Ward. You can’t miss your deadline.”
I sink back onto the couch. The words don’t flow these days. They haven’t for a while. For the second time in my life, I’m stuck with my writing. I used to be able to pull words out of thin air and piece together plots that would have my readers keep turning the pages.
I’ve lost that gift again.
“This is a seven figure deal and you need to honor it. What you don’t want is to risk incurring a penalty. Think of the bad press. Think of the film that’s coming out. Think of the book tour. The publicity. The talk shows. Think.”
I hang my head because all the things he’s just mentioned weigh me down. Rob has done great things for me. He’s been my agent for over a decade, my only agent. He’s been more like a mentor, guiding me when I’ve had no real life role models. I hate publicity. I hate talk shows. I’m no good at them. I can’t talk to people, much less laugh and joke with them, but because of this trilogy, this amazing book and film deal Rob negotiated for me, I have to do the whole publicity crap.
The first film in my Morbid Trilogy will release by the time the last book comes out but it’s this last book that I’ve hit a wall on. I can’t see me making the deadline. I haven’t written much. I’ve tried and struggled, and I have failed.
“You’re not doing yourself any favors slobbering in front of the TV all day,” Rob complains.
I lift my legs onto the couch and lie back. “It’s research.”
He stares at the screen. “Grey’s anatomy?”
“It’s research,” I repeat. “Wait till you see what happens to my main character during surgery.”
“I’m looking forward to it. When will you get the manuscript to me?”
I say nothing, because I have no idea. Rob shoves his hands in his pockets and paces around my study. “This isn’t good, Ward. You being stuck like this again.”
My jaw tightens. “It’s not like that,” I throw back. I’m not in that same hell hole I was in all those years ago.” This isn’t like that. “Don’t worry about the interviews and shit. I’ll be okay by then.”
“You need to write the book first!” He points at me. “When you clean up, when you take care of yourself, you come up looking good, when you look good, you feel good. It doesn’t matter what you say in your interviews because most of those women readers of yours, they like that you brush up real good.”
I groan.
“It’s a damn shame that you look like a slob right now.” He throws me a look that is soaked in disapproval. “When was the last time you shaved, or got a haircut? When was the last time you left the house?”
I lie. “Last week.” It was two months ago, when I needed to get into my psychotically deranged murderer’s head. I prowled around the streets of New Orleans in the early hours of the morning, trying to get into character.
“Last week?” Rob’s tone indicates he doesn’t believe me for one moment. “To do what?”
“Have a cup of coffee.” Being a writer means that lies come easily. Making stuff up for a living is a skill that comes in handy in real life.
“You expect me to believe that you went outside and sat in a coffeeshop and had a cup of coffee, surrounded by people? You? Ward Maddox, the reclusive, hermit author?”
“Yeah, I had coffee. That’s what I did.” I rest my hand on my stomach and feel the soft, marshmallowy flesh. I have packed on a few pounds too many. “I re-plotted the ending, then I had to go back and change the middle, and then I hit a bar and restaurant in the evening.” I lie again. He knows me too well and will see right through me.
If I could have things my way, I would never leave my writing cave. That’s why I brought one of the most expensive and beautiful of houses here. A twelve bedroom home with chandeliers and fireplaces in each room, stained glass windows and elaborate architecture. This is my castle. A place where I reign, where I am at my happiest.
A place where I feel safe.
Good for nothing piece of shit. That’s what my stepdad called me. The bastard would turn in his grave if he could see me now. I wish my mom had come here and seen my home and what I made of myself. She could have lived here, I even asked her to even though she didn’t deserve an ounce of my kindness. She turned me down, and we barely saw one another over the years.
“Yeah, sure you did.” Rob stares out of the window. “You also brought home a beautiful woman you picked up at said bar and spent the whole night showing her a good time.”
Bastard.
Now he’s messing with me. I can tell he’s annoyed because it’s not like him to bring up that stuff. He knows I’m cautious around women. Dating a basket case will do that to you. Sometimes I wonder if I am always drawn to insane people. Or maybe they are drawn to me because of what I write?
Rob stares at me as if he knows everything about me. And the problem is, he does. This guy who is supposed to be my agent, has become the only person I ever have any proper contact with.
“How many pages have you written?”
This is the question I’ve been dreading. “Six.”
“Today?”
I laugh, because that is hilarious. “Today?” Hell, no. “Six in total.”
His brows squish together like angry caterpillars. “In total?” He massages his temple. “You can’t afford to miss your deadline.”