Hmm. Hot’s a pretty subjective adjective, but I’ll do my best.
The trendy, new restaurant she named is nearby, so I have time to fuss with my hair and makeup after showering. Sleeping all day has its perks for sure since I feel much more clearheaded than I did yesterday before the drinking started.
If only there was a message from Maggie when I woke up, telling me she was wrong about my work, that everything would be fine. No such luck. I’m still stuck between a rock and a hard-on.
Hayley’s sitting at a high-top table near the bar when I arrive, and she’s already surrounded by men.
I swear, if she wasn’t my best friend, I’d hate her.
For one thing, she graduated at the top of our class in college and then did the same thing at Columbia Law. She’s now working at a big Manhattan law firm while studying for the bar exam.
For another thing, she’s gorgeous, hence the men crowding around in hopes that they’ll win her attention. Long, shiny blonde hair. A megawatt smile, almost too perfect to be real. Big green eyes that can widen in innocence just as easily as they narrow dangerously.
Oh, and she has a body built for sin. Her words, not mine.
“There she is!” she announces loudly, waving a hand over her head.
I suddenly feel underdressed in my sequined tank and leather pants even though her clothes are more modest. She has the curves to fill out just about anything and make it look deadly.
“Kitty, this is Sean, Dylan, Drake, and Jackson,” she rattles off.
It’s amazing the way she can remember the names of four guys she met a few minutes ago while I need to meet a person at least a few times before their name is cemented in my mind.
The name Matt floats through my awareness, but that’s different. He’s unforgettable. Of course, the thought of him makes me remember this morning and the awkwardness from last night, and now, I wish I’d never heard of the man.
There’s another reason I love her. It doesn’t matter how crowded a bar is; Hayley can get a drink with no effort. She only needs to make eye contact with the bartender and twirl her finger around in the air, and then drinks appear like magic.
You’d think I wouldn’t want to touch a drop after my lengthy visit with Mr. Patrón, but you’d be wrong. A martini is just what the doctor ordered.
At my first sip, Hayley shoos the men away. “It’s girls’ night,” she announces with something that might pass for a pout. She doesn’t apologize.
“I’ll never understand your confidence,” I have to admit. “I guess having every man you’ve ever met fall at your feet makes it easier to turn them away. You know there’s always another guy waiting his turn.”
“Oof.” She grimaces. “It must’ve gone awfully bad yesterday if you’re already this low. So, what happened? Did you not hit number one this time?”
Have I mentioned I also love her discretion? The gentle, delicate way she approaches a situation?
“I didn’t hit at all,” I sigh. It’s not getting any easier to admit that. “The book was a flop.”
“You can’t win them all. Just write another one.” She shrugs. When I gulp down the rest of my martini, she adds, “Does the publisher want you anymore?”
“In a word? No.” I whirl my finger around like she does. “Could you use your magic to order up another? I feel like I could use it.”
She leans in, brows lowering as she gets serious. “Listen, you’re Kitty fucking Valentine. Get another publisher. Anybody would be lucky to have you! It’s not like you’re starting from scratch and you have no fan base, for God’s sake.”
“That’s true …”
“Although I have to admit something.” She frowns. “I enjoyed the book like I enjoy all your work, but I did end up wishing there were a little more sex in it.”
I tap a finger to the tip of my nose. “Ding, ding! That’s the problem. That’s what they want. I need to write more sex. I need to write according to popular tropes.”
“What’s a trope?”
“You know, like a theme or a storyline used to identify a type of book. Or a type of main character, the sort of men women love reading about. There are popular tropes and unpopular ones. Here’s a hint: I’m writing the unpopular ones.”
Hayley wrinkles her nose. “Okay, so Maggie wants you to write the popular ones. Like what?”
“Well, here’s the thing.” I have to lean in because this is way too humiliating to announce out loud in the middle of a restaurant that’s growing more crowded by the minute as people get out of work. I’ll either come off looking like a total weirdo or like a girl looking to score a date. I’m not sure which of the two possibilities is less appealing. “She asked me the last time I got laid. I was mortified.”
“Ouch.” Hayley cringes.
“She said I should start dating different types of men to use them as inspiration for each new book. She wants to serialize it, like a TV show or something. Can you imagine? And get this. She called them my sexcapades.” I can barely get the word out of my mouth without gagging a little.
I wouldn’t consider myself a prude, no matter how few sexual positions I’ve used in my life. But sleeping around for the sake of writing books?
Hayley takes a sip of her martini. She’s a thinker, for all her beauty and charm. Men often underestimate her smarts, which sucks for them. I, on the other hand, appreciate her thoughtfulness.
“It gets worse,” I continue. “The publisher wants to sell my new books for less than four dollars a pop. That’s the literary equivalent of stripping—except once the publisher and Lois take their cut, I’ll earn maybe a dime. I’m not even a stripper. Strippers don’t work for dimes. I might as well panhandle on the street.”
“Kitty …” Hayley sighs.
“It’s true! Do you know how many books I’d have to sell to earn a hundred thousand dollars?”
“A million,” she fires back without even blinking.
“Right. And, if that’s not bad enough, they want me to use my name. Kitty Valentine is synonymous with sweet romance. I feel like if I write something steamier, it needs to be under a pen name. Don’t most strippers use stage names? Can’t I even get that last bit of dignity.” Maybe I’m feeling self-indulgent and morose, but I can’t help it. There hasn’t been enough time to wrap my mind around the situation.
“I’m sure some strippers do,” Hayley agrees while reaching over, plucking her designer tote from the seat between us. She pulls something colorful from it and places it on the table.
“What’s this?” I ask, eyeing it with suspicion.
It looks like a spinning prize wheel, only miniature, and there’s a screen where I guess the names of prizes flash past until the wheel stops spinning.
Hayley folds her hands on the tabletop. “I didn’t hear from you yesterday. I got worried. Then, I remembered meeting Maggie at one of your release parties. She gave me her card that night. I called her up, and she told me everything.”
My jaw pretty much hits the floor. “Why did you make me repeat it then when you knew the whole time?”