Chapter 2 Bolton
BOLTON
How the fuck am I supposed to have a positive perspective when my agent asks me the most ridiculous questions?
Like all of our other meetings, this one fell right into the usual song and dance.
“When will you have this draft finished?” Meredith asks as she leans back in her chair. The harsh fluorescent lighting in her office hits every wrinkle and fine line on her face, and I can’t help comparing it to a used, deflated tire.
“I have three more months to finish it,” I politely remind her, just like I have every time she asks me this exact question.
She takes a deep pull of her cigarette, blowing the smoke out of her mouth in an irritated huff. “That’s not as much time as you think it is. Your contemporaries are writing books much—”
“I’m not my contemporaries,” I snap. “I barely even want to write this book. We should talk to the publisher again. I’m sure they’d love the gay romance ideas I’ve outlined. I even have full manuscripts to give them.”
“Bolton, I’m going to be blunt,” she rasps as she takes another puff of her cigarette.
When has she ever not been? “If you want to make the most money and stay relevant in traditional publishing, you’ll stick to writing male/female romance.
Start an indie pen name if you really want to pursue gay romance, but you’d waste your time.
You need to focus on writing as much as you can and as fast as possible, building a backlist for readers to dive into. It’s the best mark–”
I interrupt the same speech she always makes. “You have no authority to tell me what to write. And I sure as hell won’t rush my process and put out shitty books. I’m the writer, and I’ll write whatever I want. If you want to continue being my agent, you’ll get that through your thick skull.”
I didn’t mean to say the last part aloud, but it slipped out and there’s no taking it back now.
She freezes for a moment, obviously surprised by my behavior.
Usually, I just dance around her questions with vague responses and politeness, but not today.
This bitch is Publishing Satan, and I choose to rebuke her fucking nonsense.
Today, Bolton Blue is telling it like it is.
She takes a deep breath, then stubs her cancer stick out.
“You’re under contract with Knightmare Publishing—a powerhouse publisher who expects results. You write in a popular genre, with a lot of up-and-coming competition. The smart move would be to take advantage of your momentum while it lasts.”
“Putting pressure on me is not how I work best. If you continue this behavior, I will get a new agent who can respect my process.” I’m not sure how clearly I have to state it for her to understand. Judging by the frown stretching her smoker’s lines, I think she got the message this time.
Cal would be so proud of me for standing my ground against this wrinkly old hag. He’s been telling me to do this for years, and it feels so good!
“I’m going to write now. Please don’t schedule any further meetings with me unless they’re important,” I instruct her before ending the call. May as well go balls to the wall with this newfound confidence.
I squeal so loud that if we had neighbors on our floor, they’d have heard it. I hung up on my agent! Eeeek.
Who even am I? It’s like I woke up today and became this badass bitch who doesn’t take shit from anyone.
I can’t believe I hung up on Meredith fucking Blake.
It’s about time. Good boy.
***The goodest boy
Don’t push it. Get back to writing.
Fine. I guess I won’t send you those pictures I mentioned earlier to celebrate reaching this level of bad-assery. I’ll put my pants back on and write. Talk to you later.
Cal is always so serious. It makes teasing him so much fun. I put my phone on silent, turn on my Christmas Pop playlist, and get to writing. Meredith got one thing right—three months isn’t as long as it seems, especially during the holiday season. Every word counts.
The numbers on my digital clock say it’s three, but that can’t possibly be right.
My meeting with Meredith-McSatan ended at nine.
How did six hours pass by that quickly? My stomach hate-growls so loud I startle in my seat.
I was in the writing zone for so long; I skipped my mid-morning snack and lunch.
I go to the kitchen to grab a cold container of lo mein leftovers and a fork, then sit on the kitchen island like an animal. Fuck table manners—I inhale my noodles because I’m hungry as fuck, and no one is here to tell me to sit on a chair like a human being. That someone being Cal.
After I demolish my noodles, I rummage through the kitchen for more food. A cut-up apple and some chunky peanut butter sound delicious—rich, crunchy, and healthy because fruit, duh. I add some honey mustard pretzels on the side of the plate, so I have something crunchy to complement it.
Right before I take my first bite, my phone screen flashes out of the corner of my eye. I have four missed calls from the front desk, which is weird. They don’t call unless we have a delivery or food waiting for us. I call them back right away.
Jonathan, the front desk manager, answers my call on the first ring. “Hello, Bolton?”
“Yes, Jonathan, is everything okay?”
Nothing frazzles Jonathan. He’s worked in the building for over a decade and seen it all.
“There are a pair of detectives from the NYPD here to ask you some questions. They asked for entry to your penthouse suite, but I made it very clear to them that without a search warrant, I had to call for your permission to allow them access to your private space,” he replies in an even tone. “They said they’ll wait for you here.”
“I don’t know why the police would come around looking for me. Thank you for keeping them in the lobby. I’m going to call Cal and ask what I should do.”
“No problem, Bolton. I’ll wait for your instructions,” he says before ending the call.
Panic roils in my stomach, and I regret slamming those noodles back.
I think I’m going to be sick. Why would the police ask me questions?
Maybe they’re asking about something Cal did?
I’ve assumed all of his business dealings are on the up-and-up for the past eight years, but I never actually asked.
As long as the bills were paid and my card wasn’t declined, I didn’t worry about where the money came from.
Or they could be here for me…maybe Meredith McSatan-Pants called the cops on me after I hung up on her. She would…
The cops are going to wait in the lobby for me until I leave the apartment. I take a deep breath, then call Cal. He runs a multi-million dollar company and knows way more about legal matters than I do.
“Where are my pictures, Lightning Bolt?” he asks. I can practically hear the smirk in his voice.
“The pics will have to wait, Daddy. There are NYPD detectives in the lobby waiting for me. They want to ask me questions,” I answer him.
“Don’t leave the penthouse. I’ll be there ASAP. I’m texting our lawyer now, and he’ll meet us. Do not go anywhere with them or let them into the penthouse unless they have a warrant.”
Well, that doesn’t sound ominous or sketchy at all…
“Okay,” I squeeze in before he hangs up the phone. Fuck, now I have to put real pants on.
I’m not sure what’s going on, but it sounds like writing will have to wait…