Chapter 4 Bolton
BOLTON
Someone call Santa, because I’m a ho-ho-hoe. A holiday hoe on the naughty list whose body is so limp, he can barely get out of bed.
“Come on, lightning bolt. Our Thai food is here,” Cal says as he vaults out of the bed with a spring in his step. I thought men were supposed to slow down as they approached their fifties. How the hell is he able to walk after what he did to my ass?
“You’ve reached Bolton Monroe, aka best-selling author Bolton Blue. I can’t come to the phone right now because my husband destroyed my ass and sent me into a post-coital coma. Please fuck off and don’t leave a message,” I dramatically recited, barely lifting my head from the pillow. “Beeeeeep.”
“You need to eat,” he says in a stern, steady voice, unaffected by my bullshit. He’s rarely fazed by my shenanigans.
I yawn, trying and failing to move. “I’ll eat later.”
“No, you’re going to eat now,” Cal corrects me. He lifts me, cradling my body against his as I try to wrap my limp noodle thighs around his waist.
Somehow, after almost an hour of cardio, this man carries me to the couch and gently deposits me in my favorite spot.
Right next to the Christmas tree. He turns on the lights, and they twinkle between multi-colored and white.
The way the light reflects off the glass ornaments and balls always catches my eye.
“I’ll be back,” he assures me before retrieving our food from the front lobby and plating it for us. He brings our plates over and puts them on the coffee table. Then he pulls me onto his lap and feeds me.
I try to rearrange my body so I can sit up better and feed myself.
“Stay still,” he orders me as he brings another forkful of pasta to my mouth.
“Whatever you say, Santa,” I sass. He wrinkles his face, and I’m satisfied at how my teasing ruffled his feathers.
“Excuse you?” He asks.
“I’m sorry, Santa, should have said that louder for your old ears.” Gazing directly into his eyes, I try to keep a neutral expression as I loudly repeat, “Whatever you say, Santa!”
He pinches my arm playfully, and I shriek with laughter. “Who are you calling Santa? I’m not plump or jolly.”
“Yeah, but you’re an older man with some grey hair who gives me presents, and I’m sitting on your lap, so…” I reason.
“You little brat. Do you want me to keep feeding you?” I nod, opening my mouth for more pasta. The creamy, cheesy vodka sauce is addicting and I’ll literally die if I don’t get another bite. “Then behave yourself.”
“Would you rather I doom-spiral about being a person of interest in a string of gruesome murders based on books I wrote? I can do that instead.” As soon as I finish my sentence, it’s like an icy bucket of water is dumped over my head.
Cal’s dick is good enough to make me momentarily forget about the shitstorm that happened earlier today, but it’s not a magic wand—it can’t erase my memory completely.
“Don’t worry about it,” Cal nonchalantly comments, like he’s talking about some mild inconvenience instead of a fucking crime.
“Don’t worry about it?!” I ask, my voice cracking from nerves. “Cal, there’s some sicko out there murdering people like the characters in my books! And the police seem convinced it’s me. I’m beyond worried! This can ruin my career. I could end up in jail!”
“Bolton, calm down and let it go. They don’t have any hard evidence. You’ll be okay,” he assures me, as if my entire world isn’t falling apart.
How fucking dare he?
This is my livelihood—years spent writing into the void, querying publishers, receiving rejection after rejection until someone finally took a chance on me!
Then busting my ass writing two books a year to capitalize on the momentum, never giving myself any time off for fear I’ll ruin everything.
I’m not letting some sick fuck ruin my career. I refuse to go back to bartending.
I struggle to get out of his lap, and I don’t do it gracefully, but I eventually do. “Fuck off. Such a simple thing to say when it’s not your empire being threatened. I may not be running a huge, successful company, but I worked damned hard becoming Bolton Blue.”
“Bolton—” Cal tried to interrupt, but I’m too fucking mad to let him get a word in.
“This isn’t a joke, Cal. I bust my ass every day to write my books, and some fucking sick freak is out there killing people and ruining everything I worked for.
You have no clue how awful it feels to see your work used in such a way.
No one is knocking down all your buildings or selling off all your investments.
” Wet, fat tears roll down my heated cheeks.
I’m not sure where in my tirade I started crying, but it’s like a dam broke.
They blur my vision, making it impossible to look Cal in the eye so I can curse him out properly.
My nose is stuffed up, forcing me to mouth-breathe like a Neanderthal.
This crash out is going at a hundred miles an hour, much too fast for me to gain control of my emotions or turn back from this self destructive-path.
Cal looks at me as if I grew a second head. Admittedly, I’m a bit of a drama queen, but anyone would be next to Mr. Emotionless-Robot Businessman. The stupid expression on his face is the last straw. The proverbial wall my crash out careens into before going up in flames.
I’ve had enough.
I storm out of the room, all the way to the guest room, then lock myself in. I’m spiraling so hard I feel like I’m going to puke, and Cal can’t even take my feelings seriously.
His words echo in my head again.
“Calm down and let it go.”
Let it go… Let it go?! Just forget two detectives took me to the police station and act like my entire career isn’t hanging in the balance. Who the fuck is he kidding!?!
He knocks on the door, calling my name. I hide under the covers and ignore him.
“Baby, please let me in?”
No, I’m not letting you in, asshole.
The guest room has an en-suite bathroom and hidden snacks in the closet. My phone has my writing app on it. I can last days, no, weeks here.
Eventually, he gets the hint and goes away. My phone vibrates with a text.
I’m sorry I told you to calm down. You’re stressed. Please don’t worry about it. I’ll handle it.
I sniffle like a crybaby bitch. What if this is too big to handle and my career is ruined?
Do you want to talk now, or tomorrow morning?
I leave him on read. I’m too upset to deal with this
Ten minutes later, he texts me a final time.
I love you. Good night.
I can assure you, Cal, I will not have a good night.
I sleep fitfully, a million thoughts swarming in my mind and manifesting into some really weird dreams I can’t fully remember.
But I remember Cal visiting me in jail. And all my books being pulled from the shelves. People going on social media and burning my merchandise.
The stress and anxiety from yesterday pool in the pit of my stomach, and I can’t even muster the motivation to get out of bed. How could anyone think I’m a murderer?
I’m barely almost 5’6 and lanky as fuck.
A strong wind has knocked me on my ass many times.
I can barely reach the top shelf in the kitchen cabinet where Cal hides all his fancy European cookie snacks, let alone stab someone.
Or slit someone’s throat. Or cut someone’s hand off—literally an appendage!
That shit is connected by bones and muscles.
How could anyone actually cut off someone’s hand?
I can’t even bring myself to kill a spider.
They only think I’m capable because I write dark romance. Just because I write about vigilantes seeking justice, morally gray heroes, and crime-solving vixens doesn’t mean I’m capable of what my characters do.
Unfortunately, I’m not some psychopath who hunts down those who’ve wronged me and murders them as retribution. If I were, I’d hunt down the piece of shit killing people and turn his ass in before he ruins my life.
I roll onto my back, closing my eyes. My book won’t write itself. I have to get out of bed and stop spiraling. The breathing exercises my therapist always suggests work sometimes. They’re worth a try.
Inhale for four seconds. Hold for seven seconds. Inhale for four seconds. Hold for seven seconds. Inhale for four seconds. Hold for seven seconds.
I keep repeating, and with each breath, the anxiety melts away. My mind clears, and my muscles unclench. I feel like an actual human being.
An idea hits me like a brick through a window. What if I were like the characters in my book? Like, not a murderer, but someone who could hunt down the person responsible for killing all those people? Instead of killing him, I could turn him over to the police.
I know Cal said he would handle it, but I won’t be able to focus on writing my book with all of this hanging over my head. The police are one hundred percent wrong about me, but they were onto something…
If I can write a dark romance murder mystery thriller where a toxic couple falls in love while solving a crime, then why can’t I solve a crime in real life? It can’t be that much different.
Bolton Monroe—aka Bolton Blue, award-winning and best-selling author— will now add murder mystery solver extraordinaire to his resume. Whoever is fucking around with me better watch themselves.
Once I find them, they’re going to regret crossing me.