Down and Dirty Celebrity Edition (Outlast Her #5)

Chapter One

Amy Sandler was living the dream.

For someone who grew up in a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it town, waiting in line to meet her ultimate sapphic romance writer hero, Luna Manning, felt entirely impossible.

And doing it as a published author with a Sapphire Quill Award under her belt?

Well, fourteen-year-old Amy would think she was lying.

That girl used to slip out the screened back door and sprint past the rows of low-slung Elberta trees heavy with fuzzy, sun-warmed peaches, dodging muddy tractor ruts and clouds of buzzing fruit flies.

She would race all the way to the edge of the property, scramble into the branches of an old blackjack oak, and lose herself in every word of Jane Austen’s Persuasion.

And for good reason. People didn’t usually leave Porter, Oklahoma.

All the girls in Amy’s class had stayed, married the boys they’d known since kindergarten, and spent their twenties learning how to hem formal church dresses, bake perfectly crimped double-crust peach pies, and procreate, as if that required any sort of learning.

And if they did get out, they usually moved a few towns over, usually to Muskogee for a retail job at Arrowhead Mall or to Tahlequah to type up invoice logs for a natural gas company.

Possibly they would move to Broken Arrow, like Amy had done after getting a job as a librarian.

She’d spent two years stamping due dates before Luna’s book, Gone Are the Wildflowers, had landed on her desk.

Within a minute of flipping it open, amused that a lesbian love story could end up on the conservative shelves of the Schusterman-Benson Public Library, a half-closeted Amy had been so utterly taken aback by the lyrical prose and high-level heat that she’d immediately joined a creative writing class.

Amy’s knees had nearly given way right there in the self-help aisle when she’d read what Francesca had done to Jean with her fingers.

Not only did she want to read more of Luna’s books, but she also wanted to write ones just like them.

Which was why, every Friday evening for six months, Amy had listened to her smoker-voiced teacher, Viola, rip into her character studies.

It was only when Viola had brought both palms down hard on Amy’s desk and told her to write what she truly desired that her prose finally came to life.

What Amy had actually desired at that time was a very good orgasm.

In a way, Luna had been the pebble that started the avalanche.

She was the reason Amy had written her debut novel, Spurred and Spanked, submitted it to literary agent Urma Vance at Over the Horizon Literary, and somehow walked away with a moderate five-figure book deal.

It hadn’t been enough to quit her job at Schusterman-Benson, but it was enough to move out of her shared apartment and sign the lease for a one-bedroom unit at The Greens.

There would be no more finding the last of her peanut butter scraped down to the plastic or discovering that Julie had added water to her oat milk, so it looked full in the fridge, or listening to Julie’s lovemaking noises through the paper-thin drywall.

Amy even had her own private balcony, where she sipped her morning coffee while looking out over a neat row of parked pickup trucks.

Winning the Sapphire Quill Award for Best Debut Steamy Romance four months later had just been the gleaming cherry on top.

So too was being cast on Outlast Her Season Ten, which had been the inspiration for Outlasting Love.

And now she was about to meet her hero in person, and in Manhattan’s Barnes she literally helped decide which ones became global phenomena.

Her regular segments on Reese’s Book Club could launch a debut onto bestseller lists overnight or leave it dead on the shelves.

Publishers courted her. Publicists panicked over her.

Authors refreshed their phones, waiting for her verdict as if they were waiting for their SAT results.

Amy had spent several agonizing weeks after Outlasting Love came out holding her breath, waiting to see if Savannah would review her book.

In the end, Amy wasn’t sure if she was sad or extremely relieved that she hadn’t.

Especially after hearing how Savannah picked apart Helen Beard’s historical romance Wild Summer Roses.

The last Amy had heard, Helen had stopped writing and had moved in with her parents in Grafton, Vermont, to work at a pottery studio.

What on earth was Savannah doing here? Didn’t people like her have advance copies couriered in velvet boxes by tuxedo-wearing men? Standing in line at a Barnes you can always write another book,” Savannah said, flashing a toothy smile. “Have you been working on something recently?”

Amy’s tongue felt thicker than a slab of stale cornbread.

It was stuck to the roof of her mouth. For an entire minute, she couldn’t speak and just watched Savannah’s arrogant frown turn into something that bordered on concern.

But was that even possible? From everything Amy knew about the critic, Savannah could happily watch an author’s career burn to the ground.

Maybe she was just worried Amy would vomit all over her knee-high leather boots.

“Are you okay?” Savannah asked.

Was she okay? Was being slandered by the critic during what should’ve been one of the best days of Amy’s life supposed to feel okay? Was having a paralyzing case of writer’s block okay?

Amy would rather swallow a handful of fruit flies than admit to this woman that she hadn’t written a single word in months.

Months! But before Amy could think up a lie, Savannah turned back again.

The rest was a blur. The line moved and Savannah’s blonde head disappeared through the door before Amy could even find her voice to fight back.

And then, the next minute, Amy was standing at the very front of the line.

“Next.” A woman with ringlet curls waved her forward.

Amy clutched her tote bag close to her body.

She was literally so close to her writing idol that she forgot all about Miss Book Critic and her attitude.

She was so close that she could already smell the white roses sitting in a vase on the huge mahogany table and see Luna’s gorgeous wedding band on her ring finger.

Towering behind the author was a ten-foot satin promotional banner showcasing the cover of her highly anticipated new release, Apples and Pears.

Amy had pre-ordered the book ages ago, and two days after it had landed in her mailbox, she had read it from cover to cover. It might even be the sapphic romance of the century.

“Hi,” Amy managed when her thighs bumped against the desk’s edge. “I’m a huge fan. Your books are so inspi—”

“Thank you for coming, sweetie,” Luna interrupted, scribbling a swift, generic flourish across the title page.

Then she shut the book and slid it across the table to Amy.

Before Amy could even say thank you, a curly-haired woman was already waving the next fan forward.

“Next, please. Keep it moving. Luna Manning is very busy today.”

Amy walked into the stifling New York heat, feeling sick with humiliation and disappointment.

She hadn’t flown out all the way to New York from Broken Arrow only to pay an absurd amount for a shoebox hotel in Greenwich Village.

It was only a four-hour flight, but still.

Last night’s dinner at Buvette had cost her nearly a week’s worth of grocery money.

This day couldn’t get any worse. Amy’s life couldn’t get any worse. How could this be happening? And why did both Savannah’s and Luna’s dismissals of her feel like they had everything to do with her writer’s block and the fact that she hadn’t written a new book in almost two years?

Outlasting Love had literally gushed out of her like milk from a refluxy baby.

She’d spent nearly two weeks locked in her apartment, only to come out of it with a complete manuscript, which she’d immediately sent off to Urma.

Urma had loved it. She’d used the word fantastic so many times Amy had lost count and started crying tears of pure relief.

Despite what Savannah said, it was a fantastic book.

There were over six thousand reviews on Goodreads that said so.

Maggie from Little Rock, Arkansas, said Outlasting Love had been her gay awakening and she couldn’t thank Amy enough.

Chrissy from Portland had called it a masterpiece that had mended her broken heart.

Amy just needed that kind of inspiration again.

She fished her cellphone out of her tote bag.

She’d come terribly close to yanking out Luna’s autographed book and tossing it into the trash.

Then she scrolled down to Elise’s number.

The only reason she even had her number was that Elise had given it to her after Season Ten and said, “If you ever want to be back on the show, call me.”

Amy had laughed and said, “I don’t think I can ever willingly subject myself to that again.” But it didn’t sound so absurd anymore. Not when inspiration was at stake.

She tapped the call button before she could talk herself out of it.

Two rings in, Elise’s laugh barreled out of the speaker. “I had a feeling you were going to call. Did you see the theme for Season Twelve?”

Amy didn’t care about the theme. She didn’t care if they were dropping them onto a glacier next time or making them fight wild boars in Mississippi.

She just wanted to write a book so undeniably brilliant, so loved by all, that Savannah fricken Rigsby and Luna Manning would choke on their own huge egos.

“I want in.”

“You’re in, babe,” Elise said, laughing.