FOUR
I watched as my friend’s shoulders relaxed slightly. He ran a hand through his dark blond hair and took in a deep breath.
‘Good. It’s only temporary, okay?’ he exhaled, as if he had just talked a toddler out of a tantrum. ‘Just until you’re back to yourself.’
Back to myself… The phrase made the corners of my lips twitch a little.
I hadn’t been myself since I beat that monster to the brink of death twenty years ago.
Everything since then had been a slow descent into chaos and the things I didn’t want to look at too closely.
Vinnie might’ve thought I was just a writer going through a slump, but I knew better.
Maybe I was becoming a psychopath myself, given my increasingly darkening inclinations.
The first candidate shuffled in, all nerves and broken English. I barely managed to keep a straight face as Vinnie turned to the window, his shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter.
By the time the poor guy finished fumbling through his qualifications, I was glaring daggers at my best friend.
The second the door clicked shut, I muttered, ‘If the next one pulls the same shit, I’m going to beat you.’
He finally turned, grinning like the arsehole he was. ‘Come on,’ he said, his tone light and teasing. ‘This is fun. Admit it.’
‘Oh yeah. A fucking riot,’ I deadpanned, though I felt the threat of a smile coming on – which only made Vinnie’s grin widen.
‘Next one’s a winner,’ he said with a wink, heading for the door. ‘Promise.’
I rolled my eyes, settling back into my chair as I muttered, ‘Your promises are shit.’
The next candidate – a cheerful mother of five – explained she wanted to ‘earn some cash when she had the time.’ I resisted the urge to bang my head against the desk as soon as the words left her.
This wasn’t a hobby. It was my livelihood. And Vinnie’s.
When she finally left, I sat there tapping the edge of the desk anxiously, glaring at Vinnie for letting her through the door in the first place.
‘It was an improvement?’ he offered with a sheepish grin.
I narrowed my eyes, my hand jolting slightly towards the monitor. If I hadn’t been so fond of my equipment, I might’ve hurled it at him.
Another knock on the door. My patience, already threadbare, snapped further. Planting my face in my hands, I let out a slow, controlled exhale and regretted not booking Scarlett for tonight. I was going to need to let out some steam after all this.
Maybe I should go to the gym.
Or maybe I should find someone else to fuck hard enough to forget the terms of my contract with Scarlett. But even that felt pointless. No one opened their mouth like her, closed those lips around my knife. No one got wet like her at the feel of my blade pressing.
No one tasted like her.
Not even the weights would offer release. Lifting iron couldn’t bleed out the tension in my veins the way she could – stripped bare, bound, trembling, waiting for my command.
Ah, hell…
I had ruined my day with this. Two days.
Three more disasters followed – a wannabe poet, a retired teacher looking for ‘a new challenge,’ and someone who treated writing as a ‘passion project.’ Each was worse than the last.
I wanted to scream.
Writing wasn’t easy. It wasn’t something you dabbled in between Netflix marathons or PTA meetings. The sheer arrogance of these people, thinking they could waltz in and fake their way through it…
The final candidate wasn’t a writer at all – just a fan who had clearly memorised my bibliography and spent the entire interview blushing and stammering.
Her questions didn’t even relate to the job; they were all about me.
My writing process. My inspiration. My favourite meal.
Sure, it was flattering, but I’d had more than enough of this kind of attention.
It was becoming less of an ego boost and more of an annoyance.
In the end, I signed a copy of my latest book, handed it to her, and sent her on her way.
When the door closed behind her, I turned to glare at the broken coffee maker slumbering like a useless relic on the shelf. I caught myself fidgeting with the long sleeves of my shirt, which gave away just how much I was hating this.
I never fidgeted.
‘You still haven’t found someone to fix that thing?’ I asked, deciding to channel my irritation into something other than insulting Vinnie and his appalling vetting skills.
He glanced at the coffee maker, then back at me with a long-suffering sigh.
‘Why are you so attached to that piece of junk? I could get you a new one. Better one, even. Or the exact same model, but, you know, functional.’
I was already shaking my head before he even finished. ‘This one makes the best coffee. I want it fixed.’
He groaned, rubbing his temples. ‘You’re impossible.’
I cocked an eyebrow. ‘And you’re annoying. Are we done for the day?’
He opened his mouth to reply, but a sharp knock on the door cut him off. The sound wasn’t the hesitant rapping of someone unsure of their welcome.
Vinnie froze, his hand still on the door handle as he peered out, then turned to me with a grin so wide and stupid I instantly knew something was up. The gold chain beneath his T-shirt slipped into view, and he tucked it in with a sly, ‘Oh yeah. We’ve got another one.’
‘What?’ I snapped, already weary.
He winked as he cleared his throat and cracked the door open.
‘Buongiorno,’ he said, his Italian smooth as silk, dialling up the charm several notches like he always did around beautiful women. It helped that he was fluent, his accent flawless because he’d been raised by Italian parents.
‘Good afternoon,’ came the American accent of a feminine voice, low and calm but with just enough warmth to make my interest spark. ‘Am I too late? I know I’m a little behind.’
‘No, no! Don’t worry,’ Vinnie said, practically purring as he swung the door open wider and stepped aside. He glanced back at me, beaming like he’d just gift-wrapped my next breakdown.
The woman walked in as I repositioned myself in the chair.
Her gait radiated effortless confidence, her tailored grey suit crisp and professional.
Everything about her spoke of control, from the clean lines of her attire to the way she carried herself.
But it was her bright eyes that caught me – sensible, firm, assessing me as much as I was her.
There was no hesitation, no faltering step.
She wasn’t here to impress; she was here to prove something.
I’ve been around women. Too many. My body count was… well, let’s just say thank fuck for bi-monthly screenings. At least my restraint had a conscience when my dick didn’t.
And this one? Just another eager blonde. Clean suit, tight smile, eyes full of whatever she thought I wanted to see – textbook applicant. I’d met her type on a daily basis – ambition perfumed over insecurity, hoping their passion would outweigh their lack of talent and knowledge.
Pretentious? Maybe. But at my age, I’d had my fill of reality.
Maybe she thought quoting my early work would earn her a seat like that woman from last week. Or was it three weeks ago?
Too bad I wasn’t in the mood to be anyone’s fantasy.
I had no idea if she could write a sentence worth reading, but in that moment, I was scrambling to give a damn.
She said her name, but I was too fed up with my morning to even catch it.
‘Please sit,’ Vinnie drew the chair closest to her, his grin widening like he was watching a damn sitcom.
Luckily, I had been running on autopilot since disaster number three, so I lobbed the first question without effort: ‘What are your qualifications?’
Vinnie grimaced at my clinical tone, taking a step back. And I decided to make an effort to dial down my exasperation.
She started talking – smooth voice, professional – but I wasn’t really listening.
Not because she wasn’t clear, but because my brain was still tangled in the haze of contracts, caffeine withdrawal, and a thousand unfinished things.
To top it off, that blank Chapter Fifteen open on the monitor glared daggers at me, reminding me why she was here.
Honestly, she was beautiful – like most Mediterranean women. But I didn’t care if she was fluent in six languages or wrote erotica in fucking Morse code – I just needed the day to end.
I didn’t hear a fucking word she had said.
Her words blended into the background until her sharp gaze fixed on me, jolting me out of my thoughts.
My focus had wandered – too obviously, it seemed – and her ice-cold glare cut through the room with an authority I wasn’t used to – mirroring Vinnie’s.
She wasn’t here to charm or flirt. She was here for the job, and something about that steel in her demeanour stirred both respect and curiosity.
I adjusted in my chair, clearing my throat to buy myself a moment to wrestle my thoughts back into line.
Focus, Cain.
I looked towards the small gift bag she was holding, and the books peeking out from it. Something about the way she handled it – firm but casual, as though it carried weight she was familiar with – had me wondering what it was that she cherished inside.
Without waiting for an invitation, she reached inside, pulled out a small stack of papers and placed it on the desk.
‘As I was saying,’ she said in a calm, resolute tone, ‘I’ve been writing for a long time now. I’m a published author, mostly in horror romance. Standalone books.’
That got my attention. My brows shot up in surprise, my mind finally kicking into gear. Finally, someone who might actually know what the hell they were doing.
I picked up the papers and skimmed through them quickly.
A CV. Paula DeLuca. Thirty-three. The name alone carried a weight of familiarity I couldn’t quite place. But the real shock came as I scanned the list of her publications – ten books, three of which were listed as bestsellers. My gaze darted back up to her, this time with genuine interest.
‘Are you familiar with my work?’ I asked, leaning forward slightly.
‘Of course,’ she replied, meeting my gaze. ‘I’ve read Sinful Ritual and Dark Manifest.’