But the whole time she ignores me like I’m invisible, moving around me with ease, that sweet body swaying. She’s the picture of calm, cool and collected, whereas I’m a fucking maniac.
I hate it.
I fucking hate how she’s done this.
I fucking hate how she’s turned the tables, making me into the prisoner.
Angrily, I turn on my heel and storm into my study down the hall. It’s about time that I start writing. That was the original purpose of this trip in the first place. I’m a best-selling author, pounding out my latest novel, and there are words to be written. There’s real work to be done, real money on the line, and I’ve lost a shit-ton of time ogling my pretty prisoner.
With my notes spread out before me, I scan the messy scrawl, trying to figure out what to do first. A pencil hangs loosely from my fingers, tapping rhythmically against the edge of the desk.
And luckily, writing does what it always does. It’s my nirvana, the place where I get lost, and immersed in a new world waiting to be brought to life, thoughts of anything but words begin to fade. My fingers fly furiously over the keyboard, new characters coming to life. Time passes in a blur as I bury myself in my latest novel, weaving a tale from scratch.
My body relaxes gradually until I’m hunched over my laptop, eyes intent. I’m thriving in my natural habitat and it feels fucking good to be in control of something for a change.
Because writing is my lifeline. The man I am today wouldn’t exist without books. Even as a kid, reading and writing had been my preferred outlet. My father got me to play the typical team sports but I’d go straight home from practices and get lost in a new book. Weekly visits to the bookstore and library became the norm for me and my mom. It’s how we bonded while my dad was busy running his corporation.
And because of my love of reading, the writing bug naturally followed. I finished my first short story when I was ten and never stopped writing from that point on. I did it in high school, throughout college, and after I published my first story, that was it. I never got a corporate job, writing is my life.
It’s the thing I do best.
Despite my father’s best efforts, I refused to join the family business. He’d been livid, threatening to revoke my trust fund and all other shit. But in the end, I was dead serious about my decision. Even if it was pure bullshit to papa dear, you gotta respect a man with so much determination.
And twenty years later, I’ve published over ten bestsellers under a world-famous penname: Robert James. If only Dad saw half of what’s happened, he’d eat his words.
Because creating my own name had been important for me. Being raised a Morgan thrust me into the spotlight for all the wrong reasons. Everyone knows the Morgans. Everyone knows that we own half of New York City, the result of some lucky buys in the early eighties. So yeah, there’s the Morgan Bank Building, the Morgan Library, and countless Morgan Towers. About a quarter of the city’s rentals belong to the family trust, and money pours in like a waterfall, my bank account a fucking monster.
But I didn’t want the family name. I wanted to strike out on my own and create a brand for myself. Whether I sold a million books or just one, it was vital to do it without the Morgan name attached. So Robert James was born and the rest is history.
Because yeah, there’s so much fucking money it’s unbelievable. I swear, this shit sprouts from my ears, I could go swimming in dollar bills. But money attracts cash-starved women, hungry to get their dirty paws on my wallet, desperate for a taste of the good life. So yeah, I’m wary. I’ve seen the chicks, I’ve seen how they go soft and liquid, offering their bodies for a ring. I know first-hand how easy it is to fall for their charms when they’ve got nothing but dollars signs on the brain.
But that’s in the past, there are safeguards to make sure some dumb chick doesn’t steal our shit. So turning back to my work, I began hammering away again. Writing is my respite. It’s what keeps me sane, forcing me to put one foot in front of another, again and again. If I didn’t write, I’d probably go fucking nuts, an inmate in an insane asylum.
And after a couple hours, I look up blearily. Shit, is it lunch time already? As if on cue, the aroma of grilled chicken creeps under the door inviting me to find the source, and my stomach growls. Fuck, I’m starving.
The aroma grows stronger, mouthwatering and delicious.