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“That was a ridiculously arrogant answer.”
“Back to the kiss. Better yet, let’s talk about you and your confessed desire to get naked with me.”
“I did not say that.”
“You did.”
He’s right. I kind of did. “That was then,” I say.
“When you hated me.”
“I didn’t hate you,” I say. “I just didn’t like you.”
“And yet you wanted to get naked with me?”
“I said I considered that option. A one and done.”
“Sweetheart, the fact that you believe that’s an option tells me you’ve never been properly fucked. So let’s be clear. If a man fucks you, and you have the ability to be one and done, he did it wrong. And I don’t intend to do it wrong. Until later, Cat. And Cat, I can still taste you on my lips.”
He hangs up.
My phone rings again almost instantly, and I answer with, “You know what they say. A guy who talks big—”
“Has a little dick. Don’t I know it.”
At the sound of my agent’s voice, I cringe. “Liz. I thought you were—”
“A man who pissed you off. I hope there’s incredible make-up sex to follow. After the trial. Stay focused. What you’re writing is working for you and me. The publisher is preempting you with six figures to ensure you don’t go elsewhere,” she says. “But they want a lot of creative control.”
“What kind of control?”
“They want to attach portions of your money to specific interviews that have to be included.”
“I don’t like that. That isn’t how I work. And if that’s how they want to play this, I’ll write the book and then let you take it out to publishers when it’s done. Then it’s done my way.”
“I knew you’d say that, but I needed to confirm. But there is more. They’re in talks with Dan Miller for a book. They want you to consider co-writing it.”
“The prosecutor? You have got to be kidding me. He’s going to lose this case and he’s a jerk. No one wants a book from a jerk and a loser.”
“It plays out like this: The real story. What the jury wasn’t allowed to know but the prosecution did.”
“That’s not my style.”
“There isn’t just more money in this for you. There’s the establishment of your true crime brand.”
“Which is not what you just described.”
“Talk to him,” she says. “Appease the publisher.”
“Being forced to appease others isn’t why I started writing.”
“You’ll meet him tonight,” she says, as if I haven’t spoken. “After court. The boutique hotel on the corner by the courthouse. The Johnnie—”
“Walker,” I say. “I know it. It’s popular with the insiders. When?”
“Seven,” she says. “That’s safe, right?”
“Yes. Seven works.” I think of my encounter with him in the coffee shop and his comment about writing a book. “And he knows who I am?”
