Deacon was six foot five and as wide as a door.
And he hated men who abused women.
He told Randy I had gotten a restraining order and wouldn’t press assault charges if he’d just sign the divorce papers Deacon had in his big hand. I could only imagine Randy’s initial response.
I wasn’t sure what else Deacon said or did, but when he came by Mom’s house to drop off the signed divorce papers, he promised Randy would never bother me again.
He also had all my clothes and meager possessions in boxes in the back of his cruiser.
The divorce became final three months later.
I’d never set foot in the FoodMart again, and I hadn’t run into Randy. So, if there was a silver lining to this dark cloud that was my life, that was it.
Cut to now, a year later.
I was taking online bookkeeping classes paid for by the state’s employment office and working nights at a convenience store for minimum wage.
My dream of being a physical therapist was on hold, at least for now.
I live in a crappy, rent-subsidized apartment in the shitty part of town because my mother moved to Florida with her latest boyfriend and sold her house to “finance their new life.”
Gail was still my best friend, but she had her own life to lead.
So, yeah, that was my story and I was sticking to it.
I glanced at the clock.
It was almost midnight.
I’d had enough of this pity party for one night.
I was going to bed.
CHAPTER TWO: Jackson Ritter
Rosetta Andrews had been my friend and literary agent for ten years—long enough to know when I was feeding her a line of bullshit.
Rosetta was a handsome woman in her late fifties, with short gray hair and piercing blue eyes. She stared at me from over the top of a pair of reading glasses perched on the tip of her nose, waiting for me to answer the question that could determine the future of our relationship, if not my entire career.
“Tell them I need another three months,” I said with a dismissive wave, as if the fact that my publisher was ready to string me up by my heels and bleed my next book from my body didn’t bother me in the least.
She gawked at me. “Three months? You can’t be serious.”
I shrugged at her. “Three months. What’s the big deal?”
Rosetta took a deep breath and gave me a stony look. I was sitting across from her desk in her office in New York. I had flown in specifically for this meeting. I’d known this was coming. You would have thought I’d have been better prepared.
“Perhaps you should be a bit more gracious and a lot less of an asshole,” Rosetta said, shaking her head.
“Fuck them,” I said boldly. “They know I’ll deliver another best seller. I’m Jackson fucking Ritter, for Christ’s sake. They just have to be patient.”
She stuck a thin finger in the air and shook it at me.
“You listen to me, Jackson Fucking Ritter. Rodman House wrote you a fat advance check for your next book nine months ago. You were supposed to have a first draft of the manuscript to them three months ago. And here you are asking for another three months like it’s no big deal? You can’t be serious.”
“I’m totally serious,” I said, scoffing. “Three months and they’ll have the first draft of the manuscript.”
I hoped I sounded far more confident than I felt. Outside, as usual, I was all bravado and bullshit. Inside, my guts were churning and the bagel I’d had on the plane was threatening to come back up. It would really kill my macho image if I puked on Rosetta’s desk.
Rosetta tugged the glasses off her nose and scowled at me. “Are you serious, Jackson? You don’t even have the first draft ready?”
“It’s almost ready,” I said. It was a lie and she knew it.
She dropped the glasses and let them dangle by the chain around her neck. She folded her thin hands together on the desk in front of her and shook her head at me.
“Jackson, you’re already three months past the deadline. There is no way they are going to agree to give you more time.”
“I just need a few more months,” I said. The confidence was seeping from my voice like water through a broken pipe. I could feel sweat forming on my upper lip.
“Look, I just want it to be right, Rose. I’m not going to turn in a piece of shit. I just won’t do it.”
“Why is it a piece of shit?”
I held up my hands. “It just is, okay! That’s what pours out of my brain these days. Shit!”
“Look, Jackson, I know that your first two books were both best sellers and that can put a lot of pressure on an author. But if we don’t send them something soon, they are going to ask for the advance back and cancel your publishing contract.”
I blinked at her. “They can do that?”
“Of course they can do that,” she said, giving me a dumb look. “You’re in breach of contract. You were supposed to deliver the first draft three months ago and you didn’t. If your first two books hadn’t been such hits, they would have already canceled the contract and demanded repayment.”