It was an excuse and she knew it.
“Perhaps you need a babysitter,” she said, giving me a scolding eye. “Or a nanny. Someone who can move in and take care of Lizzie and keep the house orderly while you work.”
“We don’t need a nanny,” I said with a frown. “We’re doing fine with just the two of us.”
“No, Jackson, you’re not doing fine,” she said. She leaned into the desk and aimed a thin finger at me. It was the symbolic equivalent of holding a gun to my head. “You are about to blow your entire career because you can’t get over being angry at your wife.”
“That’s bullshit,” I said angrily. “And she’s my dead wife.”
She held up her hands and closed her eyes, as if she were tired of looking at me. She set her reading glasses on the tip of her nose and picked up the publishing contract that had been lying on the desk.
“I’m tired of making excuses for you,” she said. “If you don’t deliver a complete outline within two weeks, they are going to sue you for breach of contract and demand that you return the ninety-thousand-dollar advance immediately.”
“They won’t do that.” My ego was now in the argument, and losing badly. “I’m Jackson fucking—”
“Yes, yes, we all know who you are,” she said, arching her eyebrows. “You haven’t had a hit in three years, Jackson. Your first two books have run their course. You either deliver a killer outline in two weeks or they will sue you. And I will resign as your agent.”
“You’d do that?” I looked at her with hurt in my eyes.
“I will do whatever it takes to pull you out of this dark hole that you’ve buried yourself in.” She paused to brush a knuckle under her eyes. “They will ruin you, Jackson. You could lose everything. Is that what you want?”
“No. Of course not,” I said, slowly shaking my head.
“Then find someone to take care of Lizzie and chain yourself to your computer, because you are literally two weeks away from losing it all.”
CHAPTER THREE: Amy Lynne
I was stocking the beer cooler in the back of the store when the chimes over the front door sounded. I blew out a long breath and headed up the aisle toward the register at the front.
I always got a feeling of dread when I heard the door open and I couldn’t see who had come in. Would it be a soccer mom paying for gas, a teenager trying to buy cigarettes, or Randy coming to kill me?
They said that working in a convenience store was one of the most dangerous jobs there was, because the odds of getting robbed or assaulted were so high.
Factor in an ex-husband who was as mean as a snake and the odds that someday they’d find me behind the counter with my head split open increased dramatically. I knew I had to find another job, but I wasn’t really qualified to do anything else.
When I came around the corner, I blew out a great sigh of relief, because I saw my best friend, Gail, standing at the counter tearing the wrapper off a Hershey’s bar.
“Hey. How are you?” I asked, giving her a hug. I glanced at the Budweiser clock on the wall above the door. It was nearly midnight. “Are you just getting off work?”
“I’m fine and I am,” she said, holding up a dollar between two fingers. “How are you doing?”
I plucked the dollar from her fingers and went around the counter to ring her up. I held out her change and she told me to drop it in the March of Dimes bucket on the counter. She broke off a block of the Hershey’s bar and handed it to me.
“I’m doing fine. So, what you brings you by?” I asked. I bit off a corner of the candy and waited for the lecture I always got when Gail stopped by the store.
You shouldn’t be working here.
It’s dangerous.
What if Randy comes in?
You should be in school studying.
Blah, blah, blah.
I agreed with everything she said, but I didn’t have much of a choice in the matter.
Life had dealt me these cards, and I had to play them until the next hand came around. And when that would happen was anyone’s guess.
“Do you remember that awful car crash out on the interstate a couple of years back?” she asked. “Woman lost control of her car and hit a tree? There was a man with her who was also killed. The woman was pregnant. They saved the baby but couldn’t save her.”
“I vaguely remember hearing about it,” I said with a shrug. “I was kind of dealing with my own problems back then.”
She gave me a sympathetic smile. “Well, the baby is now two years old and doing well. She was in neonatal ICU for almost six months but is now a thriving, healthy toddler.”
“That’s awesome,” I said, wondering what any of this had to do with me. “And?”
She smiled. “And, I’ve kept in touch with her father because I was her nurse for those six months. His name is Jackson Ritter. He’s a famous writer. Maybe you’ve heard of him.”