Topped (9 page)

Not only does he top me in the charts, he tops me in sex. Goddammit.

“Your writing style is pathetic,” I barely get out. I can barely breathe, much less think. My body has completely turned itself primal, with one goal and one goal only: more orgasms.

Delicious fingers of another start at my nipples and flood my body. I’m close, but I’m not ready. I don’t want this to end. It’s too awful, too amazing, too public. It’s taboo in every way, and I kind of love it.

He sucks on my neck, returning the hickeys, and growls. “People only cry in your books because of how terrible they are.”

“Asshole!” I cry out, and it pushes me over the edge. It’s slow to build, but I can feel the orgasm taking hold and ripping through me.

Just then, the door flies open and Bethany Stupid Bonafont is marching through with her posse.

“Thanks for helping me…with…my…
contact
,” I practically scream the word as the orgasm takes control of my body and fumble sideways, pushing Joe off of me before he finishes.

I swiftly fix my skirt and grab my purse, hoping to hell no one noticed what the hell we were doing off in the corner, that they were too busy chatting about their stupid bestsellers to notice the “and also Randi Rose” getting roughed up and fucked in the background. Yeah, that introduction still rankles

“Oh, you’re still here,” Bethany says, with a sly look on her face.

I don’t even bother looking over my shoulder and fluff my hair. “Charlie and I had some unfinished, ah, business after the panel. I was just leaving.”

Bethany cocks an eyebrow but turns back to her clan of bitches and continues tittering on about whatever the hell they were talking about earlier. I all but run out of the conference room, face bright red, chest still heaving from the orgasm. It was amazing even with someone crashing in our party. Dammit…I didn’t want it to be amazing.

“Hey!” a voice hisses in my ear. I turn around to see a very, very upset Joe. “You’re going to leave me…unsatisfied?”

“Just like everyone who reads one of your books,” I hiss back and stalk off towards my next workshop, face buried in my phone, praying no one sees us speaking and tweets about it. #CharlieRose, my ass.

I
storm
into a bathroom stall and lock the door, cock still throbbing. Fuck that woman and her impeccable prowess. How does she have such a grip on me? She’s Randi Rose, my mortal enemy, my personal troll, the bane of my existence. She’s the worst, the trapped fart to my life, but my cock can’t get enough of her.

But now she’s gone too far.

I lean against the wall and pull out my dick, still ramrod straight after being interrupted by Bethany Bonafont. Damn her timing.

I really love hate-fucking. There is something exceptional about banging away at the person you want to choke out. My hands would have been at her throat had I not been holding her slim frame against the wall. Just thinking about grabbing her by the neck makes my cock jump again. I’d love to tie her up and spank that firm ass, punish her for doing this to me.

Joe McCoy does not fall for the enemy. He does not fall for anyone. He is in a long-term relationship with success.

I’m not falling for anyone, I remind myself. I’m just screwing the enemy is all. Which is terrible. She’s worming into my brain and destroying everything. I need to get my shit back together and find a way to seize the advantage.

First, to deal with my boner. I jerk off grimly. All I can think of is her, and the way her body tenses whenever I rub her nub (I’m a goddamn poet) and how breathy she gets when she comes. It takes all of a minute to finish, and I can’t shake her from my brain. She’s so gorgeous and clever, I mean really clever. Some of those zingers were hilarious. I want to add some of them to my book arsenal. No one has been that clever with me before. Hell, she could probably give Nick a run for his money. Why must she be…her?

I clean up and stare at myself in the mirror.

“You need to forget her,” I tell Mirror Me. “She’s just a broad. A sad, sad failure who hates all your work and gets in the way. There will be plenty of other girls around.”

But I still can’t get her out of my head. She’s like a fever I can’t sweat out. She’s those little ear-worm things Khan puts in his enemies’ ears in
Star Trek
. She’s poison. She’s a thorn. She’s beautiful, she’s sexy…

No! Wrong!

Get it together, self. Wake up. Spit out the poison.

* * *

“
H
i Charlie
!” A busty blonde finds me standing in the middle of the lobby, debating whether it’s too early for a drink. She wears a big smile on her face and one of my books in her hand. “Can I get your autograph? You’re my
favorite
.”

“Sure thing, babe.” I throw her a winning smile and leave dirty messages in her books, but my heart isn’t in it. I kinda feel bad, leaving half-hearted messages in a fan’s book, but I don’t feel clever at the moment. I feel completely sabotaged.

“I can’t wait to tell all my friends!” the blonde squeals. “Can I get a picture?”

“Of course!” I make a dinosaur roar face for the camera. She squeals again in laughter and joy and kisses my cheek for the photo. This isn’t abnormal for my fans, but I can’t even enjoy the boob smoosh I’m getting. She’s got nice ones, but for some godforsaken reason, all I can think about are Miranda’s.

Randi Rose’s boobs, I firmly remind myself. Because she’s not Miranda the sex goddess, she’s Randi the troll-demon.

I sign a few more autographs and shoot the shit with a few more fans. I love it, I really do. But they are keeping me from dealing with my inner turmoil.

I check my watch. I missed the start of the panel on cover trends. Truth be told, I can barely focus anyway. And I have my own style of covers, they don’t change according to whether or not cursive is “in” at the moment. I take the elevator up to my room where I absolutely have a hidden bottle of Canadian Club and try to pretend that I don’t have a problem.

Not with the drinking.

With the girl.

My phone rings just as I get to my room. It’s Nick, who is dog-sitting for me while I’m rocking it in the hotel world. I only live a few miles away, in the River Market, but drinking and driving is not cool. Seriously, kids, don’t do it. Knowing these writers’ conferences are a thinly veiled excuse to get wasted, I decided to stay here. It was a tough call, leaving Gus for a week, but now I’m grateful I don’t have to deal with traffic to get back to my apartment to mope about some lady-troll infesting my brain.

“What’s up, bro?” I answer the phone and kick off my shoes. It’s a pretty sweet hotel room, too. I’m disappointed the bed is already made, because it’d be a nice reminder of what happened in it not twelve full hours ago.

Because it’s funny to bang your enemy, right? To show your troll how five-star you totally are? Technically, I only hate her because she hates me. I guess, when you look at it, I sort of won. Maybe that’s not so bad after all.

“Gus misses you,” Nick says, pulling me away from my musings. He’s on speaker and I can hear a panting next to him. “He ate three pairs of your boxers last night.”

“Good boy!” I coo into the phone. “I appreciate the straightforward way you handle me being gone. But know that if you do it again, I’m going to eat your bed.”

“He looks pretty proud of himself right now.”

“Little asshole. I love the shit out of him. Gus is the best dog ever.”

“So, how’s it going Brostopherson? Hooked up with anyone yet?”

I fall back on my bed and sigh. “Yes.”

“Damn. Was it that bad?”

“Worse. It was fucking amazing.”

Nick laughs. “You don’t have to go buy a ring for every girl who lowers her standards enough to sleep with you, bro. I know they are few and far between, but—”

“Har har. You’re super hilarious.” I roll my eyes and fumble around to kick off my pants. Fuck pants in particular. The world is better pantsless. “It was hot, dude. She was totally into me and everything I did. Ate out of my hand like a baby bird.”

“But?”

“But she’s my book enemy.”

“Your troll? Huh. I always assumed she’d look like one of the church ladies from SNL.” Nick gets me.

“I wish. I had to be on a panel with her this morning. Can you believe she tried to say I wasn’t a real author?”

“You’re not a real author.”

“Fuck you.” I have to smile, because it’s Nick, but also fuck him for siding with her. “My real authorhood buys your drinks.”

“Calm down, broski. I’m just saying, Neil Gaiman you are not.”

“You don’t have to be Neil Gaiman to be a real author.” Will I have to defend myself until the day I die?

“She’s under your skin. She must have been damn good.”

“We hate-fucked in the panel room afterwards. And then someone walked in on us. It’s goddamn gold, Nick. Like, everything I could ever want. Except it’s with Randi Rose and can never be.”

“Abort, Joe. Abort Mississippi. This cannot continue. Imagine—what if she one-stars your dick?” Nick
really
gets me.

“Not a chance.” I rub my face with my free hand and briefly consider digging my eyeballs out. Perhaps if I can’t see her, she can’t trap me with her devil stare and devil sexiness. “Anyway. I’m going to catch a nap before the next panel. Tell Gus if he eats any more of my shit, I’m going to neuter him.”

“Ouch, bro. That’s rough.”

“Tough love, amigo. Tough love.”

I lie there for a few more minutes after I hang up, trying to remind myself that I won and she lost, but her silhouette is never far from my thoughts. I can picture the way her arches her back when she’s really into it, or the perfect way her nipples sit, waiting to be licked and sucked. Why does someone so perfect have to be someone so evil?

I decide to download one of her books to see what the big deal is about. She can’t be that good, and I need more ammo to use against her. I’ve never wanted to read one before, but now seems like the perfect time to see what happens when you cry over a book. I pick up her latest, something about Texas, because I’m not actually reading it. I’m skimming while I have a drink is all.

Who am I kidding? I’m actually reading it.

It starts off with a heroine losing her husband and moving out into the dust-barren land of West Texas. Why anyone would want to go there, I don’t know, but that’s where Randi sends her. Didn’t she say she was from here? Why not the hills of Western Kansas? Wait…no one wants to go there either. And there are no cowboys, I don’t think. Mostly just old people and windmills.

She nails this whole barren land thing pretty well. It’s clear we aren’t even in the same bracket of author. The way she strings her sentences together…damn. I’m two chapters in before it hits me…

I’ve read two chapters of this book. And it’s good. I mean, it’s a little overwrought for my taste, but there are no simpering heroines or overly alpha males. I hate that trend. Alpha billionaires? Really?

Who wants to be with someone that smells like money and orders your dinner for you and lives in his office? Part of the reason why he
has
a billion dollars is because he’s married to work. And he’s probably really fucking shady. You don’t make that kind of money pulling off honest deals and remaining an upright guy.

Not that I’m bitter. Or anything.

It’s just, I’d like to see the average Joe be a trend. Literally and figuratively, because I’d damn sure like to be a trend.

Joe McCoy, Living Trend That Will Claim Your Butt.

Seriously though, what about the guy with a group of boys he cares about and the comparatively modest income, but will love the shit out of you because he understands the important things in life already? Hm? Hm?

Not that I’m in the market. Certainly not for one Randi Rose. And how stupid is it to spell her name with an “i”? We get it, you’ve got a dude’s name and are trying to dress it up. Miranda is a much better name than Randi. Randi sounds…randy. Probably what she was going for, but her books don’t scream “I’m all about sex!” It’s a really poignant love story.

Shit, am I complimenting her? No. I mean this is crap and boring.

Oh, look, another chapter. I’ll just read it so I’ve got a bigger arsenal to lob at her in my scathing review. I don’t know why I didn’t do this sooner, because she totally deserves a scathing review on every book, just like she left for me.

Joe McCoy, Even Stevens.

The thing about Miss Theresa Vaughn, heroine of the Texas book, is that she’s got some serious gumption. She’s from the city but has no problems getting her hands dirty on the ranch and learning a trade or two. I like that dirty shit doesn’t scare her. There was no “oh god, my nails!” scene. She’s willing to learn and muss up those pretty little hands, which is exactly what Rick Jasperson likes in a woman. There’s no cliché shit in here, just a bunch of regular people who are looking for other regular people to spend their days with.

She’s writing what I would prefer to read. Actually, that’s probably her problem. People don’t always want to fantasize about the regular guy. If she made Mr. Jasperson the owner of the ranch, with billions of oil dollars, she’d probably bump up a few hundred in the rankings.

And if he owned a dinosaur ranch…well, this isn’t about me.

It’s all about marketing and knowing your audience. I’m sure she’s got one but not one big enough to put her where she wants. And why does she want to be with those bitchy Queens of Hearts chicks anyway? They don’t strike me as particularly smart, and Miranda might be a genius, not that I noticed or anything.

She would never settle for a mere billionaire businessman, I’m certain. Miranda is clearly looking for someone better, hello—yours truly.
I
could be her rancher and show her a thing or two about messing up her nails. I bet I could take her out for cheap Chinese and putt-putt and we’d have a goddamn killer time.

Not that I’m planning out dates or anything, because I’m instead pretending to read this book. Why isn’t she hitting higher on the charts? Not that I am interested.

Joe McCoy, Conflicted.

Now I’m going to have to dig deeper into her life to find more ammunition, because this book is disturbingly good. And I’m a dude. Dudes aren’t supposed to read this stuff. Allegedly. Truth is, we read everything, including the dirty books, because we want to know what your fantasies are. How quickly could I find a ranch around here? I’m about ten minutes from the state line, there has to be a million of them in Kansas.

Maybe I can get her to go to dinner with me. I’ll pretend I want to make up, but instead I’ll get her drunk and interrogate her. And then find more dirt in her pretty little life. That wouldn’t be so bad. We’d have seafood…no. No.

She is an infestation in my head, and I must get her out.

I find every bad review and upvote it. And then I go in and one-star her entire body of work on Goodreads, because I’m nothing if not thorough. And she needs more negative reviews. What kind of author doesn’t have a boatload of them? I anticipate negative reviews all the time, because fun-killers like Miranda just don’t appreciate my work. Maybe no one is writing negative reviews because they aren’t reading her. That’s a shame.

I mean awesome. That’s awesome. I have legions more readers and reviews than her.

Before I can stop myself, or fully think through this shit plan, I call the front desk and ask for her room.