Total pages in book: 153
Estimated words: 145123 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 726(@200wpm)___ 580(@250wpm)___ 484(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 145123 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 726(@200wpm)___ 580(@250wpm)___ 484(@300wpm)
I mean, what editor agrees to drive their author around in a motor home in the name of meeting a deadline? Me, apparently, otherwise known as the crazy bastard who was on the phone all day yesterday to make that exact situation a reality.
Fuck. Any second, that lady from the street is going to show up and punch me in the dick; I just know it.
My phone vibrates inside my suit jacket pocket, and as I’m pulling it out to check the screen, it vibrates three more times.
All text messages. All from my sister.
Mo: Okay, so we need an organized communication system so you can keep me up to speed on everything that happens on the tour. I want to know what Brooke says and what she wears and what she eats, etc. I want a fully detailed, nightly report.
Mo: Though, I guess I’d be okay with a morning report.
Mo: Or maybe you should do, like, a morning report and a nightly report. That way, you won’t forget anything.
Mo: Oh, and if there’s any reader out there who tries to act like they’re her biggest fan, I need FBI-style background information on those liars ASAP.
I shut my eyes, lean my head back, and sigh.
Yep. It’s safe to say crazy runs in the family.
Tuesday, May 16th
Brooke
I shove at the stacks of clothes in my suitcase, trying to compress them as much as possible. The FlyerPro Deluxe I picked up from Macy’s yesterday is fancy enough to have dual quad wheels and an expander zipper, but there’s only so much capacity even the fanciest of suitcases can take.
But three weeks on the road is even worse than two weeks on planes, and the only person I have to blame is myself.
When the clothes stop giving and the sweat starts pouring, I pick up my glass of wine off my nightstand and chug. The pinot burns on its way down my throat, but I know in five to ten minutes it’ll balm the wounds in my soul.
I suck air in through my teeth, staring at the suitcase that taunts me from the floor, and try again, shoving and prodding until the combined weight of my ass and Benji’s front paws allows the zipper to close.
Still, it’s precarious at this point, so much so that if I were going through TSA, it’d be labeled an explosive device, taken out on the back forty, and allowed to detonate.
“I wouldn’t stand too close to that thing if I were you,” I warn Benji, scooping up my glass and heading for the kitchen to indulge in another heavy pour. Mixed company would definitely consider this wino behavior, but Benji knows me well enough not to judge.
We’re in breakdown territory, and anything that makes his job of keeping me alive easier, he’s all for.
“I just don’t know how I got myself into this pickle, Benj. Turning in the wrong book?” My exasperation comes out as an audible rumble. “And then, somehow, talking my agent and Netflix into trapping me with the very man of my fantasies for three straight weeks, just so I wouldn’t have to fly?”
I smack my palm to my forehead with a whap.
If I would’ve known I was this good at making nightmares come to reality, I would’ve tried my hand at writing horror. At least I’d be in the company of Stephen King, instead of stuck inside an RV for twenty-one days with a man I can’t trust my vagina to be around.
I cackle. “God, I’m good at making a mess for myself, huh?”
Benji moans before lying down in front of the couch and resting his doggie chin on the tops of his paws. On the surface, someone might find his behavior a little brusque, but this isn’t the first time he’s heard this tale of woe in the last six hours. Not even close.
If I’m being completely honest, it’s not even the sixteenth.
“I know, I know, Benj. I’m pathetic. But you have to let me get it all out now because it’s not like I can spend the next three weeks freaking out in front of Chase Dawson. For as fucked up in the head I am about him, he is my editor. I don’t need him thinking I’m some kind of nutcase!”
I roll my eyes at Benji’s silent response. “Clearly, I am a nutcase, but I don’t want him to know that.”
I could go on forever, but the deeper I get into this bottle of wine, the closer I get to even my dog abandoning me. I need something to distract myself, and I need it pronto.
I need the kind of love only a relative can give, and I need it from someone who can give it without asking me to expand on my explanation every five seconds, so my mom is out.