Thrill Me. Isabel Sharpe

Add in the members of the marketing department and the ever-dreaded focus groups, and you might as well bend over and take it.

      If he had a dime for every person envious of a writer’s so-called complete freedom in his work…

      Well, if he did, he’d be rich enough to keep Mack’s mind on his dick during a sex scene, where it belonged.

      “Okay.” He ran his hand over his aching head and jaw. “Just on the one scene with Tamara. See how it feels. How it reads.”

      “Wonderful. You’re fabulous. It’s going to be so much better, you’ll be amazed, I promise.”

      “Right.” He shook his head and hung up the phone harder than he needed to. Got to his feet and strode over to the window, pulling back the sheer curtains to gaze out at Madison Avenue.

      Damn it to hell. He might have known this would hit eventually. This or something like it. He didn’t know a single writer who hadn’t come up against a brick wall at some point in his or her career. And Beck’s journey so far had been relatively easy. Alex had picked him up when he was still unpublished, working as an editor, still learning the craft in his own writing and from that of his authors. She’d seen enough raw talent to judge him a good commercial risk.

      After extensive revisions, his first book had sold, then his second and his third. Mackenzie “Mack” Adams had starred in six books in the past six years, and for a while it seemed Beck’s star would never stop rising. Three years ago he’d quit his job to write full-time. Then the flattening sales, the apparent loss of reader interest.

      And now back to extensive revisions. And the girlification of a true man’s man.

      Worse, to rewrite the scene the way Alex et al wanted him to, Beck was going to have to find a woman who would be willing to describe her masturbation practices for him.

      Of all the research he’d done, this was potentially both the most enjoyable and the most agonizing. Not to sound arrogant, but the women he’d dated hadn’t needed to touch themselves when he was around. And asking old girlfriends their current autostimulation techniques wasn’t the most tactful way to get back in touch.

      No way would he ever admit to male friends he needed a woman to ask. He didn’t have any female friends close enough to broach a topic like this. His brothers would tease him unmercifully or slug him if he suggested asking their significant others.

      The ideal would be a sexually open complete stranger he could talk to and never see again. Like that was going to happen. Though if it were possible, HUSH was as likely a spot as any to find one.

      This was all too depressing. Next he’d start contemplating hiring a hooker.

      His cell rang again and he rolled his eyes and reached for it to check the display. He didn’t feel like talking to anyone at the moment.

      Oh.

      Mom.

      “Hi, Mom.” He rubbed his forehead, waiting for his headache to get worse. He loved his mother, loved his whole family, but his idea of how much time was appropriate for a man his age to spend with them differed vastly from theirs.

      “Hello, Beck, how’s the writing going?”

      “Fine. Just fine.” She asked every call, to be polite, and every call he answered fine. His entire family was in the restaurant business, an Italian place on West 55th Street—he was the black sheep. They wouldn’t care or understand about his line of work, so he generally didn’t bother sharing.

      And he was pretty sure asking his mother about masturbation would not be a good way to start.

      “Thursday night is the thirtieth birthday party for your brother Jeffrey.”

      “I know.” He screwed his eyes shut, the predicted worsening of his headache making its first throbbing appearance. Of course he knew, Dad had called him two days ago to remind him and Mom a week before that. “I’d really like to come. But I have revisions due on Friday, and it’s going to be close.”

      “Sure, close, you can’t get away for an hour?”

      No use. He could try to explain that it wasn’t just the minutes he’d spend away from his keyboard he’d miss. It was the mental buildup, the interruption, the wind-down time it would take to get back into his work. And how was he to know if Thursday night was going to be a particularly creative time, when everything would come together in a huge burst of output?

      “I’ll come if I can, Mom. I promise.”

      “Good enough. Everything okay there? You want me to send you some food to the hotel? Something decent? Some of your dad’s osso bucco?”

      “Thanks, Mom, they’re feeding me fine.”

      “Okay. Okay. I’ll go. But everyone wants to see you, the whole family misses you. You sit in that room all day long working, it’s not healthy.”

      He chuckled. “I should be out in the fresh air?”

      “I get it.” She laughed. “You’re not a little boy anymore. Moms are all the same. But if you need anything, you call me.”

      “I will.”

      “Even if you don’t. Just to say hi. Okay?”

      “Deal. Thanks for checking on me.”

      “You’re a good man, Beck. I worry about you.”

      “I’m really fine. Bye, Mom.” Beck clicked the phone off before she could start listing single women she knew, then stood there imagining her bustling to the front of the restaurant, making sure everything was perfect, flowers and candles on the tables, menus clean and carefully piled, staff in place, complimentary antipasto dishes lined up in a neat row.

      That world could have been his.

      Sometimes he thought he’d been switched at birth, and somewhere some serious scholarly couple were wondering how they had ended up with a boisterous half-Italian chef for a son.

      He needed a drink.

      More than that, he needed one out among people. Usually he was content to be in his room, or prowling the hotel; he was a loner at heart like most writers, something his jovial family of extroverts couldn’t understand. Tonight, for some reason—probably that the soul was about to be ripped out of his life’s work—he’d rather indulge his demons with strangers around than tackle them on his own.

      And who knew? Maybe his sexually open female stranger was at the bar right now, waiting for him.

      2

      Note on Exhibit A waitstaff board:

      Don’t bend over near guy with mustache and cowboy hat who’s at Exhibit A every night. He’s an octopus; hands everywhere.

      Jessie

      IT TOOK ten strides to go from the window to the door of room 1457. May only took a few minutes to clue into that fact. And eight to go from the wall with the desk, to the wall next to the bed.

      May had also clued into the fact that men who flew her halfway across the country and then backed out at the last minute with a lame-sounding excuse and then didn’t call again really pissed her off.

      May had tried ringing Trevor, but his voice mail had picked up. She’d left a message in a broken, pathetic, scared voice, asking him to call her. Which he hadn’t. And that was over three hours ago.

      Then she’d hated herself so much for sounding broken, pathetic and scared, she’d gotten pissed instead. Royally. Because what the hell was she supposed to do now?

      Oh, sure, he’d been a total doll in the voice-mail message. He felt soooo bad about this unexpected and unavoidable—and she noticed, unspecified—schedule change. May was welcome to stay the full week on his dime. Enjoy the luxuries and amenities of the hotel to their fullest.

      Yeah? Well considering she’d