C13, PT. 2

“I’m banking on it,” she said with such conviction that he took his eyes off the road.

They stared at one another long enough for her heartbeat to accelerate. Just when she was about to tell him to watch where he was going, his eyes flicked back to the road. She inwardly cursed his nerves of steel as he cruised along 6th Avenue.

“We’ll see,” he said coolly, before he asked, “Did you finish Johanna Ledger’s book?”

“You remember the author’s name, too?”

“Not hard to remember. She’s one of your favorite authors. When you were in college, you had a whole shelf dedicated to her.”

He was shocking the hell out of her today. “Did you read any of them?”

He took in her flushed cheeks. “Something tells me I should.”

“Don’t,” she warned. If he read Johanna’s books, he’d definitely know where her kinks stemmed from. To distract him, she said, “Ballad of Deception’s the best thing she’s ever written. But the book is in danger of being booted from retailers because it isn’t PC.” When he frowned, she patted his arm. “PC stands for politically correct.”

He captured her hand and brought it to his mouth. “She’s a romance author. Why does her work have to be politically correct?”

“Exactly! It shouldn’t have to be! We’re writers, not politicians.”

She was grateful for a topic to rant about so she wouldn’t focus on the distracting way he brushed his lips back and forth against her palm.

“Artists have never been PC. They’re part of the resistance. Outsiders. Non-conformists. We reflect the best and worst of life, which is beautiful and horrific. We go where no one else will. That’s our job. Ballad of Deception’s already been taken down from one retailer and may get taken down from others if people don’t get their heads out of their asses. Unfortunately, there are still readers wearing bonnets and clutching their pearls over a few violent, experimental sex scenes. They also don’t like some of the compromising situations the character was put into.” Her free hand sliced through the air. “It’s fiction. That’s where we’re supposed to push the boundaries. Where else should we indulge our fantasies? In real life? Art and stories are supposed to make people uncomfortable, to provoke conversation. I swear, movies and music are lightyears ahead of the literary world. Have you listened to rap recently?”

“Can’t say I have,” he murmured as he stopped at a traffic light.

“I’ll play you some songs that will make you realize authors get so much unwarranted harassment and pushback. I hate it.” She sighed. “Anyway, I messaged Johanna Ledger to fangirl over her latest work and see if I could be of any assistance to keep her book from being censored.”

When she didn’t continue, he glanced at her. “And?”

“And she wrote me back,” she said faintly. She still couldn’t believe it.

“Why wouldn’t she? I’m surprised you haven’t connected with her before. You’re a writer, she’s a writer…”

“We aren’t in the same category. She’s huge and I’m…” She waved that away. “I was high off the book and went temporarily insane. I never would have reached out to her otherwise. Can you believe she’s heard of me?” She couldn’t contain herself. She buried her face against his forearm and let out a little squeal. “She’s my hero. If I ever met her, I’d probably faint or cry.”

When he chuckled, she playfully bit his arm and caught sight of a woman standing on the corner with her phone turned in their direction. Was she recording them? As they made eye contact, the light turned green and the Bentley glided forward.

“Do you want me to look into it?” Roth asked, drawing her attention back to him.

“Look into what?”

“Keeping her books on retailers.”

Her breath caught. “You can do that?”

Again, that quick, level look. “So could you.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Rami.”

She stared, uncomprehending.

“He has his hands in most of the major online retailers.”

She had been thinking about starting a petition to appeal to the manager that made such a call, while Roth wanted to call on the programmer who created the infrastructure the retailer operated within. “I’ve never asked my family for a favor like that before.”

She never allowed herself to think about her family’s connections when it came to her writing career. She wanted to do it on her own, to know that she possessed enough talent for people to pick up her work and talk about it without money pushing her to the forefront. Maybe it was foolish. Dad thought so. He urged her to go the traditional route. He didn’t understand why she wanted to self-publish and be independent, but it was simple. She didn’t want to be controlled. She didn’t want anyone giving her deadlines and telling her what she should write, what was popular… And she wasn’t going to be forced into the limelight. Her writing career was hers, and she didn’t want anyone to attribute her success to her family’s influence. But, for Johanna Ledger…

“I’m sure Rami wouldn’t mind looking into it,” Roth said, drawing her attention back to him.

She bit her lip as she battled her aversion to asking her family for anything and bringing attention to her interests when they had more important things to do. “I’m hoping enough authors and readers rallying around Johanna Ledger will be enough.”

Even to her own ears, she sounded doubtful.

“I’ll look into it. I wouldn’t be where I am without the knowledge I gained from books. I don’t like the thought of anyone deciding what people can or can’t read.”

She leaned over the console and rested her head on his shoulder. “Thank you.”

He brushed his lips over her knuckles. “Sounds like you had an eventful day.”

She let out a dreamy sigh. “I finished a great book, spoke to my idol, had coffee and cookies, and great sex. I have nothing to complain about.”

He smiled against her palm. “You had coffee with Sarai and then came to me? Did you make any other stops?”

The odd question broke through her contentment. “Why do you want to know if I made any other stops?”

“I’m curious.”

She straightened. “Isn’t that something that would be noted in today’s observation report?”

“Yes,” he said evenly. “But I’d rather hear it from you.”

“Why? If my reports are anything like Colette and Ariana’s, they took photographs, jotted down what I ordered, and how long I spoke to Sarai. Are they counting how many times I smiled? Laughed?” She yanked on her hand, but he tightened his grip, holding her captive. “What is all this documentation for? What does it matter?”

“It matters.”

“How?”

**This is a raw draft of Bitter Confessions. Please do not share or distribute.

Copyright © 2024 Mia Knight. All Rights Reserved.