The Original Sinners: The Red Years

“I keep my private life private, Nora. I don’t put it up for public auction like you do.”

Nora crossed her arms and stared at him.

“Now I’m starting to see why Grace left you. You’re a real charmer, Easton.”

Zach took a step toward her. “You don’t even deserve to say her name, Nora. And all I have left to say is goodbye.”

“Fine. I get it. We’re done. I said I’m sorry, and you refuse to accept my apology. What about the book?”

“The book?” Zach stepped over several thousand dollars on his way to the front door. “The book’s off. It’s over.”

“What do you mean it’s over? It’s not finished yet. I still have two weeks.”

Zach opened the front door and looked over his shoulder.

“It’s over,” he repeated. “Royal House can’t afford you,” he said, kicking a hundred dollar bill out from under his foot. “And neither can I.”

* * *

The pounding felt amazing. Every hit reverberated through her whole body. It started in her hands and ran though her arms, across her shoulders and down her back and into her feet. She poured herself into every punch, her muscles straining and opening and screaming. She’d almost forgotten how good pain could feel.

“Nora!”

She heard Wesley’s voice calling to her from far away and ignored it. She just wanted to keep hitting, keep hurting.

“Nora, stop it!” Wesley yelled, bounding down the basement stairs three at a time. He tried to grab her, but she slipped through his hands and hit her punching bag even harder.

She pulled back, ready for one more punch, but Wesley stood in front of her.

“Get out of my way, Wes,” she ordered, wiping sweat off her forehead. It rained off her, down her bare arms, soaking her hand wraps all the way through.

“Nora,” Wesley said, taking her by the wrists. She struggled a little but he wouldn’t let her go. “You’re out of your mind. You’re going to hurt your hands.”

“I don’t care.”

“Yes, you do. You don’t even have gloves on. You’re going to hurt yourself and you’re not going to be able to write for a week.”

Nora pulled away from him.

“It doesn’t matter anymore,” she said.

“Why?”

“It’s off. The whole thing’s off. Some jackass at Royal knew about me and told Zach before I could,” she said, panting the words. “He was, to say the least, unhappy.”

“He called off the contract?” Wesley asked, looking shaken to the core.

“Yeah. It’s dead. He’s done with me and the book.”

Wesley shook his head. “He can’t do that. I’ll call him. I’ll talk to him.”

Nora laughed coldly. “Not even you could sweet-talk him, kid. He said it’s over. He meant it.”

“There are other editors.”

Nora shook her head. “Zach knew my book better than I know it. I can’t finish it without him.”

“Yes, you can. You’ve gotten five books published already.”

“Gutter stories from the guttersnipe writer,” she said, untwining her hand wraps. “And now it’s back to the gutter.”

“They were good stories. You know I don’t like stuff like that and even I enjoyed reading them. You don’t need Zach or me or anyone else to tell you how to write. You’re a good writer, Nora. You’re my favorite writer.”

“Your favorite writer,” she said and laughed. She took a long, slow breath. “Too bad. I’m now a retired writer.”

Wesley’s eyes widened in terror.

“Nora…don’t.”

“I don’t know why I even thought about quitting the game. I make more in a month with King than I did on my first and second books combined.”

Nora threw her hand wraps on the floor and started up the basement stairs. Wesley followed hard on her heels.

“You don’t have to go back. I balance your bank statements. You’ve got enough money to live on for five years or longer.”

“I plan on living longer than thirty-eight. Life’s expensive.”

Nora stood in the kitchen and pulled a cup from the cabinet and filled it with water. She drank it down in a few hard gulps.

She slammed the cup down on the counter and reached for her red hotline phone.

Wesley reached out and put his hand on hers.

“I’ll give you every penny I have.” His eyes were black with fear.

“That’s sweet, Wes. But you’re an unpaid intern, remember?”

With that she hit the number eight on her speed dial and held it down.

“Enchantée, madame. To what do I owe this pleasure?” Kingsley asked.

“My waiting list…who’s on it?”

“It would take less time to tell you who isn’t, chérie.”

“Call them. Set it up.”

“Call whom?”