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FORTY

AMETHYST

My head no longer throbs when I wake up the next morning, but I can’t say the same for my heart. Or my pussy. My arms and torso feel like they’ve been encased in ropes.

The dry membranes of my throat stick together as I try to swallow, and it feels like I’ve screamed myself hoarse.

He was here last night.

Or was that a dream?

My gaze darts to the window. It’s closed, but I’m sure last night it was open.

I force myself up with a groan, only for a wet curl to smack me in the eye. When I run my fingers through my hair, it’s sticky with ectoplasm. Some of it even coats the side of my face.

What the hell happened to my salt circle? I lean across the bed, only to find it intact. As I fall back into the pillows, my shoulder hits something solid that sloshes.

Holy water.

I crack it open and take a lukewarm swig.

What fills my mouth tastes nothing like water or even plastic. Gagging, I hold the bottle up to the light and swear it looks cloudy. Do I detect a trace of salt?

My phone rings, pulling me out of my thoughts. With a groan, I reach across the nightstand and pick it up without looking to see who’s calling.

“What?” I croak.

“I’m outside in the car,” Myra says, her voice brimming with excitement.

A horn honks somewhere on the edge of my awareness. I close my eyes, wondering why Myra drove across town to see me when she should be at work.

“The doors open at ten, but the queues start as early as six,” she says. “If you want a chance to pitch your novel, we have to get to the book fair early.”

My eyes snap open.

Book fair?

Shit.

Thirty minutes later, Myra and I wait outside Beaumont Town Hall, where a white banner proudly announces the book fair. It’s a beautiful neoclassical building with tall columns that hold up a pediment over the entrance. Back in the Prohibition Era, it used to be a speakeasy. At some point in history, it was gifted to the government, and now it’s a hub of community events.

I glance up and down the line, noticing that many attendants brought wheeled suitcases. My chest thrums with excitement as I recognize a few book influencers. I take a sip of the supersized spirulina smoothie Myra bought me to chase away the dregs of my thumping hangover and sigh. This book fair is the break I need from Xero.

Myra found an early version of my manuscript she’d printed out the morning of Xero’s execution. The appendix contains all the letters we sent to each other, plus some extra research I made around Xero’s crimes.It’s a relief that mementos of our relationship still exist, although I’m not sure if I should be pleased that she’s brought it to share with the public.

She loops her arm through mine and beams. “Ready?”

“Can we not pitch the Xero book?” I ask.

Her face falls. “What are you talking about?”

“Xero doesn’t want me sharing our story with the world.”

“Xero’s dead,” she says, her words flat. “So is his family. ”

My insides churn. Every time I tell her about being haunted, she explains it away as nightmares or hallucinations. Even the rope marks around my neck aren’t enough proof that I’m being plagued by a vengeful ghost. According to Myra, Chappy could have attacked me in my sleep, or maybe one of Relaney’s many criminal associates.

“I’ve brought a copy of Rapunzelita,” I say. “And I have a few ideas for books that don’t include Xero.”

She closes her eyes and sighs. “Middle-grade books don’t blow up on social media like true crime or dark romance. I wouldn’t know how to market something without graphic murder or spice.”

Guilt claws at my heart, and my chest tightens at everything Myra has left unsaid. I’ve wasted her money, her time, and all that effort she spent helping me polish my manuscript.

“How about an erotic ghost story?” I ask.

She raises her brow. “Do you have a synopsis or the first few chapters?”

My spirits plummet. I did until Xero wiped my computer. If I tell the truth, she’ll ask if I’m taking my meds.

The doors open, and the line moves forward. My heart pounds at the thought of advancing toward my dream. Even if today yields nothing tangible, I’ll be forever grateful to Myra for introducing me to the publishing world .

After our tickets get scanned, we enter a conference hall filled with chatter. Stalls line the massive space in a U-shape, adorned with tall banners, branded tablecloths, and book displays. Authors stand behind their tables, engaged in conversations with excited readers.

Butterflies flutter in my chest as I scan their faces, recognizing many from social media. One day, this will be me.

Myra pulls me to the section at the far side of the hall, dedicated to agents and publishers. Our first stop is her old firm, where a well-dressed woman behind the table rises with a frown.

“What are you doing here?” she asks.

Myra tips the leather military hat she borrowed from Wonderland that makes her look like a dominatrix. “Pitching for my new client,” she says, her manicured fingers skimming her leather pencil skirt. “I’m sure you recognize her from the Official Xero fan club?”

From their tense interactions, I’m sure this is the senior manager who fired Myra along with her embezzling boss. The woman behind the table sweeps her gaze up and down my body.

I’m wearing my signature outfit, a black corset with fastenings at the front, long black gloves, and a mini skirt with a lace trim. I’ve paired it with a thick black choker and a silver crucifix that dips between my breasts. On my legs are a pair of pink stockings that match the rinse I’ve used on the left side of my hair.

The woman tries to speak, but Myra interrupts. “Amethyst has almost completed a book based on the letters she exchanged with Xero Greaves.”

My heart flops around my chest like a dying fish. What the hell is she doing? I asked her not to pitch the Xero book.

The woman leans across the desk, her eyes lighting up like fireworks. She turns to me and asks, “Do you have a synopsis or sample chapters?”

“Sorry, Beth,” Myra says with a smirk. “My other clients and I need to work with a more reputable firm. I wish you all the best in your endeavors.”

She loops her arm through mine and walks back to the middle of the hall, where the organizers have set up green screens, ring lights, and backgrounds with the book fair branding for social media opportunities.

“What was that all about?” I ask.

“Beth went crazy when Xero’s mugshot went viral. I once overheard her telling my boss she was a closet Xeromaniac.”

“Is that why you talked me into writing the book? To make her regret firing you?”

“It’s not like that. I believe in you as an author. You have a great voice, but you’re never going to become rich with fairytale retellings.”

A dozen fantasy authors rise to the top of my mind. I’m about to counter her point when Myra raises her finger. “Hear me out before you rattle off a list. You already have a platform of women who love sexy serial killers. Write what you know they would gobble up. ”

My shoulders sag with the weight of my defeat. The Rapunzelita manuscript flopped with agents, and that was after I’d wasted years on refining its prose until it sparkled. Can I afford to trigger another spiral of depression?

“You’re right, but I need to start fresh with a character that doesn’t remotely resemble Xero.”

“No problem,” she replies with a smile. “Are you ready to meet some movers and shakers?”

“Excuse me?” asks a deep voice.

I turn around and look into the eyes of a man wearing an executioner’s hood. My gaze wanders down his muscled chest, tight abs, and even tighter leather pants that showcase an impressive dick print.

“Oh my god,” Myra says. “It’s the Well Hung Man.”

He chuckles. “That’s right, my dear. Can I have a photo? I’m a huge fan of your podcast.”

Before I know it, the hangman places an arm around my shoulder and escorts me to one of the green screens. I refuse to call him well hung, even though the bulge in his pants confirms he lives up to his name.

A small crowd gathers around us. From what I overhear, the hangman has five-hundred thousand followers and makes thirst traps on social media. Apparently, he’s a big deal.

Myra takes photos and video clips, goading him into grinding against my side for the camera. I play along, knowing she’s helping me make content for my new account.

Another man approaches after we finish with the hangman. He wears a three-piece suit, demon makeup, and a pair of curved horns. Myra hisses that he’s a voice actor named Big Dick Johnson with three-hundred thousand followers. And he tells me he would be honored if I called him BJ.

She pitches my book to him and asks if he wants to be the voice of Xero. Then my stomach drops when he agrees to do it for free, in exchange for a percentage of the royalties.

I hold my tongue, not wanting to make a scene in front of the expanding crowd, but when BJ moves on to take photos with a big-name author, I yank Myra to the side.

“What the fuck was that about?” I hiss .

“Relax,” she says. “I know what I’m doing.”

“The Xero book isn’t happening, and you can’t just give away a chunk of my royalties.”

She glances over her shoulder before leaning in close. “Do you know how many authors would sell their soul to work with Big Dick Johnson?”

I steal another look at the man. Beneath the snappy suit and red paint, there’s a five-ten, balding, nice guy type with an average face and a build marginally better than Gavin’s.

“He’s nothing special,” I mutter.

“BJ has the most panty-melting voice in the business and a fanbase who will buy anything he produces.”

“But he agreed to voice a book that will never be published,” I snarl.

“Having Big Dick Johnson in your corner will guarantee your chances of success,” she says with a dismissive wave. “Any book he voices will reach the top of the charts.”

The rest of the day is a blur. Myra introduces me to countless influential figures in the book industry: critics, bloggers, PR company owners, editors, and authors whose books grace the charts. I lose track of who’s who, who does what, and who I need to impress. One thing is consistent: everyone wants to read the Xero manuscript.

At lunchtime, two reps from a large publishing house take us out for sushi to discuss a potential deal. Myra gets them excited with talk about my nearly completed manuscript, and I have to interrupt before the conversation goes too far.

I pitch my paranormal ghost romance, but they’re only interested in Xero. When I bring up the fact that I might be working on something else with Big Dick Johnson, they ask for a synopsis.

For the rest of the day, I sign autographs, get pulled into selfies, and make online videos with people Myra says will help rebuild my new account.

My head spins. I knew I had a large social media following, but nothing seemed real until Jake appeared on my doorstep. Being recognized by people in the book industry makes me think I might have a career as a writer.

At the end of the evening, I’m ready to go home, but BJ invites us to the Capello Casino to discussour potential collaboration.

Myra accepts his invitation before I can suggest we do a video call, and we exit the town hall, where BJ leads us to a stretch limo and disappears inside.

My phone chooses that moment to buzz. I glance at the nearest lamppost, wondering if there’s enough light on the street to repel Xero. It’s a wonder that he’s been quiet the entire day.

As Myra follows BJ into the limo, I grab her arm. “Let’s go back to my place.”

“Are you seeing things again?” she asks with a frown.

I shake my head. “No, but–”

“Then what’s the problem?”

“This doesn’t feel right. Whoever has a business meeting in a casino?”

Her eyes soften. “This won’t be like the other times. I swear. We’ll go straight to the bar and stay for a few cocktails. You can pitch your ghost book, and we’ll leave together. Alright?”

BJ pops his head out of the limo door, his eyebrows etched with concern. “What’s the hold up? Are we going to discuss this audiobook or not?”

“Coming!” Myra grabs my hand and pulls me into the limousine.

Its interior is white leather with wood trim and a minibar tucked into a corner. Jazz filters through the speakers, and BJ lounges on a plush seat, pouring champagne into a flute.

On his other side is a bulky blond man wearing a gray sweater. His eyes light up, and he scoots across the leather seat and pats the space beside it. “Amethyst, sit here.”

My brows pull together, and I sit opposite. “Um…”

“It’s me.” He points at his broad chest.

I take in his small eyes, chubby cheeks, and weak chin, not recognizing a single thing about his round, unremarkable face.

“The Well Hung Man?” he says with a hopeful smile.

“Oh!”

I sit beside Myra for the short journey to the casino and allow myself a few sips of champagne. The hangman tries to speak to me, but I’m exhausted from a whole day of meeting people, posing for photos, and pitching my new book.

Tonight, the champagne hits differently. Maybe it’s because I’m fatigued. Or because of the bubbles rising off its surface are also alcoholic. It usually takes me a while to feel the effects of drink.

The effervescence tickles my nostrils and dance across my tongue. My eyes droop, and I sink deeper into the plush leather seat. By the time the limo stops, I’m so drunk that I slump like a ragdoll beside the hangman.

“Is she out?” BJ asks.

“Not yet,” the hangman replies. “Is yours?”

“She sucked it down.” BJ leans forward and knocks on the partition separating us from the driver. “Make another loop. Take us through the VIP entrance. Tell the concierge we’ve got two sleeping beauties who need discreet handling.”