Page 20 of Role Play (Off the Books #1)

“Why were you crying earlier? I mean, before I ripped your dress. You seemed really upset.” The memory of her tear-streaked face in the bathroom makes my chest tighten.

Now she grows quiet, head hung in something that resembles despair. The wind picks up, blowing a strand of her hair across her face. “It’s hard to explain.”

“Try me.”

Reaching around her back, where she safely stowed her purse, Sora pulls out her phone.

She types slowly, her eyes growing to wide saucers as she tries to focus on the keys.

The blue light from her screen illuminates her face in the darkness.

I catch a glimpse of her wallpaper—a picture of her and a blonde with their faces smashed together for a selfie, smiling like loons.

I don’t know why, but their smiles make me grin in return, like I can feel the joy the image captured.

“Here,” Sora says, handing me her phone, her fingers brushing against mine.

I scour the screen, a little confused as to what she’s showing me.

It’s a review site of some sort, filled with posts and reciprocal comments.

The text is tiny, and I have to squint to make it out.

I read a few before I understand what they’re all criticizing.

While brutal, it’s nothing surprising, simply internet trolls being trolls, this time about a romance book.

I glance through about ten of the varied criticisms that don’t have a common theme.

Some complain about the characters and lack of chemistry.

Some wanted more sex in the story, others less.

One commenter brutalized the book over a single typo.

“Do you see why I was crying, now?” Her tone has dropped a decibel, sadness deepening her voice. She hugs herself like a wall of protection, her shoulders hunched forward.

“Not really. It’s just real people working out their aggression by complaining about fake people. Have you read it?” I hand the phone back, our fingers brushing again as she takes it.

“About a hundred times…when I drafted it, edited it, and then prepped it for publishing. They aren’t complaining about fake people, they’re complaining about me . I’m the author,” she adds sullenly, her voice cracking on the last word.

“Oh.” I wish I had a better reply, but my mind is spinning out as the cruel comments come back to life. I was apathetic before, but now I’m pissed knowing these were the source of her pain.

“Do you get reviews from your clients?” Sora asks. She then points right between my eyes, her finger stopping just short of my face. “That’s just conversation, not a chargeable question.”

I let out a rumbly chuckle, the sound vibrating in my chest. “Fine. But, no. My clients operate with the utmost discretion. If they have an issue with me, they take it up privately with my boss.”

It rarely happens, but there’ve been a few instances where a client has blindsided me into a situation I didn’t agree to and I had to walk away.

Rina has a strict pay-upfront, no-refunds policy, so when I wouldn’t participate in the cuckold situation I unexpectedly got roped into, Tabitha Rossten was furious.

Some dudes are into watching their wives get nailed by stud-like strangers, but Mr. Rossten was almost in tears about the circumstance.

It certainly didn’t seem emotionally consensual, and I wasn’t going be the one to tear his soul apart.

There are other escorts who wouldn’t give a shit about who they hurt, so I told the couple to keep fishing.

And damn , did Rina get an earful afterward.

“Well, my criticisms are very public…and embarrassing.” My heart twists uncomfortably when I see a fresh tear slip down her cheek, glistening in the streetlight.

She doesn’t hide the evidence of her emotions.

There’s a good chance her face is too numb to feel the tear.

Maybe she doesn’t realize I can see her pain, clear as daylight.

“If I did get reviews, I probably wouldn’t read them,” I offer, still resisting the urge to mop up her tear with my fingertips. “It’s the negative people who tend to be the loudest.”

She nods, her eyes wide and unblinking, staring ahead. “That’s the advice I keep getting. But I don’t know, I was looking for a reason.”

I slide a little closer, the bench groaning under our shifting weight. “Reason for what?”

“A reason for why I’m failing at this. All the pieces are there, but the puzzle just isn’t”—she clasps her hands together, charading her point across—“coming together.”

I nudge her shoulder with mine. “How long have you been an author?”

“Going on four years,” she mutters, her breath fogging in the night air. How is she not freezing?

“I read an interview not too long ago featuring a really famous author. He doesn’t write romance books, but have you heard of Hell & Heroes by J.P. Cooper?”

I cower under her cold-as-ice, side glare. “Sounds vaguely familiar,” Sora bitterly chides. I’m not sure what that reaction was about, but I continue anyway.

“He said it took him a decade of failing before he found success. Cooper was about to give up before his big break came through. I think the advice he gave to writers is to spend more time worrying about what they think about their stories than what the critics think. So maybe focus on that? How do you feel about your stories?”

I can’t tell if I’m being helpful or doing that man-thing where I try to fix the problem instead of listening. Sora’s mood drastically shifted. I must’ve said something wrong. What’s wrong? is on the tip of my tongue, but before I can get it out, she finally cracks the silence between us.

“I think…maybe I want this way too much to see the truth.”

“What truth?” The streetlight flickers above us, casting strange shadows across her face.

She pivots, her gaze capturing mine as her dress drapes over my knee. The slight weight of it, warm through my pants. “Have you ever wanted something so badly that you convinced yourself it was your destiny? Except you wake up each day thinking, if it was meant to be, should it be this hard?”

“I don’t necessarily think writing is easy?—”

“No, I don’t mean the writing part.” She balls up her fists on either side of her head like she’s trying to fight the compounding pressure. “ Belonging .”

That renders me speechless. Because what am I supposed to say? I agree with her conclusion. It’s why I’m an escort to begin with.

I could’ve taken the bar and sold my soul to the corrupt, corporate law firm I already agreed to work for with a fifteen-year binding contract.

But something was off that I couldn’t shake.

My classmates and future colleagues told me that being a lawyer doesn’t make you some sort of hero-vigilante.

It’s just a job. Hannah told me to grow up, pull my head out of my ass, and focus on the mass amount of money I’d be making.

But I didn’t want to commit my life to making the world a worse place.

As I was trying to make a decision about my future, and my family’s future, all these bullshit opinions were swarming around my head like violent bees, clouding my better judgment. I felt like the odd man out and didn’t belong because my classmates would’ve killed for the opportunity I received.

The only person on my side, willing to help me, was my prior professor, Rina Colt.

Now, I owe her everything. She didn’t just save me from a sordid fate. She found a loophole, saved me from her ex-husband’s villainous corporate law firm, and gave me a way to provide for my daughter.

“I think I’m done,” Sora says. “It’s time to give up and grow up, you know? I turned twenty-seven today.”

“It’s your birthday?” It makes her crying so much worse. She’s an after-school special in a torn dress, tears tracking down her cheek, spending the last few minutes of her birthday with an escort on a public bench. My gut twists with a weird mix of sympathy and something else I can’t name.

“My best friend Daphne was working at the wedding as a server. She invited me to come along so I wouldn’t be alone tonight.

We were supposed to spend the evening figuring out what was wrong with my backlist, and mapping out a future bestseller.

But she got stuck on the cleanup crew. So, here I am with you.

” Sora reaches out to pat my leg. Her movements seem more intentional and coordinated.

Perhaps the painful introspection about her writing career is sobering her. Her warm touch lingers.

“Happy birthday,” I offer. “If it wasn’t so late, I’d offer to take you to dinner.”

She points to the cinnamon sugar pretzel I’m still holding, the paper wrapper crinkling when she pokes it. “You already did.”

“This isn’t a real dinner. Just cheap street-cart food.”

She shrugs, then pats her belly. “It filled me up just fine.”

“Classy gal.” I shoot her a wink before setting my pretzel down, then clapping my hands together to brush off the sugar dusting. “Now, before you go quitting on your dream, how do you feel about your books? Screw the haters. How do you feel about your writing?”

“I feel like… I don’t even know what romance is anymore,” she answers miserably. A distant siren wails, growing closer, then fading away down another city street.

“Care to elaborate?”

“Readers want fairy tales that suspend reality. It’s hard for me to write that way.

I tell stories based on what I know and have experienced.

The stuff that’s popular is so far left from what I want from love.

That’s why I’m never going to go viral or fit in with all the bookish girlies.

I don’t understand all the tropes they hold so dear.

I’ve never once fantasized about getting a hand necklace, with my hands cuffed behind my back, while a masked stalker shoves the thin side of his Louisville slugger between my thighs until I come messily all over it. ”