“It’s the first draft. It’s supposed to be shit.”

“Yes, but it’s supposed to be human shit, not monkey shit. Graham, you’re a New York Times bestseller. You’re a Wall Street Journal bestseller. You have millions of dollars in your bank account from your craftsmanship in creating stories, and there are numerous fans around the world with your words tattooed on their bodies. So, it’s a shame that you had the nerve to hand this complete and utter bullshit to me.” He stood up, smoothed out his velvet suit, and shook his head. “Talon can write better than this.”

“You’re joking. Did you read the part about the lion?” I asked.

He rolled his eyes so hard, I was certain his eyeballs were going to get lost in the back of his head. “Why the hell is there a lion loose in Tampa Bay?! No. Just—no. Find a way to relax, okay? You need to loosen up, break free a bit. Your words read as if you have a stick up your ass, and the stick isn’t even teasing you right.”

I cleared my throat. “That’s a really weird thing to say.”

“Yes, well, at least I don’t write monkey shit.”

“No.” I smiled. “You only speak it.”

“Listen closely, okay? As the godfather to Talon, I am proud of you, Graham.”

“Since when are you her godfather?”

“It’s a self-proclaimed title, and don’t kill my spirit, son. As I was saying, I am proud of how great of a father you are to your daughter. Every minute of your day is spent caring for her, which is amazing, but, as your writing mentor, I am demanding that you take some time for yourself. Go smoke some crack, hump a stranger, eat some weird mushrooms. Just loosen up a bit. It will help your stories.”

“I’ve never had to loosen up before,” I told him.

“Were you getting laid before?” he countered with an eyebrow arched.

Well, fuck.

“Goodbye, Graham, and please, don’t call me until you are high or having sex.”

“I’m probably not going to call you while I’m having sex.”

“That’s fine,” he said, grabbing his fedora off the desk and placing it on his head. “It probably wouldn’t last long enough for you to dial my number anyway,” he mocked.

God, I hated that man.

Too bad he was my best friend.

“Hey, Talon’s down for a nap. I just wanted to see if you wanted me to order a piz—” Lucy’s words faded away as she stepped into my office. “What are you doing?” she asked warily.

I set my phone down on my desk and cleared my throat. “Nothing.”

She smirked and shook her head. “You were taking a selfie.”

“I was not,” I argued. “A pizza is fine. Just cheese on my half.”

“No, no, no, you cannot change the subject. Why are you taking selfies while dressed in a suit and tie?”

I straightened my tie and went back to my desk. “Well, if you have to know, I need a picture of myself to upload on this site.”

“What site? Are you joining Facebook?”

“No.”

“Then which site?” She giggled to herself. “Anything but Tinder and you’ll be okay.”

My jaw tightened, and she stopped laughing.

“Oh my God, you’re joining Tinder?!” she hollered.

“Say it a bit louder, Lucille. I’m not certain the neighbors heard you.”

“I’m sorry, I just…” She walked into my office and sat on the edge of my desk. “G.M. Russell is joining the world of Tinder…I knew it felt a little cold in the house.”

“Huh?”

“I mean, when I first met you, I figured you were the devil, which meant your home was hell, which means with it now being cold that—”

“Hell has finally frozen over. Clever, Lucille.”

She reached for my cell phone and started trying to unlock it. “Can I see your photos?”

“What? No.”

“Why not? You do know Tinder is like…a hookup site, right?”

“I’m fully aware of what Tinder is.”

Her cheeks reddened and she bit her bottom lip. “You’re trying to get laid, eh?”

“Professor Oliver is convinced my writing is suffering from the fact that I haven’t had sex in a while to loosen myself up. He thinks I’m uptight.”

“What?!” she gasped. “You?! Uptight?! No way!”

“Anyway, he’s one hundred percent wrong about the manuscript. It’s good.”

She rubbed her hands together, giddy. “Is it? Can I read it?”

I hesitated, and she rolled her eyes.

“I’m your biggest fan, remember? If I don’t love it, you’ll know Ollie was right. If I do love it, you’ll know you’re right.”

Well, I did love to be right.

I handed her the chapters, and she sat reading, her eyes darting back and forth over the pages. Every now and then she’d glance at me with a concerned look. Finally, she finished and cleared her throat. “A lion?”

Shit.

I rolled my eyes. “I need to get laid.”

“Take off your tie, Graham.”

“Excuse me?”

“I need you to unlock your phone and take off your tie and the suit jacket. No girl who is trying to have sex is in search of a man with a freaking suit and tie on. Plus, you buttoned the top button on your shirt.”

“It’s classy.”

“It looks like your neck has a muffin top.”

“You’re being ridiculous. This is a custom-made designer suit.”

“You rich people and your labels. All I hear is that it’s not a penis, and therefore it eliminates your opportunities to get laid. Now, unlock your phone and take off the tie.”

Annoyed, I followed her orders. “Better?” I asked, crossing my arms.

She grimaced. “A little. Here, unbutton the top three buttons on your shirt.”

I did as she said, and she nodded, taking photographs.

“Yes! Chest hair—women who are trying to get it on love some chest hair. It’s like the three little pigs; it has to be the right amount. Not too much, not too little, your hair is justtttt right.” She grinned.

“Have you been drinking again?” I asked.