“Asher?”
“Really,” he promised. “I’m okay. Just stay here with me for a little while longer.”
Cameron relaxed against him again, his cheek rubbing over Asher’s shoulder as he nodded. “Okay. I can do that.”
Asher didn’t want to go back to reality. He didn’t want to worry about reporters or headlines or rumors. He didn’t want to think about his past or contemplate what the future would bring.
He just wanted to stay right there, suspended in that moment with Cameron, forever.
Chapter Seven
All week, Asher hadtried, and failed, to make progress on his latest Marshall Kane novel. It would be easy to blame it on his real-life drama. He could claim that the constant media attention disrupted his concentration. In actuality, he barely paid attention to the news anymore. He didn’t search out stories about himself.
Well, usually. He had made an exception that morning because Talon had emailed him several links to different online articles. Each of them was filled with pictures of him and Cameron outside ofSotto le Stelleand they all had similar headlines.
Gay Rumors Confirmed!
Asher Dare Finally Breaks His Silence!
Asher Dare’s New Arm Candy!
He had to chuckle at that last one. Cameron had been so indignant about being referred to as “arm candy,” and nothing Asher had said would change his mind.
On the whole, the articles hadn’t been too bad. They’d quoted him several times and made a point of playing up his and Cameron’s relationship, using words like “smitten” and “besotted.” Not inaccurate, but the lazy writing still made him cringe.
Cameron’s impassioned monologue had been quoted as well, and to Asher’s immense relief, hadn’t been taken out of context. In fact, most of the articles had portrayed his statements in a positive light with only one reporter questioning if he was only with Asher because he was a fan of the mystery series.
Still, it had taken no more than twenty minutes to scan those pieces, so he couldn’t claim it had taken away from his writing time. Hell, he wasn’t even procrastinating anymore.
Every day, he sat down at his desk—or in his favorite chair, or on the loveseat by the fire—and every day, the words refused to come. What he did manage to write wasn’t fit to wipe his ass with, let alone to print. The worst part was that he had no idea how to fix it, especially since the problem seemed to be with that particular manuscript and not with the writing process in general.
The new project he’d started a couple of weeks ago flowed like water from the tap. He didn’t have to think. He didn’t struggle for every sentence. Ideas just poured out of him, sometimes faster than he could type them. The characters were vibrant, the setting vivid, and the plot beautifully engaging. That wasn’t just ego talking, either. The book was damn good, possibly the best he’d ever written.
And none of it mattered.
His publisher wanted more Marshall Kane books. His readers wanted more Marshall Kane. Fuck, even Cameron wanted more Marshall Kane. No one gave a damn about some untitled story with characters they’d never heard of in a place that didn’t exist. Not from him.
Okay, so maybe he was being slightly dramatic. Things had changed a lot since he’d published his first Marshall Kane Mystery novel. He could publish under a different name with a different publisher…or no publisher at all. Maybe people would read it, and maybe they wouldn’t. It would definitely be a risk, but most worthwhile things in life usually were.
So, yes, he had options, but none which would help him complete a hundred-thousand-word manuscript by his deadline in three weeks.
To make things even worse, he’d just received a text message from his agent telling him to expect a phone call from her shortly. Why she couldn’t have just called without the preamble of a text, he had no idea, but he felt like a kid waiting to be called into the principal’s office.
Even knowing to expect her call, he still winced when his phone began to vibrate against his writing desk in the library. A picture of Becca with narrowed eyes and pursed lips appeared on the screen, spiking his anxiety. He’d asked her to pose for the photo, thinking the image of the quintessential “hard-nosed” agent would be funny.
Perhaps he’d been a little short-sighted because he sure as hell wasn’t laughing now. Becca rarely called with bad news, but instinct told him he wasn’t going to enjoy this conversation.
Knowing he was only postponing the inevitable, he swiped his finger across the screen to accept the call before bringing the phone to his ear. “Hello, Becca.”
“Asher. We need to talk.”
Shit.No, he definitely wasn’t going to like what she had to say. “Okay, so talk.”
“I spoke to Danika last night, and she has some concerns about the chapters you submitted.”
Danika Love had taken over as his editor on the fifth Marshall Kane book when his previous editor had retired to Costa Rica. She was tough but fair, and they could usually find a compromise when his artistic vision didn’t align with his publisher’s idea for the series.
“Which part? The dismembered corpse or Detective Kane in a dress?” Every word dripped with acid because he already knew the answer. He just wanted to hear her say it.
