Wolfish Player, page 5
“I’m totally down for that.”
“Thank you.”
THE CEO
ADRIAN
“Ipretend to be invested in the thriller in my hands, but my eyes betray me every time Heather drifts through my office. I should start one of her books—the ones readers won’t shut up about—but separating her fiction from the reality in front of me feels impossible.”
A knock sounds at my door when the killer is about to be revealed, so I ignore it.
It comes again, and I flip the page in my book.
“Sir?” The door opens without an invitation, and George waves his security badge before stepping inside. “We have a situation in the lobby. A very, uh, crucial situation.”
“Don’t I pay you to handle those things?”
“This one requires your attention—unless you’d like to get the police involved.”
“Fine.” I stand and follow him into the hallway, boarding the open elevator.
As the car descends, I brace myself for the possibilities: a tourist falling into our book-inspired fountain, a staff member sneaking out early copies of an anticipated release (that’s usually what this is about), or…my parents demanding to see me for a lunch date instead of picking up the phone.
When the doors open, the scene in front of me obliterates all of my assumptions.
Pink and purple tents crowd the floor, amidst sleeping bags and glitter-covered picket signs.
Release the book! Give us the Date! Satisfy the Cliffhanger Haters!
What the hell? I move closer to George. “What is this?”
“Sir, I think they’re—”
“We don’t need him to speak for us!” A redhead with a “Fuck Wolf Publishing” sign moves closer. “We are camping out here until you release Allyson Harmony’s books!”
“Excuse me?”
“I didn’t stutter, sir.” She looks like she hasn’t slept in days. “She hasn’t posted on TikTok in a month, hasn’t shared any updates, and I’ve been around book publishing long enough to know that something suspicious is going on between you and her.”
There’s no way she knows anything…
Her fellow crazies start moving closer, angling to hear our conversation, hoisting their sparkling signs like they’re storming a castle.
“Don’t look at me like I’m stupid.” She picks up a coffee and takes a long sip before narrowing her eyes at me. “I. Know. The. Signs.”
“The signs of what?”
“The publisher isn’t treating her right or you’re doing something shady behind the scenes, so you’re not publishing her books.” She crosses her arms. “Who in their right mind wouldn’t give the fans something after all her success?”
“That’s a very good question.”
“And yet, here we are, waiting for the answer…”
I blink.
“Give us the answer!” she yells, setting off a chorus of chants.
“Answer us!” “Release the books!” “Give us a release date!”
“Hold on, hold on.” I raise a hand, waiting until they stop. “I’ll have our publicist come down and talk to you.”
“We already talked to her in the parking lot.” She asserts. “She fed us lies because she doesn’t know anything. Give us the release date.”
“You do know that I can call the cops on you for trespassing, right?”
“I know you won’t.” She pulls out her phone and aims it toward me. “I’m about to livestream this in front of all my followers.”
“All six of them?”
“Six million.” She hisses before hitting the red record button. “Hey Harmony Obsessives! Like I promised, we’re here at Grey Wolf Publishing to get answers for our favorite author! The CEO himself came down to give them to us.”
Before I can walk away from this shitshow, she turns the phone toward me.
“When can we expect the final book in the Wildwood Saga and when will you be releasing the next standalone office romance in her Manhattan Forever series?”
I hesitate a few moments before smiling. “Soon.”
“Booo!” “Bullshit!” “That’s not a real answer!”
I turn around and move back to the elevator bank where dozens of my employees are watching this madness.
“What do you want me to do, sir?” George asks. “Have the police get them out of here?”
“No.” I look at my watch. “They can stay.”
“It’s a fire hazard,” he says. “Their tents are blocking the side doors and that redhead has more crazies coming…”
“Give me a second.” I rub my temple. I thought George R.R. Martin fans were insane—and they are—but they keep their crazy confined to the internet.
Putting them all out, even if they kind of deserve it, would make me look even worse in the media. And even though it would probably drive up Allyson’s sales more, it wouldn’t make the release date come any sooner. It’ll just drive them even more nuts.
“Let them protest and livestream for another hour,” I say. “Then move them up to the fifth floor where we keep the romance lounge.”
He looks at me like I’ve grown two heads.
“Have the staff serve them coffee and snacks at a discount,” I say. “Then have some editors give them some ARCs and swag every day until I have a release date for them.”
“You’re kidding…”
“Make them security badges so they can come in and out,” I say. “I’m sure they’ll want to go home and shower at some point.”
“But sir—”
“Just do it.” I part through the sea of staff and step onto the elevator, overhearing someone say, “What the hell is he about to do?”
Finally read Heather’s books…
Later that evening, I lean back in my chair with a cup of coffee and a copy of the first book in the Wildwood Saga.
The cover—a grainy picture of a forest with “Wildwood” in faint cursive—looks like she designed it on a napkin, but that hasn’t affected the word-of-mouth at all.
It’s currently ranked number five in the Kindle store. The paperback is ranked at number twelve.
Why hasn’t Heather said anything about it?
I flip the first page, vowing to only read the first chapter.
After two pages, I’m completely invested and attached, and her writing style threads itself through my chest.
I inhale the first book within hours and immediately start the second.
When I look up again, I’ve finished and the sun is rising outside my window. And I’m pissed as hell about the cliffhanger.
Now I’m just as screwed as the rest of her fans.
THE AUTHOR
HEATHER
Can I PLEASE give you an update on some of your books?
Can you at least log in and look at your ebook dashboard?
No. (You promised you wouldn’t bring up my author stuff again…)
Okay, fine. Want me to bring over some wine?
I would love that.
THE AUTHOR
HEATHER
Icancel my gym membership. Between running laps across Grey Wolf’s floors and resistance training every time Adrian Wolfson opens his mouth, I don’t need it anymore.
I also don’t have the time.
But today, I’m wishing that I’d held onto my pass for a little while longer. I would kill to sit in the sauna for an hour or soak my feet in an ice bath.
My eyes are begging me to shut them for a few minutes, and since I’m pretty sure I’m about to pass out, I head down to the reading nook floor.
The hammocks are occupied, and even the hard chairs are taken.
Sighing, I try the café, but there are no spaces there either.
Despite knowing that Mr. Wolfson would lose his shit if I took a break in his office, I can’t help taking the risk.
I unlock his door and walk over to his couch.
“Ahhhh…” I exhale as my back hits the soft cushions. I pull a blanket over my body and shut my eyes.
If he decides to fire me for this, at least I’ll be well-rested enough to curse him out one last time.
When I blink awake, he’s already there.
Towering over me, coffee in hand, brow arched like he’s been watching for far too long. He looks less like a boss and more like the grim reaper of naps.
“Are you having a good nap, Miss Barrett?” he asks.
“I was.” I hold back a groan and sit up.
“Where would you like me to be right now instead?” I ask.
“That’s a trick question.” He takes a slow sip from his mug. “If you’re that exhausted, you can lie back down.”
“Are you being serious or sarcastic?”
“The latter.” He sets his coffee on the table. “I’m curious why you didn’t just ask to go home to rest.”
“Because my boss would never allow it,” I say. “He thinks we’re all chasing billion-dollar checks and have a support staff like he does.”
“He would probably allow it once or twice.”
“Can you tape that to your desk as a reminder?”
“I’ll remember.”
“Okay, great.” I hate that he’s so close to me, that my body is suddenly full of energy and reacting to his presence.
“Can you go away now, then?” I ask. “I’d like to go home early but I can’t, so can you pretend like I’m away?”
He stares at me, a slight smirk on his lips. I feel my cheeks warming under his gaze, so I pull the covers over my face.
The edge of the couch dips and I feel him sitting at the end.
“Has anyone ever told you that you talk in your sleep?” he asks.
“I’m not here, Mr. Wolfson.”
“You tend to say a lot of things that are quite inappropriate.”
“If you keep talking to me, I don’t want this to count as time taken off…”
He suddenly slides the heels off my feet, stunning me into silence as his palms press against my calves. The heat of his hands makes my head fall back against the couch before I can stop it, a low sound slipping from my throat.
“You really should be more careful about what you say when you’re asleep,” he murmurs, his thumbs digging harder into my muscles. “Something about how much you hate me… and how much you want me to fuck you anyway.”
My eyes snap open. “I did not say that. I was thinking about you ‘tasting’ me while going down on me, so that doesn’t make any sense.”
“I stand corrected,” he says. “That’s a better option anyway.”
My cheeks flame, and I suck in a gasp as I realize what I’ve admitted.
His smirk deepens as his hands move lower, his thumbs sweeping along my ankles, then sliding back up in slow, deliberate strokes. “You also begged me not to stop, you said you needed it.”
“Lies.” My voice comes out higher than it should.
“You moaned when you said it.” He drags his hands higher, thumbs pressing just above my knees, holding me there a beat too long before pulling away. The loss of contact leaves my skin prickling.
“Is that what you really need?”
“That’s a really inappropriate question, Mr. Wolfson.”
“You can call me ‘Adrian’ for this…Is that what you need?”
“Maybe.”
“Yes or no?” He loosens his tie.
“Yes…”
He doesn’t wait for another word. His hands slide up the insides of my thighs, spreading me wide as he drops to his knees at the edge of the couch.
“Adrian—” I choke out, but my protest melts into a gasp as his mouth finds me through my panties, hot breath soaking straight through the fabric.
“Shut up and let me taste you,” he growls, yanking the lace aside.
His tongue drags a slow, torturous line up my slit, then plunges deep, and I buck so hard against his face that he pins my hips down with both hands. The sound is obscene—wet, greedy, unrestrained—like he’s starved for me, like he won’t stop until he’s devoured every part of me.
“Fuck…” My hands claw at the couch cushions, then his hair, pulling him closer, but he doesn’t need encouragement. He eats me like he owns me, tongue circling, plunging, sucking my clit until my thighs shake uncontrollably.
“Don’t you dare close your legs,” he warns between licks, voice low and wicked. “You do, and I stop.”
I force myself open wider, gasping when he groans against me, like the taste of me is better than anything he’s ever had.
He slips two fingers inside me without warning, curling them at just the right spot while his tongue lashes harder. I cry out, helpless, grinding shamelessly against his mouth, the heat building so fast it’s unbearable.
“Yes… Adrian, don’t stop—please don’t stop—”
“That’s what you begged for in your sleep,” he murmurs, lips brushing my swollen clit. “Beg louder.”
“Please—fuck—please!” My voice breaks as my body bows up off the couch.
And then I come undone.
The orgasm rips through me so violently I scream, trembling against his mouth as he keeps licking, keeps sucking, wringing every last wave out of me until I collapse in a boneless heap.
When I finally manage to breathe, he pulls back just enough to smirk up at me, lips glistening, eyes dark with hunger. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, then runs his fingers through my hair, possessive and taunting.
“When was the last time you wrote on your book?”
“A couple weeks ago.” I’m still coming down. “I wrote two chapters.”
“Hm.” His gaze lingers on me, unreadable, before he finally stands.
“Do you feel better now, Miss Barrett?” His tone shifts as if his mouth wasn’t just on me.
I can only nod.
“Good.” He straightens his cuffs. “You can make up the time I spent massaging and tasting you by coming in three hours early tomorrow. You’re welcome.”
THE AUTHOR
HEATHER
It’s four a.m., and my body is staging a full rebellion. Every step toward Grey Wolf feels like I’m dragging cement blocks instead of feet.
When I step into the lobby, Mr. Wolfson is sitting at the receptionist desk, holding the second book in my Wildwood saga.
I stare at him, completely confused.
“What happens next in this story?” he asks, flicking his gaze between the cover and me.
“What?”
“It ended on a cliffhanger,” he says. “What happens next?”
“A lot…”
“I’m listening.”
“It’s on my laptop,” I say. “I got halfway through it but stopped writing it years ago.”
“Why?”
“It wasn’t selling,” I admit. “I think it sold like two hundred copies total, and I…I just couldn’t afford to finish it, you know? I had to keep moving on to something that did.”
He stares at me, saying nothing.
“If you’re that interested, I can print out what I have and—”
“Yes,” he interrupts me. “I would like that.”
“Okay…” I wait for him to insult me so I can take the elevator upstairs. “Well, my boss insisted that I come in super early today, so I’m going to go upstairs if you don’t mind.”
“He doesn’t want you upstairs just yet.” He moves from behind the desk and walks to me. “Come here.”
He places his hand against the small of my back, sending a jolt of warmth through my body as he leads me down the hall and into one of the lounges that’s named after one of the firm’s top-selling authors.
Bright lights spill across the room, illuminating rows of chairs and framed covers lining the walls—every one belonging to M.L. Emerson, the elusive powerhouse whose books never leave the charts.
Their work spans nearly every genre imaginable, and the sales rival even John Grisham’s and Stephen King’s.
“What comes to mind when you think of this author?” he asks.
“That he probably has a stable full of ghostwriters,” I say. “There’s no way he publishes this damn fast.”
“Or maybe he plants his ass in a chair for a set amount of hours a day and writes like a professional author.”
“His ghostwriters probably plant their asses down, too.”
“Two thousand words a day—” He doesn’t entertain my theory—“for thirty days comes to sixty thousand words a month. But he happens to write five thousand a day, so you do the math.”
“Oh…” I bite my tongue, unable to say anything else.
“Your books tend to be on the shorter side—a la fifty thousand words for a novel and twenty thousand for your novellas, correct?”
“Yeah.” I nod.
“So, is there any reason why you haven’t been able to sit down and write at least five hundred words a day since you signed for your book deal?”
“When you break it down like that, it sounds a lot easier than it is…”
He crosses his arms.
“It takes a lot more than just sitting to write a book,” I say. “I need inspiration, and I have to feel like it.”
“Do you think doctors feel like going to work every day?”
“Yes…”
“Do you feel like coming here to work every day?”
“Hell no.”
“Then why do you do it?”
“Because I have to.” I shrug. “It’s my livelihood at this point.”
“Exactly.” He pulls out a chair and motions for me to sit.
I pull my tablet from my purse—prepared to take down notes about upcoming book campaigns—but he lifts it from my hands.
Then he opens the side drawer and pulls out a laptop.
An intern slips into the room and sets down a steamy cup of coffee on the desk before walking over to the windows and pulling back the drapes—giving me a view of rainy Manhattan.
