“Shit.”

  “Uh, that’s a hard limit. Even I don’t mix that into my sex scenes,” Jasmine says with a shiver. When I don’t laugh, she asks, “So, what’s up?”

  I lean back, groaning. “I didn’t exactly mean to say that out loud. But what’s up is that I’m stuck! I need to find a willing subject to let me do some research with him.”

  “Nope,” Daysha says as she points at me and Jasmine. “We’re sprinting. We can discuss Poppy’s coochie meow-meow’s lack of petting in six minutes.”

  No one argues, simply sticking their heads back down. Daysha’s just that sort of super-focused person . . . but I’m left tapping my keyboard aimlessly. This is the worst case of writer’s block I’ve ever experienced! I can’t even write a decent scene to get my own juices flowing.

  I know that beyond my lack of sex, the deeper reason I can’t write is that I’ve heaped so much pressure on myself by taking that advance contract from Bluebird. I’ve got to deliver a knockout book because my entire career is riding on it.

  Between the stress and my lack of bathing, I’ve broken out in hives several times over the past week, and my sleep cycle’s ten kinds of fucked up. Suddenly, just to twist the thumbscrews a bit more, my mind comes up with another fresh worry. What if I go to this writer’s luncheon with my idol and a bunch of other authors, and they laugh me out of the place?

  “Time,” Daysha calls, interrupting my self-induced stress dialogue. “Now, back to what’s really important, Poppy’s lack of cooter-loving friends.”

  “Well, here’s the problem,” I tell them, turning my laptop around, showing them the past few pages of drivel I’ve written since I last deleted everything. “I’m struggling.”

  Becca squints and flops back in her chair when she realizes the scene I’m on. “Oh, my God, PULEAAASE tell me you’re not STILL stuck on them boinking?”

  Jasmine grunts and runs her hands into her blonde curls in exasperation with me. “I’ve written a space battle, a time warp, and a G-type star literally making our heroine explode in orgasm in the time you’ve been pecking at your keyboard!”

  “Easy for you to say!” I growl, suddenly defensive. “You don’t have a six-figure contract riding on your story being good enough for a possible Netflix option, an agent reminding you at every turn that expectations are going to be astronomically high for revenue, fans emailing you to tell you how they want the story to go, and characters that sound like robots saying shit like ‘put your big dick inside me so I can feel you breed me, baby.’”

  Jasmine rolls her eyes skyward. “Yes, yes, remind us how we’re all peons and you’re the chosen one with a big fat paycheck on the way.”

  “I didn’t mean that, I’m sorry—”

  Jasmine grins and boops her nose, adjusting her glasses that turn her from sex bomb back into girl next door cute when she wants. “Girl, I’m teasing, but please tell me you’re kidding about that dialogue, right? That’s bad, Poppy.”

  Aleria clears her throat pointedly. “I could make it work,” she offers with a shrug, “in the right situation. A succubus, maybe? But only constructive criticism, Jasmine. We all agreed.”

  Jasmine tilts her head as if to say ‘did you hear what she wrote? Someone’s gotta tell her.’ I get it, but right now, I’ll take any help—constructive or not. “What do you suggest, Aleria?”

  “Well, you know I have a focus candle that could probably help you find an anchor in the characters,” she says, turning to the large satchel she always carries with her. “Some sage and hemp could—”

  “You are not burning that around me,” Daysha says. “Besides, I really don’t think that’s going to help Poppy at this point.”

  “Not only that . . . the shit don’t work,” Jasmine mutters under her breath.

  “Excuse me?” Aleria asks, losing her calm center in favor of a bit of neck swirling.

  Daysha snaps her fingers, cutting off the debate-slash-sermon in its tracks. “Focus, people.”

  Aleria mutters, “That’s what I’m trying to help Poppy do.”

  Daysha ignores her and focuses on me. “Pops, you said you need to have sex. So do it. Pick up someone hot, give him a fake name, and do the dirty in all sorts of ridiculous positions, with toys and props and whatever else you think your heroine or hero might like. Test it out. Consider it research.”

  “Ooh, fun!” Becca says, nodding. “You know, I heard of a great new app for that, and—”

  “Just pick up some rando?” Aleria asks, horrified and shaking her head. “No way. It would desecrate Poppy’s female magic! You can’t let just anybody into the glorious hole of your center being.”

  “Did you just say glory hole?” Becca asks, grinning. “That does not mean what you think it means. But I should put one of those in my next book. Eye Level with Mr. Mystery.”

  “Uh, no. I’d like to constructively say that’s a horrible idea,” Daysha says, taking Becca seriously, “and does anyone have other ideas?”

  My friends offer up plenty of advice, most of it conflicting. Make the guy more alpha. Make him a ‘simp’. Tie her up. Peg him. Talk dirty, be totally clean . . . and the list goes on. Some of their advice is real life and some strictly for the pages of books.

  But it’s all in fun, which does help, surprisingly. We all write in different subgenres, so while some of the ideas are downright laughable, we have fun with it. I feel like I haven’t done that in a long time.

  “You know,” Daysha says, “you could have her hold a gun to his head and tell him that if she doesn’t get off before he does, she’s going to set him off another way. Ooh, if he’s handcuffed and she’s the bad girl, that could totally work.”

  “Fuck, girl. There’s dark and then there’s dark. It’s Trouble in Great Falls, not Game of Sopranos,” I reply.

  Jasmine adds, “She’s right, but I do like the forced hardness angle. What about a little something-something slipped into his bloodstream? I’d go with nanites, but that’s me.”

  “Microscopic robots do not a good orgasm make,” Aleria says primly, making us all crack up. But it’s all good. We all know the struggle and the game of getting noticed in the crowded romance market. Besides, half of what they’re saying isn’t real advice but a valiant effort to help me relax. They’re hoping that maybe that’ll unknot the block in my head and alleviate my stress at having to reach a publishing deadline.

  Not that it’s particularly helpful. I do get a few good laughs, but every time I glance at the page, I go back to blankness. Still, the emotional support and encouragement lift my spirits enough that as I walk out of the library, I feel slightly better and think maybe I’ll finally get something done tonight.

  Honestly, the best advice probably came from Aleria in the end. We were packing up our stuff, and she looked at me, patting my shoulder. “Sometimes, the energy takes us in different paths than what we expect,” she said. “So for now, skip the scene and move on. If your energy isn’t sensual right now, then write the other parts and come back when you’re feeling it. After all, they invented Control-X and Control-C for a reason.”

  She’s right, and I should have done it earlier, but I’m stubborn. Writing dick to vag shouldn’t be the thing holding me up. I need to work out the character’s emotional build-up and then what the a-ha moments are to progress Amber and Ryker’s relationship to the next level, and then the sex part will come naturally.

  “Hah . . . come . . . naturally!” I giggle to myself. “Come sooooo good!”

  A guy walking his dog looks over at my outburst, and I stare back a little too hard, daring him to say one word to me. What? Can’t a woman talk to herself without people looking at her like she’s bananas? B-A-N-A . . . dammit. Now I’m spelling out bananas like I’m a Gwen Stefani impersonator.

  I’m a riot. Okay, probably not, but in my overloaded, overstimulated, coffee-laden brain, I’m a genius with a stellar sense of humor. I just hope the fans agree.

  Chapter 3

  Connor

  In my Ford King Ranch pick-up truck, I turn the corner in a remote section of Maplewood as I make my way to meet up with my connection, Juan Pablo.

  Despite all my years of being a thief, stealing items in all sizes, shapes, and colors, I feel a whiff of anxiety. Thieves are the sort of people who like to work unrecognized. But this is different. This time, I need to make sure that the right people know my name and what I can do. There’s a lot riding on this meeting, and I need to be able to show that I’ve got the skills needed to work my way up the ladder in the organization. I’ve worked for a lot of people over the years, but this gig is The One that’ll open doors.

  And if it doesn’t go well? a little voice inside my head asks me, but I quickly shove it back down. There isn’t time or space to let that sort of doubt creep inside. Not with the consequences of failure. Clean snatches with invisible getaways . . . that’s always the mission objective.

  This one has to be no different.

  I’m at a stop light when I get a series of texts and phone calls. I ignore them, knowing exactly who it is, but they keep coming and coming.

  Fuck. I can’t have this distraction tickling my mind when I walk into a hot zone, I think to myself. I need to be focused and clear-headed.

  I should just turn the phone off, or silence it at least. But some remaining loyal speck of decency in my dried-up dirt stain of a heart feels like I need to answer because I’ve been ignoring her for weeks.

  She’s my mother, after all.

  Irritated and annoyed at my conflicting emotions and knowing that I don’t have time for this, I let out a growl and pull over into the nearest parking lot.

  The next time it rings, I answer. Before even a single sound can emerge from my mouth, I’m immediately run over by a verbal barrage from my mother, Debra Bradley. “Oh, so now you want to talk to me, huh? After weeks of ignoring me? I’ll have you know, I was in labor for forty-two hours to bring you into this world, but I can still take you out of it!”

  I’ve been hearing this for years. When she finally takes a breath, I ask her nonchalantly, “Are you done? Because I’m sitting in a pretty shady parking lot with a guy giving me the eyeball like I’m pissing on his turf by breathing his oxygen.”

  There’s no guy, of course. I’m not in that bad a part of town. But still, I appreciate the little sharp intake of breath, and I know I’ve taken some of the wind out of her sails.

  A bit softer, Mom launches into her real message. “Connor, you should be ashamed of yourself. You have checked out on your family. Your sister is getting married, and I would really like it if you would meet her fiancé, Evan, before the wedding. She wants your approval, Connor.”

  I grunt noncommittally, but my mom’s disappointment is harder than the anger. This is exactly what I wanted to avoid. The fact is, my family relationship is a toxic dumpster fire. It’s been that way for far too long, and it’s not totally my fault, either.

  My younger sister, Caylee, wanting my approval and not my dad’s, is evidence of this and lighter fluid on the long smoldering issue. It sends fresh heat and fury rising in swirls in my gut. Obviously, my father has, yet again, fallen down on the fucking job. But if no one is vetting this Evan guy, it’ll fall to me.

  It always does.

  Damn the little bit of heart I’ve got left. Because while I’m a no-good bastard, time and time again, when the shit hits the fan, I’m the guy who’ll step up and do what my family needs. Especially when Dad can’t . . . or won’t.

  “I need details.”

  Mom sounds happy I’m going to step in, but I know she’s a bit bitter that Dad isn’t doing this. “Also, to let you know, Audrey will be at all the wedding get-togethers with Ian.” Her eye roll of annoyance is audible even through the phone. “Just a warning.”

  If my relationship with my family is a dumpster fire, my mother’s relationship with her sister, Audrey, is a nuclear fucking wasteland. I don’t know what started their war, but me, Caylee, and my cousin, Ian, have been pawns in it since we were born.

  We’re not so much children as achievements to be bragged about and failures to be embarrassingly and scathingly pointed out. Honor roll? Worth a tagged Facebook post. Caylee gets elected homecoming queen? Of course, that’s worth more than a few comments.

  And as expected, Audrey nearly hired a skywriter when I was arrested for shoplifting as a teen. In her mind, I was a threat to the public and should’ve been locked up and castrated so I couldn’t potentially pollute the gene pool.

  Ever since, Mom has been on a mission to prove to Audrey that I’m not some bad seed asshole. Problem is . . . I am the bad seed, despite what my mother thinks. It’s why I stay away, it’s why I ignore her, it’s why I interact with my family as little as possible.

  But Caylee will never forgive me if I don’t come to her wedding. Especially if I can’t explain that it’s to keep her safe from my world. And while I can hurt my family, there’s still that speck of humanity inside me that doesn’t want to break my little sister’s heart like this.

  But right now, I’ve got to focus. “Look, Mom, I’m heading into a meeting. I’ll call you back later.” I know she thinks it’s with the sketchy dude in the parking lot, and I intentionally don’t clarify that for her.

  “But Connor—”

  I never hear the rest of what she has to say as I hang up, frustrated yet still putting my phone on ‘airplane mode’. This isn’t what I need right now. I know I’m gonna have a decision to make soon, and it won’t be fucking easy. If I do the right thing and ghost my sister's wedding, that’s going to be a bridge torched beyond repair. I might as well be dead to Caylee.

  Honestly, severing that relationship might be for her own good, but she’s been left too often, mostly by Dad, and I won’t be another man to do that to her. Neither will Evan if he knows what’s good for him. And I haven’t met him yet, measured him in my eyes and determined if I need to shake his hand, break his wrist, or bury him in a shallow grave.

  I have to go to the wedding to check him out, but I don’t know if I have it in me to sit there and play the part of a good little boy. Not even for Caylee’s sake.

  My phone beeps as my timer reminds me that I need to fucking move, and I drive, pulling up five minutes later at an abandoned warehouse in the industrial part of town. It’s actually not as bad as it could be. Most of the surrounding buildings are in use. It’s just this one that’s only used for . . . temporary situations.

  Outside, I see my contact, a tall, black-haired man with this kind of European vibe going. Maybe it’s the artisanal cigarette he’s smoking, one I know is going to smell like shit, not that he cares. Maybe it’s the way his jet-black hair is slicked back, or maybe it’s that his suit is just a little too tailored and form fitting so he looks out of place, not only in Maplewood but in the States.

  But regardless of whether he looks like a gigolo or not, Juan Pablo is a man you don’t want to fuck with. “JP,” I greet him as I pull up and get out. “How’s it going?”

  Juan Pablo takes a deep drag from his cigarette and exhales, a dragon’s breath of stinky whitish gray flowing from his mouth and reminding me to keep discreetly upwind of him. “Goddamn, you Americans and your pick-up trucks.”

  I shrug. “Call it a character defect,” I reply, leaning against my truck’s side panel. “What’s happening?”

  JP unbuttons his suit pocket and takes out an old-school manilla envelope, handing it to me. I open it up, taking a look at the laminated card inside, credentials for the job, obviously, along with five or six sheets of paper, clearly intelligence on the job itself.

  “There’s a dinner coming up,” JP says as I look at the papers. It’s not an insult—he knows I can read just fine—just his way. “Some big shot book writer’s giving a talk.”

  I flip through the pages, nodding. “Tell me about the art.”

  “See, she’s going to have the target on display,” JP says, pointing to a picture in the back of the pages. “The credentials will get you in. You’re one of the private security guards. You do your thing and bring the piece back to me.”

  I nod, looking through the pages more, and something sticks out to me. “Replacement?” I ask, and JP nods.

  Damn. I’ve worked hard on my reputation. I’m no basic smash and grab guy, and the people who hire me are looking for discretion. I’m not the kind who leaves behind evidence of any crime taking place . . . except for the missing items. But replacement’s a whole different ballgame. Stealing’s like pulling off a magic trick without people noticing that the rabbit you pulled out of the hat wasn’t actually under the table the whole time.

  Replacement’s more like getting people to believe a kitten is a rabbit just because they’re both white and fluffy.

  But JP shrugs as if lifting a piece in the middle of a dinner speech filled with nosy patrons is going to be easy. “You can do it?”

  It’s a subtle challenge. “I’ll need to prep more, some additional measures,” I tell him calmly. “I’d like to get out of the hotel before anyone notices something’s amiss.”

  “I can help you there,” JP says, disappearing inside the warehouse. He comes out a minute later with a sort of half bag, half case similar to ones I’ve used before for framed pieces. The outside is fairly nondescript, but the inside is made of a silky material that will protect the art. “Here’s the replacement.”

  I take the bag from him, whistling when I open it up and see what’s inside. The Black Rose isn’t the most famous picture in the world, of course. That’d be the Mona Lisa, probably. And even I wouldn’t take a shot at lifting that chick.

  But The Black Rose is definitely up there, especially over the past few years ever since the dinner’s speaker, J.A. Fox, picked it up at an auction and started gushing over it regularly. It’s definitely valuable, but it’s the fact that it’s an easily recognizable collector’s piece that really drives its value.

  And this fake looks remarkably good. “My compliments to your forger,” I murmur, even as my trained eye starts to see the minute flaws. At first glance, it’s hard to tell, but they’re there. Tiny discrepancies in color tone, imperfections in the artificial aging process, but most importantly, it doesn’t quite have the ‘soul’ that the original has.