Chapter 12

Juno

As the driver continued talking about seeing me on TV and recognizing me, I was already zoning out. I almost growled out loud. Why was I always so passive and polite? Why couldn't I think of responses fast enough to get myself out of situations I didn't want?

I sighed. I couldn't be so passive anymore. I just couldn't. I had to grow a spine. Assert myself. I was confident in who I was, but now I needed other people to know it, too.

"I guess you must need to find lots of inspiration for writing those pen name books they mentioned," the driver said, bringing my attention back to him, my heart rate instantly picking up.

"Not really," I replied. "I actually swing the other way."

It was the answer I always gave when someone I didn't know asked about my books. It was maybe a little disrespectful to women who were genuinely queer, but it was the best answer for getting men to leave me alone most of the time.

Of course, it didn't work on everyone, but most of the time, it gave me the relief I needed.

Thankfully, today was no different. We rode the rest of the way in silence, and I could finally relax, even if I did detect a little frostiness from the cabbie when he asked me to hand over the final fare.

Eventually, I was in my hotel room and alone. The first time I had been since leaving my house that morning. I sighed, relieved and more than a little tired.

I slipped out of my boots, noticing I had a fresh blister, took some more painkillers, and slowly unpacked what I'd need for the night while the drugs kicked in.

Once I was done, I switched my clothes, trying to be careful as I revealed bruise after bruise. Most of them were on the right-hand side of my body, some little more than yellow marks now, but at least three larger, more purple ones showed, ugly and still swollen. One was on my thigh, the least painful because of the extra padding I had there.

There was another bad one just under one breast and across my lowest ribs. The worst sat above my hip, the one Jack had seen.

I tried not to look at them for too long, the memories of how I got them something I didn't want playing across my mind. It had been almost a week now, and it would never happen again. I couldn't let it happen again.

Still in pain, I tried to look for something else to distract me and help me unwind. Immediately, I reached for my phone. I hadn't checked anything but texts and voicemails all day, but I had tons of messages on social media, my Discord server, and even missed phone calls and texts. I started reading through everything in a sort of stunned disbelief.

Although it hadn't been a great secret that I had a pen name, the darker erotic romance I wrote under it was unknown to many people. At least it had been until today. Just as O'Sullivan's team had found the pen name and therefore the books under it, so had the rest of the internet now.

Responses ranged from understanding and interest to vilification that I would write such books when I gave the impression I was a clean and wholesome person. I rolled my eyes at the latter. To a large degree, I'd expected this sort of reaction when it finally came out into the public arena that I was writing dark erotic romance.

It made me sigh, however. Why did people judge others so much without understanding what was truly going on in their heads and hearts?

The worst part was the missed calls. They included my mother, my agent, and a few of my best friends.

I considered calling my friends first, but I knew I'd probably want to leave those until last to help me recover from the other two calls. My agent would be up for hours, so I called my mom. Might as well get the worst one over and done with.

"What were you thinking?" she asked as soon as I was on the phone. "Telling a man you wrote one of those books about him live on TV."

The extra emphasis on those didn't escape my notice, and I sat back and rolled my eyes as she continued her tirade.

"Why were you writing those kinds of books in the first place?"

"They were stories I needed to tell for one reason or another," I said, shrugging. "We'd be here all night if I gave you the reasons behind every single one of them."

"Yes, well. I hope that's the last of them now. You need to focus on your cleaner books and the opportunity you have with them."

"As always, I'll write the stories I feel are most important at any given moment. I've never been able to do anything else. The characters scream in my head until I write their story."

I heard her sigh in the background. I imagined her pursing her lips and frowning, possibly even pacing. It was clear I wasn't off the hook for the pen name yet, but it could have been worse. She'd let me off lightly so far. I hadn't been informed I needed to cleanse my soul or atone for anything yet. That was a small victory.

"And what is this about everyone saying you're separated? I've corrected Marge, of course, when she declared it, but honestly, why on Earth could they think you and Greg aren't together anymore?"

I winced, trying to sit up again but making the bruises hurt too much. Giving up, I tried to think of the best way to tell her.

"Well? I thought you'd at least be indignant. How does Greg feel about everyone reporting that you're not together? He must be livid after he's taken such good care of you."

"We are separated," I blurted out as much to stop my mother talking as to finally tell her the truth.

"What?" she demanded. "But he has kept that roof over your head for almost a decade while you try and make yourself a career. Now you get some success, and you leave him? What is going on in your head, child?"

"For one, Mother, I'm not a child any longer, and two, Greg is the reason we're separated. And three, while I was very grateful that he believed in me enough at the beginning of my career to pay the bills while I wrote, by the end, he was anything but supportive of my career choice. Our relationship was never going to continue. There was nothing I could do to save it."

And four, you're not in a position to talk, I thought, but didn't say. I might have been arguing with my mother, but I wasn't suicidal.

My mother didn't reply at first, and the silence only made me more worried that another discussion of my moral failings was coming, but in the end, she just sighed.

"I'm going to go to bed and hope we can all make sense of this in the morning. But you're not to do anything drastic. Greg was good to you. I refuse to believe your relationship can't be salvaged. Do you have any more interviews coming up?"

"No, that was the only one," I replied, suspecting where this was going.

"Good. Maybe if he doesn't see you flirting with that rock star, you'll have a chance to put things right. Goodnight, dear. Try to get a good night's sleep."

I responded in kind, not bothering to argue further. It wasn't worth it. At least the worst conversation was out of the way. My mother would have to get over her dislike of me leaving Greg. I'd already begun divorce proceedings. We were over, and I was taking little with me but my clothes, books, and a few small items of furniture. With any luck, it would all be over before anyone could try and truly stop me.

Sighing, I looked at my phone and tried to decide if I had the energy to call anyone else. I wasn't sure I did. It had been a long and eventful day, and I wanted nothing more than to go to sleep and dream of handsome men sweeping me off my feet and plucking me out of my mess.