Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 76821 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 384(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76821 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 384(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
“That sounds like my sister,” I agreed. “Do you want to come in?” I asked, waving inward. “Sit down for a minute? You look half-dead on your feet.”
“I feel it, too,” he admitted, shaking his head. “But I can’t go to bed until I talk one of the guys into helping me re-dress all these road rashes.”
“I can help,” I offered, inwardly cringing at the very idea of it, but there was no taking it back.
“Can’t ask that of you.”
“You aren’t. I was offering,” I told him.
“You don’t have to,” he insisted, giving me another chance to back out.
It was too late.
I’d offered.
I would see it through.
And try not to throw up or pass out while I did it.
“I really appreciate it, sweetheart,” he said.
“It’s no problem,” I told him. “Do you want me to come with you, or…”
“I can bring the supplies here,” he said, already turning to go into the hall. Then right across it. Into his room, I figured.
He came back with an actual bag full of gauze, tape, ointment, and sterile saline.
“May as well sit on the bed, if I’m changing it anyway,” I offered, waving toward it before going to wash my hands.
“So, you’re a writer,” he said a moment later as I carefully started to pry the tape free and unwrap one of his arms.
“What?” I asked, tone a little sharp as my stomach twisted at the idea of him finding me out.
“Your laptop,” he said, nodding toward where I’d carelessly left the document open.
Thankfully, we were far enough away that the only way he could possibly read any of what I’d written—and draw parallels about how we’d met—was if he had the vision of a sharpshooter.
“Oh, ah, yeah. I actually do little writing jobs as a career,” I told him.
“That doesn’t look like a little writing job. It looks like a book.”
“Well, yeah. I’ve been trying to write my first novel for, well, years now. I just keep… not finishing it,” I told him as I braced myself for the wound reveal as the last bit of gauze gave way.
It was ugly.
Bright, bright red and angry-looking, taking up a good chunk of his arm. But it wasn’t actively bleeding, which somehow made it possible for me to stay focused enough to clean and redress it without feeling too queasy.
“Because the story isn’t right, or because you keep doubting yourself?” he asked, making my gaze shoot in his direction, feeling my eyes widen. “You can tell me if I’m being a nosy asshole,” he suggested.
“No, it’s okay. I just… don’t usually get called out like that,” I admitted. “I definitely think it’s a confidence thing. It’s not really a big deal to fail at something that you don’t put a lot of yourself into, but to fail at something you poured yourself into…” I said, shrugging.
“Who says you’re going to fail?” he asked.
“Well, the statistics mostly,” I said, smirking. “I think the stats say that something like seventy percent of authors will never make more than fifteen grand a year with their work.”
“Fuck the statistics,” he said, making my gaze find his again. “You think anyone who ever made something out of themselves paid any mind to that shit?” he asked. “Maybe those stats don’t apply to you. And you won’t know if you don’t try.”
Well, that was the pep talk I didn’t really know how badly I needed. Sure, Triss was encouraging. But sometimes when someone was so close to you, it was easy to brush aside their confidence in you.
I mean, of course she said nice things, she loved me.
“I needed that,” I said, giving him a smile.
“I expect to see a book of yours for sale in the next year,” he told me.
“No pressure or anything, huh?” I asked. But judging by how motivated I was by this story, there was a good chance I would finish the book in a couple of months.
Then would come deciding to go traditional or indie, editing, querying, marketing.
I felt like I was getting hives just thinking about all of that.
But one step at a time.
Finishing the book was the most important part.
“I’m sure you have what it takes,” he told me as I kept working. “Did you always want to be a writer?”
“Ever since I was aware of what books were,” I told him. “My grandmother used to give me all her old books, and I would get lost in them for days on end. Especially in the summer. I think I read two books a day, every day, on summer breaks.”
“Is it the adventure, the romance, or the mystery that draws you in?” he asked, surprising me. I hadn’t exactly expected to talk about books with a biker. Which was probably kind of prejudiced of me, actually.
There was no rule that said bikers couldn’t be into books or art or anything like that.