CRUEL MONEY (Cruel #1)

1. Natalie

Natalie

1

Dear Natalie,

Here are the latest rejection letters from publishers regarding Told You So. I will follow up with a list from Caroline of the remaining publishers who have the manuscript out on submission.

Regards,

Meredith Mayberry

Assistant to Caroline Liebermann

Whitten, Jones, & Liebermann Literary

Enclosed:

From Hartfield:

Told You So has an interesting take on the value and cost of friendship. I enjoyed the journey the characters take and style of prose. But, unfortunately, that’s where my praise ends. The heroine, Karla, was a caricature of bad judgment and a complete Mary Sue in every other regard. She’s plain, ordinary, and not at all interesting enough to follow for 100k words. I felt Tina might have been a better lead, but it wasn’t clear from the start whether the author was knowledgeable enough to convey the true depth of either of the characters. Perhaps the author should find a muse.

From Warren:

Natalie definitely knows how to tell a story and pull the reader in with a clever introduction. I just didn’t find the characters relatable or the story high concept enough for what Warren is looking for right now. For us, we weren’t completely sold on the genre, as it straddles the line between women’s fiction and literary and thus, sits with neither.

From Strider:

Told You So could have been great. Karla and Tina have so much potential, and the concept, while like several things we already have in our catalog, could have been brilliant. However, I never believed in their friendship, and the middle fell flat. The pace was slow, and for once, I was actually wishing there were a romance to break up the monotony. Maybe a more talented writer could have pulled this off.

“f**k,” I groaned. “I get the message.”

I threw my phone on the cushion next to me. No need to torture myself by reading any more of that. I couldn’t even believe my agent would send me those comments. Let alone on a Friday night before she left for the weekend. Even worse that it came through from her assistant with all those horrible notes about my writing.

Was this the writing on the wall? My agent was finally finding out that I was a hack. Two books and two years later with no offers and pile after pile of heartbreaking rejections. Maybe this was the end.

I stared around the beautiful Hamptons beach house I was vacation home–watching this fall. I’d been hired a month ago and shown up only three days prior, determined to finish my next manuscript. It was a dream come true to be here without any distractions—no parents or guys or anything. Just me and my computer screen.

Then, my agent had gone and dropped the biggest distraction imaginable on my plate. I glared at my screen.

Oh, hell no.

Hell. No.

I was not letting these letters set me back. Maybe Told You So wasn’t the book, but the next one might be.

No, I needed to cleanse myself of this bullshit. I didn’t normally subscribe to my mother’s New Age spiritualism. She spent her spare time reading about auras, staring into crystal balls, and divining from the stars. It was a running joke in my life at this point. But there was a time and place for everything. And, if I was going to get something done during the next couple of months, I needed to leave the past behind me.

I knew what I was going to do.

I was going to burn this motherfucker to the ground.

Okay, maybe a little dramatic. Even for me.

But, hey, this was on the publishers. Was it so hard to craft a kind rejection email?

It’s not you; it’s me.

Maybe we can just be friends.

Come on. I’d heard it all from guys. Publishers could have the decency to try not to break my heart.

Ugh, f*****g rejection.

But a plan had already formed, and I wasn’t going to back down now.

I set my laptop up next to the printer in the office library with a bay window overlooking the ocean. I’d planned to write at that window nook. And I still wanted to. I pressed print on the computer and left to raid the stocked Kensington family wet bar. I’d have to replace whatever I scavenged, but it felt worth it tonight.

I was only watching the house through the fall season. I’d gotten the job after watching my best friend’s parents’ flat in Paris last summer. Word of mouth moved me around the world from there. From Paris to Turks and Caicos to Aspen, and now, I was watching the mayor of New York City’s summer home in the Hamptons. And the mayor had a damn good selection of alcohol.

“Jefferson’s Ocean: Aged at Sea,” I muttered to myself.

Good enough for me. I grabbed the bottle and went in search of everything else I needed.

Fifteen minutes later, I had the stack of papers, a packet of matches, and the bottle of bourbon. I hoisted a shovel onto one shoulder on my way out the back door. When I hit the sand, I kicked off my shoes, grabbed a fistful of my flowy dress, and traipsed across the beach. My eyes were cast forward, and I moved with a sense of determination. The sun had finally left the horizon, throwing me into darkness, which was good, considering I was about to commit arson.

When I reached the soft sand right before the waterline, I dropped my supplies and dug my shovel into the sand. The first shovelful was incredibly satisfying. I took out my frustration and aggravation on that hole. Driving into the sand like I could erase the words from my brain. The tension in my shoulders intensified as I dug until I hit the wet sand beneath, and then I tossed my shovel to the side.

I reached for the supplies, and with my foot on the pages so that they didn’t blow away, I unscrewed the top of the bottle of bourbon and took a large mouthful. The liquid burned its way down my throat. I sputtered and then took another.

That made me feel steadier. More alive. I shuddered as the alcohol hit me and then put it aside before retrieving the most important part of all of this.

Pages and pages and pages.

Forty-seven pages to be exact.

Forty-seven perfectly polite, perfectly soul-crushing pages.

Every rejection letter I’d ever gotten in the last two years, including the latest batch my agent had just sent over.

My eyes skimmed over the first page before I balled it up and threw it into the pit. A smile stretched on my face as I tossed page after page after page in the sand. Forty-seven pages of kindling.

I grinned wickedly, ready to put all of this rejection behind me.

I snatched up the bottle of bourbon and liberally poured it on the pages, like adding milk to cereal. Careful to move the bottle far enough away so that it wouldn’t blow up in my face, I snatched up the box of matches.

“This is for you,” I called up to the moon. “My ritual burning, my offering of this energy. Just take it away and help me start over.”

I struck the match against the box and dropped it into the pit. When the first spark touched the fuel, the papers burst into flames, sending a jet of flames up toward the heavens. I laughed and danced in a circle around the flames, already feeling lighter.

So, maybe this book wasn’t the one. Maybe this hadn’t changed the world. But maybe the next one…or the next one. And, even if it was none of them, I was a writer. I would never stop writing.

A weight dropped off my shoulders, and I tilted my head back toward the moon. I flung my hands out to the sides and did a poorly executed turn, tripped over my own feet, and landed in a heap in the sand. But nothing could stop the euphoria that settled in my chest. Who knew it would be so liberating to burn my rejection letters?

All I’d wanted was to change my luck and let the past go, but damn I felt like a million bucks.

The flames grew and grew, burning through the last two years of my life. And I rode the high as power threaded through me, leaving me drunk and not just from the bourbon.

Jumping back to my feet, I didn’t even bother glancing down the beach. No one was in the Hamptons during the off-season. That was why I’d been hired to take care of the place during the interior renovation. Just last weekend, wealthy children of wealthy businessmen and wealthy politicians and wealthy celebrities had flocked to these beaches and overrun them at all hours of the day. But tonight, I was safe.

I wrenched at the bottom of my dress and lifted all the many layers of flowy material over my head. Tossing it into the sand, I unclasped my bra and discarded it as well. Then with a cry of triumph, I walked with my head held high straight into the ocean. The water was a bit frigid, and I shivered against the first wave that broke against my naked body. But I didn’t care. I wasn’t here for a swim. I was here for primal cleansing. Burn the negative energy and wash away the last remnants.

I dunked my head under the water and laughed when I breached the surface. This was what it was to live. This was what I needed to remember. Life went on.

The Kensington house was just another job. Just another way to make a living while I pursued my passion. One day, I would catch a break, but until then, I would be damned if I let those publishers bring me down. I’d put one foot in front of the other and make it work.

Confident that the ritual burning and impromptu skinny-dipping had done its job, I hurried back out of the water. My steps were light as air, and my smile was magnetic. Whatever spell my mother’s crazy life-journey had cast over all of this nonsense, it sure seemed to work. Believe in anything enough, and belief would turn into reality.

But as I was tramping back up to the fire to collect my clothes, I realized with horror that I wasn’t alone. And what was worse, I recognized the man standing there.

I never forgot a face. And definitely not that face. Or the built body. Or the confident stance.

No, even though six years had passed, I would never forget Penn.

Or what he’d done to me.