Writers island issuu chapter 1 through 3

SUMMARY New York Times bestselling author, Edmond Thompson, has a reputation for being arrogant and cocky. Even on his worst day, he has nothing on new-to-the-scene, independent author, Donté Hardy.

Fresh out of prison, Donté has taken the literary industry by storm. He’s a known internet bully, pulling strings to make sure he and his authors’ titles remain at the top.

Edmond can’t stand the fact that Donté, a snarky “Facebook author,” hasn’t put in the same amount of work he has over the years. He doesn’t deserve his newfound prestige.

Donté feels that Edmond is just jealous and needs to throw in the towel on writing because his book sales have sunk like the Titanic.

Both authors find themselves on Writers Island.

There, they will be in seclusion for thirty days writing a full-length novel to present to their agent.

If the book is accepted, they will receive a sixfigure deal with a major publishing company. The deal will put Edmond back on the top and keep Donté from returning to prison.

The men are dismayed upon learning they will have to write together. Will they be able to put their egos aside and come up with a best-seller or will stubborn pride cause them both to fail?

CHAPTER ONE

A

fter reading the first post, Donté Hardy wished he’d signed out of his account and logged off the computer but curiosity had gotten the best of him, so he’d kept reading. Now, his heart constricted, and he almost couldn’t breathe. His eyes widened and damn near bugged out of their sockets as he read post after negative post.

"He calls himself a publisher, but he’s nothing more than a crook.”

I’m not a crook. Fuck you mean?

“He’s not a man of his word, not to mention a bad business man. Very unprofessional.”

How can you call me unprofessional when you’re posting negative shit on my social media wall? Talk about the pot calling the kettle black.

“This nigga need to pay me my damn money! I ain’t seen a royalty check yet."

I’m going to pay you. You’re just impatient. We discussed that issue, and you said you understood.

So why are you trying to make me look bad now?

With a clenched jaw, Donté Hardy scooted his chair back from the computer screen. He couldn’t stand to read another word. He felt a sudden despair spread throughout his chest. He feared he’d hyperventilate if he didn’t get his emotions under control. The publishing company he had struggled 1

Writer’s Island

to build for the last five years was crumbling down around him. Before his eyes, his legacy might crash and burn, with little for him to do to stop it.

“I should have never signed those weak motherfuckers to my publishing company,” he spat.

“I gave them a chance, helped to put their name and books out there, and they turn on me like this. Fuck them all. Like they say, these bitches ain’t loyal.

They don’t deserve to be with my publishing company anyway. Loyalty Publications will go on without them. A few monkeys don’t stop no show.”

His cell phone rang. His face twisted when he answered only to have his author, Jaquan, bellow in his ear.

“Look, Donté, I have been more than patient with you, and after six months, my patience has run out. I need to get paid. I haven’t seen not one royalty check yet, bru. Not one. What’s up with that? Either pay me or give me back the rights to my book and stop making money off it. I’m tired of your ass getting rich off of my hard work. Don’t make me and my crew take a road trip. Trust me, that’s not something you want. You don’t want to find out how we roll, bru.”

Donté just listened to the rant with minimal conversation.

When is this nigga going to come up for air? I bet he’s pacing back and forth, wearing a hole in his damn carpet.

“Are we gonna have to come get what’s owed to me or what?” Jaquan huffed. Donté could hear him breathing hard over the line. Instead of telling him to fuck off, he’d try to calm him down. He 2

Teresa D. Patterson didn’t need Jaquan and his posse of jean-sagging thugs doing a drive-by shooting on his crib.

“There’s no need for that,” he finally said. “I’ll pay you soon. I just have some red tape to sift through and after that, you’ll receive a royalty payment. You have my word,” he lied.

“Man, fuck your word,” Jaquan swore. “Just cut that check, nigga.” He disconnected.

Donte’s foot began to tap on its own accord.

The truth was, he hadn’t paid Jaquan or any of the other twenty authors he’d signed to Loyalty Publications in quite a few months. He couldn’t pay them because he wasn’t about to let the IRS fuck him again. Since they had recently garnished every cent that went into his bank account, he’d had to outsmart them. He’d moved the company’s money into a secret account. He couldn’t pay his authors from that account because if he did, he feared the nosey ass IRS would discover it, too. He refused to let them wipe him out because he was allergic to being broke. He’d just have to get used to the backlash from disgruntled authors until he got things under control. He’d deal with them...eventually. Until then, he had to convince others to sign with Loyalty Publications, Inc. so he could keep making money. He’d become accustomed to living a pretty lavish lifestyle, and he wasn’t about to go back to a prison cot and three hots. As long as he had authors, he’d have steady cash flowing in.

“Speaking of which, let me get Isis on the phone. I need her to sign this publishing contract so I can release her book next month,” he said aloud.

3

Writer’s Island

Isis was young so she wasn’t asking all the questions she should have been asking about royalty payments, book cover design, editing, promotion, etc. All she wanted was to see her book in print, which by the way, his company didn’t do. They only published electronic books. .99 cent e-books were the current fad. He’d continue to profit from it until the trend wore itself out, which didn’t seem to be anytime soon.

It took him all of ten minutes to sweet-talk the naïve young lady into emailing him her entire manuscript in Microsoft Word format as an attachment. He forwarded her a contract that she esigned and immediately emailed back to him.

BINGO. “Got ‘em,” he said and laughed aloud. He sent an email to the cover designer. Of course, he’d have Isis’s bubble gum and lollipop sounding title changed. He needed something ratchet, because the more ratchet the title, the quicker it would sale.

Confident that the designer would come up with a ghetto cover to match the book, he posted a few status updates on Facebook and Twitter introducing his new author, Isis. As soon as the cover had been created, he’d share it, not because he wanted to help the author out; only because he knew he would gain from doing so. However, the gullible little author would think he was promoting her book.

Once he’d done that task, he forwarded the manuscript to his assistant so she could send it on to be formatted. That process shouldn’t take no more 4

Teresa D. Patterson than two days, depending on how busy their typesetter was with other authors.

He sat back and read all the comments to his post and watched the “likes” increase. Having so many people support him gave him life. It inflated his over-sized ego, too. He was dominating the literary game. He’d all but pushed the top New York Times bestselling black authors off the grid. He knew they hated him for it, too, but he didn’t care.

As long as his name stayed on their lips, then he’d remain relevant.

Speaking of New York Times bestselling authors, he clicked on the Facebook page of the one author he used to admire to see what he had going on.

Not a damn thing.

He laughed aloud. Edmond Thompson was a has-been, just a washed-up used to be top-selling author.

How ironic that he used to admire him. He’d grown up reading his books; paid top dollar for the hard covers. He’d waited in high anticipation for his next book to be released, too. But that was a thing of the past because when he’d reached out to Edmond Thompson, he’d been dissed. Not only had Mr. Conceited dissed him, he’d mentioned something slick on Facebook about it, too. He hadn’t mentioned any names, but Donté knew who he’d been referring to. He didn’t appreciate being slighted by another author, especially one he’d had nothing but respect and admiration for. And for that, he’d never forgive his ex-favorite author.

5

Writer’s Island

Mr. Big Named Author could forever continue to talk about how he used to be an icon, how he’d helped to pave the way for other African American authors, and blah, blah, blah. No one, especially Donté Hardy, gave a shit about any of that.

He strolled down Edmond Thompson’s page and laughed when he read, “my books weren’t written just to entertain. They all have a message.”

“That’s nice to know. But whether a book has a message or not isn’t paying the bills, now is it?”

Donté said smugly. “Eat my dust, you loser.”

He clicked off Edmond Thompson’s page and browsed some of the self-published authors’ pages.

He wasn’t too concerned about any of them. A lot of them could write their asses off, but they couldn’t compete with him. He had the power of manipulation down pat and didn’t hesitate to use it.

As long as he came across gullible, thirsty authors who were too lazy or too dumb to do research, he’d always be eating well. Meanwhile, they might be eating Ramen Noodles and hot dogs, but that wasn’t his problem, was it?

He’d told himself while locked behind prison bars, when he got out, he would take the literary world by storm, get on top and stay on top. He’d done just that, by any means necessary.

He clicked over to Amazon to see all the top titles in the African American fiction, urban life category. The first ten belonged to his authors.

Titles like Coochie Coupon, A Bad Bitch ‘Bout Dat Life, Shorty Got a Fatty, A Thot’s Christmas Wish and Pussy on Fleek leapt out at him. He laughed at the ridiculous titles. He couldn’t help it. Some were 6

Teresa D. Patterson downright outrageous, but they did the trick and kept his authors at the top. That meant he was at the top.

His phone rang again, and he thought about ignoring it. However, when he gazed at the screen, he saw that it was his literary agent. He hadn’t heard from him in weeks, and figured he was calling about money, just like everyone else.

He really didn’t feel like dealing with him, but he answered anyway. “The check’s in the mail,” he lied.

“Hello to you, too,” Leon Andrews drawled. “I know the check’s not in the mail. Even if it was, it would most likely bounce like a rubber ball.

Anyway, I didn’t call about that. Listen. I have negotiated a deal for you. If you agree to it, you’ll earn enough money to get the IRS off your ass, pay your authors, and most importantly, pay me.”

Intrigued, he asked, “What kind of a deal?”

“You have to write a full-length novel in thirty days.”

“Wait. But I don’t write books anymore,” he said. “That’s what I pay my authors to do.”

“Need I remind you that you haven’t paid said authors in months?” Leon asked. There was a pregnant pause before he went on. “You can do this, Donté. You started out writing great books. I know it’s been a few years, but I’m sure you can remember how you used to actually be a pretty decent author.”

Donté’s chest inflated. “I still am a decent author; better than most,” he bragged. “I just choose not to do that anymore.”

7

Writer’s Island

“Donté, you don’t have much of a choice. If you write this book, you have a chance of being signed to a major publishing company for a twobook deal. They’ll pay you six figures.”

“How much?” he asked. Donté almost dropped his cell phone upon hearing the amount, but quickly composed himself. “Are you for real right now?”

“Yes. I wouldn’t bullshit you about this,” Leon assured him.

“Say no more. What do I need to do? I’m down.”

“Well-” Leon hesitated. “-there’s a slight catch.”

Donté’s heart fell at the words, but the thought of signing a six-figure deal held him captivated. He couldn’t pass it up without knowing all the details.

“What’s the catch?” he asked.

“You have to go to a place called Writer’s Island. It’s an actual island located somewhere in Florida.”

Donté nodded as if Leon could see him. “That’s cool. I can do that.” For six figures, he’d swim to that bitch.

“Er...” Leon cleared his throat.

“Uh-uh. What else?”

“You have to stay on this island the entire thirty days and write. However, you can’t have any electronic devices with you.”

“What the fuck? How the hell am I supposed to write then?”

“On an old typewriter.”

“I’m supposed to peck on a fucking typewriter?” That would be quite a task. He’d never 8

Teresa D. Patterson taken a typing class. He still didn’t even know the home row keys. He got by pecking with two fingers; it worked for him. It wasn’t like he worked as a transcriptionist. He didn’t really need to type.

That’s what he paid others to do. Unfortunately, he wouldn’t be able to shell out any cash to get someone to help him in this instance. “All right. I’ll figure it out,” he said.

“It can be done. I think Stephen King still uses an old-fashioned typewriter, him or James Patterson.” Leon was just pulling shit out of his ass.

He had no clue if they did or not. He needed to convince Donté to go along with it so he could get paid. It was his last shot of getting the money Donté owed him so it was worth a try.

“So, no electronics at all. No TV, cell phone, tablet, laptop?”

“Nothing. Not even an I-pod. They want you to be in total isolation so you can concentrate on writing,” Leon explained.

“I’m going to have to think about this, Leon,” Donté said.

“Well, don’t take too long because while you’re thinking, your authors still want to get paid and so do I. Call me back as soon as you make up your mind. Take this deal,” he persisted then added, “Don’t make me have to take you to court if you don’t.” He disconnected the call without saying “goodbye.”

“Shit.” Donté swore and threw his cell phone across the room. He made sure he aimed for the leather couch because it was the latest expensive iPhone 6S. With the type of financial problems he’d 9

Writer’s Island

been having lately, he couldn’t afford to replace the phone if it got damaged.

He figured that Leon Andrews was still salty towards him because he’d gotten sued and had to put a stop payment on the last check he’d sent him.

He owed him and had promised to pay. Of course, he’d been feeding him false promises just like he’d been making to everyone else. He understood Leon’s frustration, but there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it. He just needed to focus and come up with a plan, one that wouldn’t leave him broke and desolate in the end.

He grabbed the remote and plopped down on the couch. It was on an episode of The Wendy Williams Show, but he switched over to Judge Mathis because Wendy irked him. Even so, he wouldn’t mind being a guest on her show. He’d come out wearing a pair of his alligator shoes for her shoe cam. The chances of him making it to her show were slim to none, though. He shook his head.

That He-Man looking, knobby knee bitch got it made. She’s getting paid to talk shit about other people. It must be nice.

He grimaced when he recalled a recent picture he’d seen of her on Facebook. She’d been wearing a bikini while vacationing in Barbados. She had let it all hang out with no care in the world. Well, Black Twitter and everybody else had slaughtered her. She had some nerve to ever open her mouth to talk about anybody else looking all tore up like that.

He couldn’t really knock Wendy Williams’ hustle. Controversy sold. Sex sold. Ratchetness sold. The books he published were a prime example 10

Teresa D. Patterson of that. It seemed the raunchier the title, the more it sold. He’d forever be grateful that the modern-day readers who gravitated towards his authors’ books preferred smut.

After Judge Mathis ended, Donté got back on the computer and checked his Amazon sales reports.

Looking at the numbers made him smile. He really couldn’t complain when he was getting rich off the work of others.

He toggled over and searched for flights to Las Vegas. Why not add the hotel and rental, too? It was time to take a trip and blow some of the money his authors had earned him.

When his authors didn’t write fast enough, he had a remedy for that. He’d just grab a top author’s book, copy and paste it to Word, change the names and cities and put his pen name on it. He’d also revise the book cover, assign the book a new ratchet title and BAM, it would be another Amazon bestselling novel presented by Royalty Publishing.

He had to be more careful about doing that, in the future. That’s how he’d wound up in court. He’d underestimated the wrong author and ended up paying out his ass to make things right. He’d pulled a Steve Harvey and paid the bitch to shut up and disappear. No one would ever know his book had originally been hers. Money talked and bullshit walked.

As soon as he’d nipped that problem in the bud, the IRS had contacted him. It was like, he couldn’t win for losing. He needed the IRS to leave him the fuck alone about some back taxes he owed. He loved living high on the hog and didn’t want 11

Writer’s Island

anything to prevent him from continuing to do so.

However, if he didn’t pay his authors soon, they could make things difficult for him. Up to this point, he’d been able to keep the criticism to a minimum by ignoring most of it or responding to it in a nonchalant manner.

He thought about the offer his agent had presented to him. The way he saw it, he couldn’t walk away from the offer. He couldn’t keep hiding money forever. Eventually, the IRS would catch up with him and garnish that money, too. They were like a blood hound trailing a wounded jackrabbit.

They would not be ignored.

A knock sounded on the door, so he got up from the computer and went to answer. A black UPS worker with dreads who stood about 6 feet and wore a bored expression on his face held out a clipboard. Donté had to sign in order to receive the certified letter. Judging by the thickness of the package, it probably wouldn’t be good news. He scribbled his signature and handed it back to the mail man. Still unenthused, the UPS guy tore off the receipt portion and handed him the thick letter. He didn’t even say one word throughout the entire exchange. Donté almost pointed out his rudeness, but let it go. He didn’t need for dude to go postal on his ass because he obviously hated his job. Wearing all brown certainly hadn’t made him cheerful, either.

His intuition proved to be right. The letter was from the bank that had approved him for his mortgage loan. It was a Notice of Default. He knew he was three months behind on the payments, but 12

Teresa D. Patterson only because he didn’t have quick access to his money anymore.

Reading the official letter gave him a headache.

He stuffed it in the middle drawer of his desk where he kept all of his junk mail and unpaid credit card bills. He’d deal with it later.

He heard a signal emanating from his computer letting him know he had a message in Facebook chat. He checked and saw it was from his assistant, Gabrielle. She advised him to call her ASAP. “What more can go wrong?” he wondered aloud. He shouldn’t have voiced that question aloud. Anytime you ask the universe what more can go wrong, the universe answers with even more problems.

He stalked back over to the couch where he’d thrown his cell phone, moved a few pillows and retrieved it. He saw he had three missed calls from Gabrielle. He hit the call button. “What’s going on?” he asked as soon as she answered.

“Donté, this is not good. I’ve checked your emails and you got one from Amazon and Smashwords about Shorty Got a Fatty. It says something about a copyright infringement and both sites have taken the book down.”

“What the fuck?” he exclaimed “That’s my bestselling book right now.”

“I know, but until the issue is resolved, they won’t put it back up.”

Donté took a deep breath and blew it out loudly. “Okay. I’ll think of something. I just have too much on my plate right now to worry about it at the moment.”

13

Writer’s Island

“Okay. Just thought I’d tell you. Oh, and another thing. I got the manuscript you sent me from Isis. So what do you want me to do about the editing?”

“Er...have somebody look it over. I have a deadline and sending it to the editor will cause me not to meet it.”

“But, I glanced over her manuscript, and she’s not the strongest writer, Donté. I mean, the grammatical errors are just leaping off the page. The tense switches up. She misuses their and there. Are you sure a look-over is going to cut it?”

Donté could feel a headache forming in his temples. “Gabrielle, I really don’t give a shit,” he bellowed. “I just told you, I got too much going on right now to worry about all that. Put a post on Facebook asking for some avid readers to be beta readers. Offer them some free books, gift cards and shit. Make sure they don’t go over two weeks. I have to publish this book before this month is out.”

“But—” “No ifs, ands or buts, just do it.” He disconnected without waiting for her response.

“Shit is falling apart. I have to do something. I can’t just let it happen.” He began to pace back and forth. Finally, he stopped pacing and called Leon Andrews back. “I’ll do it,” he said. “I’ll go to the island and write. When is this going down?”

“The first of the month,” Leon said.

Shit. That means Las Vegas will have to wait.

No, problem. He hadn’t booked the flight and hotel yet anyway.

“All right. I’ll be ready.”

14

Teresa D. Patterson “You made the right decision, Donté,” Leon told him. “Let’s make this money.”

“Yeah. Let’s do that. As soon as I pay your ass off, I’m firing you,” he said. “You get 15% for sitting on your ass while I do all the work.”

“Are you fucking serious?” Leon retorted. “All what work, Donté? You know what? We’re not going to even have this conversation. Just remember, I’ve been working with you long enough to know a few of your dirty little secrets. Don’t talk shit to me when I’ve bent over backwards for your ass. You just never take my suggestions into consideration because you’d rather do underhanded, sneaky things. But like the saying goes, “What’s done in the dark will always come to the light.” So be careful who you cross in this industry.

I know a lot of snakes in this business, but you are by far the snakiest one of them all.” Now it was Donté’s turn to get hung up on.

Once again, he flung his iPhone across the room. This time, it missed the couch and slammed into the wall.

“Damn.” When he picked it up, he saw that the screen was cracked. “Fuck a duck,” he swore. How would he be able to perpetrate being a baller with a damaged cell phone? He couldn’t do it. He’d just have to fork over the money and get it fixed pronto.

He had to do it before he hit the club later that night.

He grabbed his keys off the coffee table and headed out to the Jaguar XF he had parked out front in the circular driveway. It was a 2010, but it was still sweet. He’d paid $55,000 cash for it, and he 15

Writer’s Island

loved dressing up all fly and posting pictures of himself modeling on top of it, in front of it and in it on Instagram and Facebook. It made the haters hate him ten times more and the women want him, even if they couldn’t have him.

He loved his Jag, his BMW, and his Mercedes.

The Beamer and the Benz were newer models and weren’t paid for, yet. If he didn’t hurry and settle his financial affairs, a big bitch like Bernice from South Beach Tow would have his shit jacked up ready to haul off.

As he sat in the Jag he contemplated what it would feel like to lose everything he had. For quite a few years, he’d been living the good life. He glanced out his windshield to stare at his house. It wasn’t a mansion, but it wasn’t qualified to be listed on Section 8, either. It had five bedrooms, two and a half baths. He’d even had a heated underground pool installed out back. He didn’t have to take his daughter to the park because she had her own playground equipped with swings, a slide, a see-saw and a merry-go-round. She also had a trampoline and an outside ball pit for older kids. In addition, she owned every toy he could imagine an eightyear-old would want; a Disney Minnie Mouse Hot Rod Coupe, a bicycle, skates, a motorized scooter, tons of dolls and other figurines. He couldn’t barely walk into her closet because he’d crammed it so full of clothes, coats, boots and shoes for a little girl. He knew everyone thought he spoiled her, but it was his way of making up for lost time. After all, he hadn’t been there the first six years of her life.

16

Teresa D. Patterson He exhaled as he thought about placing a ‘For Sale’ tag on everything he owned and having a yard sale.

“No way in hell,” he said aloud. “My baby is going to keep everything I bought for her. And I’m keeping all my shit, too. I just have to write this book, make this money, and I’ll be back on top.” He nodded. “Now, let me go get this phone fixed.” He turned the key in the ignition, backed out of the driveway and headed in the direction of the cell phone repair shop.

Donté wanted to forget about the bad day he’d had. After getting his cell phone screen fixed, he called one of his current women, Donna.

“Hey, sweetheart? It’s been a while. I’ve been thinking about you and would like to take you out to dinner.” Of course it was a lie. He hadn’t given her a second thought since the last time they’d fucked.

He just wanted to make her feel special. “Are you hungry?” he asked.

“Actually, I just finished doing my yoga workout, and I was about to pop a meatloaf in the oven. So, yes, I’m starving,” she said.

“How about you put that meatloaf away for another day and get dressed? How does the Olive Garden sound?”

“You know I love seafood, so it sounds lovely,” Donna said.

“We’ll go dancing after we leave the Olive Garden. So make sure you wear some heels that are not too tight. Don’t have your toes all scrunched up in a shoe that’s two sizes too small.”

17

Writer’s Island

Donna cackled like a hen at the corny joke. “I think I’ll wear my Gianvito Rossi alligator pumps.

They’ll be perfect for dancing. I need to break them in anyway,” she said.

Donté prided himself in being familiar with women’s fashion. He knew that particular pair of shoes cost around $6,000. He thought of Donna as a bougie bitch who craved the finer things in life.

However, she deemed herself the independent type who didn’t need a man for anything. It suited him just fine. That meant, he could save a lot of money to spend on the greedy, gold-digging tramps he loved to get freaky with. However, Donna was a good fuck, and he wanted to get in that pussy before the night ended. It would only cost him a dinner and a few drinks thanks to her independence.

“I’ll pick you up at 8 o’clock,” he said.

“I’ll see you then.”

Donté and Donna sat in VIP chilling. He drank Hennessy on the rocks while she nursed a Cosmopolitan. They had danced to a few songs they liked but kept getting interrupted by women Donté knew. Even though Donna didn’t say anything, he could sense her displeasure, but he shrugged it off.

He couldn’t help being popular. So many women recognized him from the books he wrote and published and from the different social media platforms he belonged to. When they saw him, they wanted to give him a hug or talk about what happened in his books. Some even asked to take pictures with him so they could post them to make their friends envious. He couldn’t be rude to his 18

Teresa D. Patterson readers, so he obliged them. Besides, he loved being the center of attention.

After taking pictures with a group of hyped-up women out celebrating a birthday, Donté finally sat down to converse with Donna. She had been watching him flirt with the ladies the entire time and had tried not to roll her eyes at the females behaving like hussies or at Donté enjoying it. Did the one woman really need to bend over to take a picture with him? And the other one just threw her leg on his shoulder. She was flexible, but that was still a bit much. It left her wonder who had raised such lower moral skanks?

“What have you been doing with yourself, Donna?” he asked. “You look good, by the way.”

He knew throwing her a compliment would make her forget to be upset about the other women vying for his attention. It worked.

“Oh, thank you.” Donna actually blushed. “I started doing yoga and now I wonder why I didn’t do it sooner. It works wonders.”

He nodded as his eyes took in her luscious breasts that seemed to pour out of the low cut jumpsuit she wore. The stretch material hugged her wide hips and caressed her huge butt. He licked his lips. “It sure does. I could just devour you right now,” he teased, causing her to blush again.

“Stop it, Donté.” She giggled like a teenager.

“How’s the business going?” he asked, changing the subject. He really didn’t have to sweet talk Donna to get in her panties. She probably hadn’t had any dick since the last time they’d been together. He loved fucking her because her pussy 19

Writer’s Island

stayed tight. It wasn’t all worn out and loose from overuse like some of the sluts he dealt with.

“Things are going really well. I’m glad you convinced me to become a virtual assistant. I’ll admit, at first, I thought I’d never gain any clients.

Now, not even a year later, I have so many, I sometimes have to turn jobs down. I’m actually in need of an assistant myself.”

As the night wore on, they continued to chat about a variety of subjects. Donna was in the middle of telling him why she no longer watched reality television when Quisha, one of his former women, entered and spotted them together. With a deep frown, she stormed over to the couple and mushed Donté in the forehead with her index finger.

“Hold up, Quisha. Don’t be putting your hands on me or we’re gonna have problems,” Donté warned.

“Who the fuck is this bitch?” Quisha demanded to know, wagging an acrylic covered claw at Donna.

Donté intervened. “Quisha, don’t come up in VIP starting no shit. You don’t need to know who I’m with. I told you I moved on and you need to do the same,” Donté said. He hadn’t seen Quisha in almost a month and thought he’d made his message clear the last time they’d talked. Obviously, Quisha thought differently.

“So is she the reason you told me you don’t want me no more?” Quisha asked.

“No, she had nothing to do with me leaving you. That’s all on you, Quisha.”

He didn’t want to hurt her feelings in front of Donna by telling her she was a dead fuck. So many 20

Teresa D. Patterson men had been inside her vagina they’d knocked down the walls. Fucking her was like fucking a bottomless pit. He’d couldn’t even pretend he enjoyed it. God hadn’t blessed him below the waist like he’d done some other men. He’d only been equipped with a 5-inch penis. Quisha required a 12inch brother. He couldn’t buy the extra seven inches necessary to stick with her. He’d had to throw in the towel.

“Who is she?” Quisha repeated, but Donté cut his eyes and refused to speak. Quisha sucked air through her teeth. “If you won’t tell me who she is, I’ll ask the bitch myself.” Quisha got in the other woman’s face. “Who the fuck are you?”

“I don’t have to answer you,” Donna said, stirring her drink and avoiding eye contact with the angry woman.

“You gonna tell me something, bitch.” Quisha leaned down to stare Donna right in the eye. Their faces were so close, had either puckered their lips, they would be kissing.

Donté chose that moment to get up from the table and walk to the bar. He wasn’t about to get inbetween two squabbling women and end up with scratches in his face. He’d made that mistake before and had learned from it.

He watched from across the room as Quisha grabbed his date by the hair and began to pull it. “If you’re up in the club with my man, you can at least be polite enough to introduce yourself, hoe.” She spoke loud enough for everyone to hear. Donna had no way out of a confrontation. She couldn’t just sit there and be attacked without defending herself.

21

Writer’s Island

Donna did the first thing she could think of.

She punched Quisha in one of her fake breasts.

“Ouch. What the fuck? You just hit me in my titty. You just mad ‘cuz they ain’t sagging like yours, you old bitch. It’s on now,” Quisha said.

That time, she grabbed Donna’s hair with both hands. She ended up snatching most of her weave out. Crochet braids littered the floor by the time two large security guards pulled the women apart. Of course, people stood around laughing and recording it on their phones for WorldStar or whatever social network would get them the most comments or likes until security escorted the women out.

Left with no date, Donté sat at the bar nursing his Hennessy. One of the ladies he’d taken pictures with earlier slid onto the stool next to him.

“So you got women fighting over you like that, you must be doing something right,” she said.

Donté shrugged. “I just be myself because that’s the only person I can be,” he said.

“I think you’re being modest. How about I give you my number and you call me? I’ll be more than happy to find out just what it is that makes the women go crazy over you,” she said and winked, sliding him a business card.

This big forehead heifer is bold. She ain’t much to look at, but she got a nice body. It’s a good thing that pussy don’t have a face. I’ll fuck her with the lights off.

“I’ll definitely hit you up sometime-” he glanced at the card, “-Shannon.”

22

Teresa D. Patterson “You do that,” she said, smiling hard at him like he was a huge piece of government cheese.

He gulped down the rest of his drink and headed out of the club.

He didn’t think his night could get worse, but it did. He stopped dead in his tracks and threw up his hands when he arrived at his car. One of the angry women had thrown a container of cheese fries at his windshield. The gooey mess dripped down the window, leaving a sticky trail. The overturned container rested on his hood. His guess would be Quisha was the culprit. Her ghetto ass always ordered cheese fries whenever they went out. She’d probably had some in a Styrofoam container stored in her car.

I shouldn’t be surprised by the behavior of these unsophisticated thots, he thought, as he flung the mess from his car onto the ground. He got in his car, started the engine and pushed the windshield washer button. Most of the residue washed away.

He’d still have to go through a carwash to get the window back sparkling clean the way he liked it.

He’d do that the next day.

He sat in the car contemplating his next move.

He’d really had his mind set on dicking down Donna that night. Maybe he could still make that happen. He called her and tried to apologize for the incident that had taken place in the club.

“Look, baby, I’m sorry about what happened tonight,” he said as soon as Donna answered. “I didn’t know Quisha was gonna show her ass like that. I’ll pay to get your hair re-braided or sewed in 23

Writer’s Island

or you can get a lace front or whatever it is you women wear.”

“Donté, don’t even worry about it. I’m not about games and just don’t want to deal with you anymore. I am too grown to be fighting with your ghetto bitches in a club. You didn’t handle that like a man. You didn’t even come outside to see if I was okay after the bouncers threw me out. I had to call a cab to get home. I don’t have time for that mess. I am done with you,” she said.

“Bitch, fuck you then,” he yelled. “You don’t get to leave me. I’m supposed to leave you, hoe.

You was just a piece of ass anyway.”

“Well, it’s a piece of ass you won’t be getting anymore with your lil limp, marshmallow-sized dick,” she insulted. “You act like a real bitch, Donté. Good riddance.”

“You wasn’t complaining about all the money I spent on you though, was you?”

“Donté, you didn’t spend shit on me. I have my own money and don’t need you for anything. All you did was pay for a few meals. Get over yourself,” she said.

“For the price of a dinner, I got to cum all down your throat, you nasty trick. Go back to them broke ass niggas you let cum in your face for free, hoe,” he yelled. He was so angry spittle flew out of his mouth and hit the screen of his phone. “Who the fuck do you think you’re talking to, Donna?” He wanted to wrap his hands around her throat. She was lucky not to be standing in front of him. She would have gotten her ass beat that night. It made 24

Teresa D. Patterson his blood boil whenever a woman disparaged his manhood.

A triage of women leaving the club passed by and laughed at his outburst.

“What the fuck y’all chubby bitches laughing at?” he roared out the window. “Looking like y’all model for Section 8 and WIC,” he insulted.

“No, he didn’t,” one of the women said.

“Fuck that short ass nigga,” her friend said.

“He look like a troll anyway.” They laughed some more and kept high-stepping in their short, tight dresses and six-inch stilettos. They had a few rolls that a girdle could have complemented, but they’d chosen to let it all hang out. Somebody would like it even if Donté didn’t.

After the women passed, he turned his attention back to his phone conversation. “Donna, are you still there?”

She let out a deep sigh. “Yes, I am, even though I don’t even know why.”

“I’m sorry about losing my temper and insulting you. Quisha just got me upset. I’ll make it up to you.”

“Donte...”

“Please,” he interrupted. “Baby, you sure you’re ready to give this tongue up? Remember the multiple orgasms you experienced the last time?

Don’t you want that again?”

“Nice try. But they have a vibrator that can do all of that and more,” she said.

“You’d rather fuck with a toy than the real thing?”

25

Writer’s Island

“Yes because a toy isn’t attached to as much bullshit as you are. I like you, but I just can’t deal with all the drama anymore. The last time we went somewhere, one of your exes threatened to cut me, and you didn’t even step in and put her in her place.

I don’t trust that you’ll have my back in situations like this because so far your track record has shown that you don’t. I can’t take a chance on being accosted by your psychotic, reckless females anymore. I’m done. Have a great life, Donté.

Goodbye.” With that, she ended their conversation.

“Shit. This sadity ass bitch got a lot of nerve to end things with me. I’ll have some flowers delivered to her tomorrow, and I guarantee she’ll be raising her feet up towards heaven next week. After I hit that one more time then I’ll dump her ass,” he said with a smug smirk.

Obviously, smashing Donna that night wasn’t going to happen thanks to Quisha. His dick was hard, and he didn’t want to go home to an empty house and blue balls.

Who can I slide my dick in tonight? Oh, yeah, I know exactly who I can hit up this late and still get invited over.

He called one of his authors who didn’t live too far away from the club and arranged to stop by her place. He didn’t really feel like looking at her rolls of fat, but when he thought about her mouthpiece, her obesity could be overlooked.

One of the advantages of being a publisher was the amount of pussy he could get just for a promise.

He’d slept with several of his female authors just because he could. He didn’t care about any of them.

26

Teresa D. Patterson When he had their legs wrapped around his neck making them scream his name, he felt like God. It was just another form of manipulation. When they started inquiring about their royalties, he’d just dick them down and shut them up.

Him sleeping with his authors had caused a stir amongst them. He could tell by their posts in his Facebook group. They’d take little digs at each other on the sly. He just sat back, watched and laughed. If one of them asked if he was sleeping with another one, he’d brush it off. He knew not to ever let his right hand know what his left hand was doing.

He’d formed an online community that thought very highly of him. His authors were always posting how grateful they were that he’d made their dreams of being a published author come true. Even his readers posted on his page how they loved the fact he gave props to others and didn’t just think about self. He had them all fooled.

He smiled as he pulled into Chandra’s driveway, next to her dented up Saturn. She should have been driving a Mercedes or better, but her dreams for success just wasn’t big enough.

Chandra wasn’t much to look at, being topheavy and shaped like an extra large meteorite, but she gave some fire head. Her head game was the main reason he hadn’t already dumped her. To be honest, she was amongst the few of his authors who actually could write well. When she agreed to sign with his publishing company, he knew he’d lucked up on a gold mine. Not only were her novels catchy, she wrote faster than any author in the game. She 27

Writer’s Island

had a six-book series, and they all stayed at the top of the bestseller’s list. If she hadn’t been stupid and signed with him, she could have paid for a new car and moved into a better place by now.

Chandra was his number one cash cow, but lately, she’d been getting too clingy. Tonight, he’d have to make sure she understood the terms of their relationship, mainly; they weren’t in one.

He saw Chandra’s bedroom light come on and moments later, she cracked open the front door and peered out. He exited the car and climbed the few steps to her apartment. He could tell by the way her eyes shone when she let him in she was catching feelings. It was time to cut her off like an amputee.

As he followed her toward the bedroom she said, “Donté, I was on Facebook earlier and some people were going off on you. What did you do?”

“It’s nothing to concern yourself with. Just a few disgruntled ex-authors. You know how that is.

When they no longer write for you, they want to start tearing you down.”

“That’s just a shame because you help so many people get their books out. If it wasn’t for you, I’d still be trying to figure out what to do.” She dropped her robe and tried to strike a sexy pose in her lingerie. He had to hide his grimace because she resembled a baby Manatee.

Your ass need to figure out how to lose about fifty pounds, but I ain’t gonna say nothing. I’ll just sip this tea in my head.

“Um, can you turn the light out?” he asked.

“Oh, my bad. Sorry. I forgot.” She walked over and flicked the switch. He’d previously told her his 28

Teresa D. Patterson eyes were sensitive to light. The truth was, he didn’t want to look at her obese body when he fucked her.

Her rolls of fat turned him off and made his dick shrivel up like a raisin in the sun. In the dark, he didn’t have to see all of her fat shaking, wiggling and jiggling. He could pretend he was pounding Janet Jackson or Beyoncè, which is exactly what he did. He had Chandra clawing his back and bawling up the bed sheets as she called out his name. He felt more powerful with each thrust. He tried to beat the breaks off because he knew it would be the last time he fucked her. In a sense, it was a good-bye fuck.

Only Chandra didn’t know it.

29

CHAPTER TWO

D

onté awoke the next morning to a throbbing sensation in his left eye. It took him a moment to recall what had happened. When he remembered, he grimaced and turned over to look at the alarm clock... with one eye.

He couldn’t see out of his left eye due to it being swollen shut. That bitch, Chandra, had hit him in the eye when he’d told her it was over.

He pulled himself up into a sitting position. His feet dangled a few inches above the carpet because his ego had convinced him to purchase a king-sized bed with a thick mattress and box spring. When he sat down his feet didn’t touch the floor because he was only five feet six inches in height.

He hadn’t expected things to go well when he told Chandra he didn’t want to see her anymore, but he’d been caught completely off guard when she’d swung on him. He shook his head as he recalled the fight that had ensued the previous night. *** After thirty minutes of losing his erection and having to fantasize about other women to get his dick hard again, Donté had fucked Chandra like a porn star. He got a burst of renewed energy and went at her for another twenty minutes until he’d nutted a second time. He pulled his deflated member out of Chandra and walked over to the garbage can to dispose of the condom.

30

Teresa D. Patterson “Chandra, we need to talk,” he said, going back over to the bed and sitting on the edge of it. He reached for his boxers and pulled them on.

“What is it, bae?” She leaned on one arm and stared at him with doe-like eyes.

Donté cringed from hearing the term of endearment. “That right there. Now, that’s a problem. I see you got what we have going on twisted. I’m not your bae. I never was, and I never will be. As a matter of fact, tonight will be the last night we hook up,” he said. He hadn’t meant to deliver the news in such a harsh manner, but it had all came pouring out.

Her chin dropped, causing her lips to part slightly. “What?” she asked.

“You heard what I said. It’s over.”

When his words sank into her brain, her eyes narrowed. “You slimy motherfucker,” she yelled, leaping from the bed and standing to face him in only her bra and panties. “I’ve been sucking your limp dick and licking your saggy balls all these months. You come over here and fuck me then tell me it’s over? Why didn’t you just tell me that shit on the phone?”

“Telling a person something like that by phone is a coward move,” he said.

“It would have fit you because you’re a fucking coward,” she spat. “I heard about those two women fighting over you at the club tonight. You’ve been fucking all types of bitches while you fucking me anyway. It’s not like you were my man, but damn.

Why you had to do me like this?” Her voice 31

Writer’s Island

cracked. “You know how I feel about you. Don’t you even care?”

“Look, I told you from the jump it was no strings attached. I don’t want to be in a committed relationship with anyone. And even if I did, what makes you think I’d want to be with you, Chandra?” he asked. He dropped his eyes, letting them travel over her body from her feet to the top of her head, frowning as he did so.

Her brow furrowed. “What are you trying to say? What’s wrong with me?”

“I mean, face it, you are not a 10.” He shrugged. “You’re a long way away from being a 10. You’re a 4, at best, even when you fix yourself up. You’re too heavy to be attractive. You really need to think about eating less and exercising more,” he said.

Her lips parted, but she remained silent as she stared at him blinking rapidly. When she hit him, it felt like his eyeball sunk into the socket and got stuck.

“Shit,” he swore, holding his eye, which quickly began to throb and water. “Bitch, why did you do that?”

“I’ll show you a bitch,” she snapped and charged him like a raging bull. She threw wild punches, catching him in his face and upper torso.

He fended off the blows as best he could.

“Look, woman, you better stop hitting me before I hurt your ass,” he warned, grabbing her arms and pinning them to her sides.

32

Teresa D. Patterson “Fuck you, nigga.” She snatched one of her arms free and raked her long, acrylic nails down his chest then slapped him.

Donté closed his eyes and shook it off. “Look, you got one more lick, and I’m going to have to fuck your ass up. I’m warning you.”

Chandra fumed. Her red eyes glared at him with pure hatred. She sent an upper cut to his chin, that staggered him, and he fell back against the bed.

He was still half dressed because he hadn’t put his pant back on yet. His eyes landed on his belt and he snatched it up. He wrapped the leather around his hand one time to secure his grip then commenced to beat Chandra with the leather until she screamed in agony. She ran around the room, hopping and skipping, trying to dodge the licks.

“Please stop, Donté,” she begged. “Ouch. It hurts. Please stop. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

“Oh, hell no. Don’t be sorry now, bitch. I’m gonna tear your ass up. Didn’t I warn you?” He continued to whip her like a misbehaving child until she just dropped to the carpeted floor and held her hands up trying to catch the belt. He still rained lick after lick upon her flesh. “Don’t. You. Ever. No more. In life. Put your hands on me. Bitch. Do. You. Understand?” He stressed each sentence as he hit her again and again.

She began to cry. “Lord, Jesus, God, please make him stop.” She begged a higher power because she knew it was pointless pleading with the crazed man in front of her. Curling in a fetal position, she sobbed uncontrollably.

33

Writer’s Island

Standing over her and breathing hard, Donté finally stopped swinging the belt. He glared down at her with flaring nostrils. “See what you made me do? I didn’t wanna beat your ass, but you deserved it. I told you to stop, and you didn’t listen.” He walked over to her bureau dresser and stared into the mirror. “Look at this shit. You gave me a fucking black eye,” he roared. “I ought to come over there and beat your ass again.”

Chandra whimpered like a wounded dog.

“Please don’t hit me no more, Donté. I’m sorry.”

“You’re sorry? Bitch, sorry ain’t gonna fix my damn eye. I can’t go out in public looking like this.

This shit is going to take a few days to go down.”

His lips curled as he looked at her still cowering on the floor. “You wanna make up for this shit? Crawl your big ass over here and suck my dick. That’s what you can do.”

She did as instructed. The tears streamed down her face as she complied. Donté felt no sympathy.

He rammed his penis to the back of her throat, threw his head back and moaned as he shot his load.

“I’m sorry,” she repeated after she swallowed his hot jism.

“I know you are.” His gaze narrowed. “And like I said, it’s over,” he told her again. He pulled his deflated penis out of her mouth and tucked it back into his boxers. He proceeded to get dressed and left her on her knees, battered, bruised, sobbing and heartbroken.

Donté laughed to himself as he walked toward the bathroom wearing only his boxers to take a 34

Teresa D. Patterson shower. He hadn’t beaten or belittled a woman like that in years. Giving them money usually kept them in line, and he didn’t have to lay a hand on them. He wasn’t one of those men who believed in abusing women just for the hell of it. However, if a woman thought she could just hit him without suffering the consequences, she had to be disillusioned.

He actually applauded himself for not sending Chandra to the ER. Usually, women didn’t fare too well when they crossed him. They ended up with something broken that only a hospital could fix.

He’d come a long way. Chandra had pushed the wrong button and, in his opinion, had gotten what she’d deserved. Lucky for her, he hadn’t slapped the soul out of her body when she’d punched him.

“That bitch must have lost her mind putting her hands on me,” he said aloud. “She better be glad I’m a changed man.”

His cell phone vibrated and when he picked it up, he saw it was Chandra calling.

Speaking of the devil, he thought and let out an exasperated breath before answering. “Hello?”

“Donté, after what happened last night, I don’t think I can write for you anymore. I want you to stop publishing my books,” Chandra said.

“Sorry, it doesn’t work like that, sweetheart.

Remember, you signed a contract,” he reminded.

“Yes, I remember. And I just finished reading that contract, and I know you have breached it.

Where are the reports you were supposed to give me every month to let me know how many of my books were sold? Furthermore, where are my royalties for the last three months? A lot of my 35

Writer’s Island

books have been selling well, but I haven’t seen any money from those sells.”

“Look, Chandra, I just woke up. My eye is hurting, and I can barely see out of it, thanks to you.

I’m in pain, and I ain’t got time to listen to all this clucking so early in the morning. We can discuss this later. Bye.” He just disconnected the call, making sure to switch the phone to silent mode.

“Now this bitch tripping, too. Shit.” He shook his head.

Fuck it. In a few weeks, I’ll be on Writer’s Island writing. When I sign that contract and get that dough, I can pay everybody off and then stop fucking with these losers.

Of course, when he finally got around to signing onto Facebook, who was all up and down his timeline talking shit about him? Chandra.

He didn’t even have to say one word. His groupies attacked that ass. They called her every word imaginable except a child of God. He continued to post on his fan page as if he hadn’t a care in the world. He didn’t even respond to Chandra’s accusations. If he kept quiet, everyone would deem her a woman scorned. He knew he could just block her, but he wanted the controversy.

Her fighting back and forth with his fans made her look deranged and desperate. Her plan to expose him would backfire, and he’d come out on top, like he always did.

After logging off Facebook, he went into the kitchen to fix a breakfast of scrambled eggs, 36

Teresa D. Patterson sausage, grits and toast. He sat down and enjoyed his meal without any distractions.

When he returned to the living room, he checked his phone and saw that he had a missed called. As he listened to the voicemail that had been left his jaw tightened. He placed the phone down on the coffee table and plopped his body down in the loveseat. He leaned back and began to massage his temples.

Why the hell was everyone from his past suddenly crawling out of the woodwork trying to get something from him? It wasn’t going to go down like that. He’d had to pull his way up to the top from the bottom. There was no easy way to success. They would have to do the same thing he’d done. Idle threats weren’t going to move him to do anything, especially when it came to his paper. *** The taxi driver could tell the guy he’d picked up had just recently been released from prison. He had that certain detached look in his eyes, as though everything around him was new and moving too fast. The clothes he wore were new, but ill-fitting; a too large shirt and extra baggy sweatpants. That’s what usually happened when they discharged a prisoner. It wasn’t like the state would put them in Fubu or the latest fashion, but could they at least give them clothing that fit? He shook his head. He didn’t say much, just cautiously watched him through the rear view mirror. Ex-cons always made him a tad bit nervous. He knew some of them probably didn’t have anything except cab fare and a few dollars. Up to this point, no one had been 37

Writer’s Island

desperate enough to try to rob him, but he’d never let his guard down.

His nervousness soon turned into surprise when the man in the back seat put on a shoulder-length Vivica A. Fox wig and began to comb it with his fingers. Once he tamed it to his satisfaction, he proceeded to make-up his face to perfection. He then took off the baggy shirt he’d been wearing and pulled a dress over his head. The bulky sweat pants got discarded and the flip flops were replaced by a pair of six-inch heels. He even pressed some snapon nails on his hands. Once finished, he/she admired her handiwork and gave the driver a wink in the mirror.

“I can get so much more help if I look like this than if I look like a rough ass man, don’t you think?”

The driver’s mouth just hung slack. He couldn’t answer even if he wanted to. He had seen a lot of things in his thirteen years as a cab driver, but never such a complete transformation. If he hadn’t witnessed the change with his own two eyes, he would have swore the man had been born a woman.

He just shook his head and continued to drive.

This whole entire world is headed straight for hell, he thought, with Trump leading it and this sophisticated sissy in the crowd. *** When he arrived at the shelter, everyone automatically assumed he was a woman, and he played right along. He’d been smart and had secured a room at the Safe Have Re-Entry shelter before his release date. However, he’d registered as 38

Teresa D. Patterson Patricia Ann Grayson, and that was the name he went by.

After being at the shelter a few days, Patricia Ann made up her mind that she wouldn’t be staying for too long. For one, she didn’t like rules, and she didn’t like having a curfew. In order to move into her own place, she needed money, and she knew just the person to get it from. She punched in the now familiar number and listened to it ring and frowned as her call went straight to voicemail yet again.

Sitting on the edge of the bed in the boarding house, she stared around the small room. She didn’t want to feel ungrateful because she had a clean place to stay and a bed to sleep in. She knew after being released from prison, some had a hard time finding any of that. They ended up staying on the streets and being prey to bad influences amongst other things. The place wasn’t bad and at least she got three meals a day. Plus, there was even a desktop computer in the room that she could use anytime she wanted to. She had used it mostly for applying for jobs until she’d discovered Facebook.

She also figured out how to browse the internet and gain all the information she needed to get about Donté Hardy.

She’d prided herself in keeping up with the times. The first day upon her release, she’d purchased herself a cell phone. It had turned out to be one of the best things she’d ever possessed.

She’d actually reached Donté once, but when she’d reintroduced herself to him, he’d hung up on her.

That had pissed her off. Since she wasn’t one to 39

Writer’s Island

give up easily, she kept trying. She just wanted to have a civilized conversation with Donté Hardy, but every time she called, Donté refused to answer.

Now, her calls just went straight to his voicemail, like now.

“You want me to leave a message? I’ll leave a motherfucking message then,” Patricia Ann screamed into the phone. “I know you got the message I left the other day, just like you got the fifty I left before that one. Don’t fucking play with me, Donté. I won’t be ignored much longer. You owe me. You need to call me back if you know what’s good for you.”

Patricia Ann slammed her cell phone down then turned away from the computer and the Facebook fan page she’d been browsing. She smiled tightly as she held a copy of Donté Hardy’s first novel in her hands.

“I see you’re living mighty high on the hog, Mr. Hardy. Now, you’re a successful...” She held up the book and read the cover aloud. “...national bestselling author. Mm-hmm. You have a precious little daughter, a lavish house, and expensive cars and shit. How impressive. You started at the bottom and now you’re here. How selfish of you to forget the little people who helped you to get to the top, though. You owe me for this book as well as for keeping your dirty little secrets. You’re living high on the hog. Meanwhile, I’m living at this funky little shelter, holed up in here like some rat. I don’t think that’s right, not after what you did.” She got up and began to pace the floor.

40

Teresa D. Patterson “All I wanted to do was talk to your ass and come to some type of an agreement. That’s all. But you hung up on me. How motherfucking rude. How dare you hang up on me.” She took the novel and slung it across the room. Pages flapping, it bounced off the wall and hit the floor. “Now, it’s time for payback and nothing will keep me from it.”

41

Writer’s Island

CHAPTER THREE

T

he day finally arrived for Donté to catch a flight and then head to Writer’s Island. He felt relieved to be getting away and leaving all of his financial troubles behind for at least a little while. He’d become weary of avoiding bill collectors by not answering his phone and peering through the Venetian blinds to make sure no one was serving him legal papers before answering the door. A change had to come and soon.

He’d packed a few things in a duffle bag: tee shirts, socks, boxers, notepads, pens and pencils.

He’d decided he would write by hand and then type out what he’d written. That had been his writing ritual back when he used to write books.

He set his home alarm, locked the front door and got into his Mercedes. He tossed the duffle bag onto the passenger seat and took out his iPhone. He texted his daughter’s mother to let her know he was leaving. He’d already told her about going away for a month to write. She didn’t care as long as he’d paid the child support in advance.

He started the engine and backed the car out of the driveway then proceeded to drive toward the airport. Since he’d be gone for a month, he had to park in the extended parking. He hated leaving his Mercedes, but it had a high tech alarm system. If anyone happened to get inside it, they wouldn’t make off with anything of value. He’d left all of his valuables in a vault at the bank. The only electronic device he had with him was his iPhone, which he 42

Teresa D. Patterson knew he’d have to give up once he got to Writer’s Island.

He wasn’t looking forward to being without all the comforts of the world he’d become accustomed to, but it was worth the sacrifice for six figures. He already knew what he wanted to write about. He’d outlined the story in his head. He knew without a doubt he could write a full-length novel in thirty days. The writing would be a piece of cake. Living on a deserted island, now that was another story.

Donté arrived at the airport with plenty of time to spare. He parked in extended parking and took the monorail to the main terminal. Since he didn’t have any luggage to check in, an agent printed his boarding pass, and he was on his way.

Going through security was an aggravation. He hated to take off his shoes. But since he didn’t want to get beat down like Rodney King, he did as he’d been instructed and moved along to find the gate where he’d be boarding.

Once he found the correct gate, he took a seat and waited to board his plane. It would only be fifteen minutes before the plane would take off. He updated his Facebook status to let everyone know he would be taking a hiatus from social media. He’d already arranged to have one of his groupies manage his social media accounts for him. He’d given her specific instructions of what to post in his absence.

As soon as he posted, he got the comments coming in telling him to have a safe trip and how much they’d miss him. Blah! Blah! Blah! Even though their devotion caused his head to swell, he 43

Writer’s Island

often wondered if the bitches had a life. Seriously?

How long would you continue to live vicariously through someone else? Each and every one of them could do exactly as he’d done, but they were too dumb to figure that out. Why watch the life of someone else when you could live the life others wanted to watch?

He strolled back up the page to read some of the newer comments. Of course, some haters had chimed in, including Chandra.

I hope your ass drown, she posted.

I hope that nigga get fucked by a dolphin, someone posted under her post with a laughing face emoji. He began to get more hateful comments that he didn’t care to read. He exhaled and turned his phone off. Maybe taking a hiatus from Facebook would do him good. When he returned, he’d be able to pay his authors so they wouldn’t be so disgruntled. He’d grown tired of them causing so much chaos for him on social media. He just wanted to live his life in peace.

After the fifteen minutes, the gate agent announced it was time to begin boarding the plane.

Since he’d be sitting in first class, he grabbed his duffle bag and shuffled to the line. He waited for the clerk to check his pass and send him through.

Finally, on the plane, he looked for his row and seat. Finding it, he placed his duffle in the overhead bin and then sat back in the window seat. He always got the window seat because he wanted to be able to see everything if the plane went down.

44

Teresa D. Patterson He reclined back in his wide seat, and he still had plenty of leg room, unlike in the coach section.

He could remember those days of flying coach, and he shook his head. He used to think small, like, the back of the plane arrives the same time as the front. Never again. He was a boss now. He’d always have the best of everything his money could buy.

He figured he’d better consume his alcohol while on board the plane because he didn’t think alcohol would be provided on Writers Island.

When the flight attendant came his way, he gave her his dinner order, which he’d reserved in advance. He knew they sometimes ran out of the most popular dinner choices, and he didn’t want to deal with that. He wanted what he wanted and didn’t want any substitute. His palette craved Hennessy on the rocks, but they didn’t serve it on that particular flight. Instead, he ordered Courvoisier VSOP on the rocks while he waited for his meal to be prepped.

About fifteen minutes later, he was staring with a satisfied grin at the grilled shrimp with rice, fajitas, a side salad, and a red pepper and olive dip.

He dived in and enjoyed every morsel. Fuck business class and coach. He loved first class like a fat kid loved Patti Labelle pies.

After enjoying his dinner, he got up to go relieve himself. Whose face did he happen to stare into when he headed to the bathroom? It was New York Times bestselling author, Edmond Thompson.

He knew it was him because he had that cocky smirk on his face. Even though they recognized one another, neither acknowledged the other, not even a 45

Writer’s Island

head nod. Donté briefly wondered where Edmond was headed, but decided he didn’t care and dismissed the man from his mind.

After using the bathroom, he didn’t even look Edmond’s way when he made his way back to his seat.

Once the plane touched down, Donté retrieved his carry-on bag and rushed off the plane. Since he was now in Florida, the airport wasn’t as strict as some of the larger cities. He called a taxi service and waited for the driver to arrive, which took less than ten minutes.

When he went to get in the car, Edmond Thompson seemed to appear out of nowhere.

“This is my cab,” Edmond said.

“No, it’s not. I just reserved it,” Donté said.

“It’s mine.”

The driver looked at them with a bored expression and shrugged.

“Who do you have on your list?” Edmond asked.

“I just wrote down pickup from airport,” he said and shrugged again. “Where are you headed?” he asked Edmond, and he recited the address.

“That’s the same place I’m headed,” Donté said.

“Great,” the not-too-enthused driver said. “It’s solved. Both of you, get in. We’re blocking the flow of traffic. It’s a good thing this isn’t DC.” Grumbling, the men stuffed themselves into the back seat of the taxi. Donté went to place his duffle bag in the middle of the seat but saw that Edmond had already placed his there. He sucked air between 46

Teresa D. Patterson his teeth and tossed in on the floor next to his feet.

Edmond just smirked and turned to gaze out the window.

All three gentlemen remained quiet the entire trip. The driver kept looking through his rearview mirror to make sure the two men remained cordial.

He’d picked up on the friction between them.

Thankfully, the duration only took about twenty minutes. He wouldn’t have to pull out the G-lock he kept under his seat.

Both gentlemen pulled out money to tip the driver once the cab stopped.

“Er...I only need one tip. I took you both to the same destination,” the driver said.

“Just keep it,” Donté grumbled. He felt that his money was just as good as Mr. Bestselling Author’s.

“You obviously need it more than I do. The next time, I’m catching Uber.” He tossed the bill over the front seat, grabbed his carry-on bag and got out of the car.

“That was rude,” Edmond said behind him.

Donté swirled around. “Look, mind your own damn business. Your opinion don’t mean shit to me anyway.”

“Damn. Who gave you blue balls?”

“Nigga, I know you didn’t just mention balls to me. I’m not with that gay shit.”

“I’m not gay. I’ve been married for almost twenty years.”

“Like that’s supposed to mean something. A lot of men use marriage as a cover-up for their down low lifestyles.”

47

Writer’s Island

By now, they had reached the door to the building. Both men stood there looking crazy, as if the other should open the door. Lucky for them someone happened to come out, and they both entered the facility before the door shut again.

Donté walked ahead, noticing that Edmond followed close on his heels. Once he stood before the door with the numbers 126 on it, he rapped sharply and entered without waiting to be invited in.

Edmond followed him.

“I see you both made it,” Leon Andrews greeted them. He wasn’t grinning like a Cheshire cat. Instead, he glared like a back-alley stray.

“Come on in and have a seat, gentlemen. Now that you’re both here, we can go ahead and get started.”

Donté frowned. He hadn’t known that Mr. Andrews was Edmond’s agent, too. Small world.

He took a seat on the other side of the table from Edmond, across from Mr. Andrews. Two other people were present; a Caucasian woman with wrinkled skin and liver spots on her ashy, saggy arms and a younger, blonde hair, blue-eyed, Caucasian male.

The woman smiled brightly with her Polident secured dentures. She had a stack of papers in front of her that she shifted through. She slid some forms across the table to Mr. Andrews.

“Mr. Hardy and Mr. Thompson, I spoke with you both, individually, regarding writing for one of the biggest publishing companies in the United States. Mrs. Swinson and her son are here as representatives of Swinson & Schmidt,” Mr. 48

Teresa D. Patterson Andrews said. “They have drawn up the contract and you can look it over before you sign.”

“Wait. I don’t sign anything without having my lawyer’s approval,” Edmond said.

“I suggest you look the contract over, call your lawyer and fax him a copy. We need your signature today before we send you out to Writer’s Island,” Mr. Andrews said.

Donté spoke. “Hold up.” He pointed his thumb in Edmond’s direction. “He’s going to Writer’s Island, too? I thought I was going to go write in peace. Are there separate cabins out there or something?”

Mr. Andrews tapped the pen he’d been holding on the table top. “There was one thing I didn’t tell either of you when we spoke. You see, you both will be sent to the island to write. However, in order to secure the publishing deal with Swinson & Schmidt, you’ll have to work on a collaboration that you’ll give them at the end of the thirty days.”

“Did you just say collaboration?” Edmond asked. “As in, I have to write with him?” He rolled his eyes. “I can’t believe this.”

“This is some bullshit,” Donté exploded. “You should have told me this before I flew way out here.”

Mr. Andrews stood up. “Mrs. and Mr. Swinson, can you please excuse us for a moment?” He nodded for Donté and Edmond to follow him outside the conference room. Once they were in the hallway with the door closed, he glared at them both. “Look, you two motherfuckers better sign that damn contract. Put whatever issues you have with 49

Writer’s Island

each other to the side and get this book written.”

His nostrils inflated and deflated as he spoke. “Both of you don’t have much of a choice because you have too much at stake. Remember that. Both of you need this deal, and I need my money. So shut the fuck up with your petty bickering and sign the damn contract.”

The men said nothing. They knew they couldn’t back out at that point. Edmond’s career and Donté’s life depended on that six-figure deal.

“Shit,” Donté said, but fell silent. He just crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back against the wall.

“You’ve got me backed up between a rock and a hard place,” Edmond said, not happy at all. He exhaled deeply. “I’ll sign it, but you could have told me about writing with him instead of letting me find out like this.”

“If I had told either one of you, neither of you would have agreed to it due to your over-inflated egos. That’s why I didn’t say anything. All I care about is getting my money. I don’t give a damn about your egos.” He continued to glare at them.

“Now, are we all on the same page?” he asked.

“You’re going to go back in there with big smiles on your faces and sign on the dotted line.” He noticed the grimace on Edmond’s face. “Look, if it’ll put your mind at ease, the contract is no different than all the others you’ve signed, Edmond.

The only difference is you’re writing with another author and the royalties will be split in half.”

“Split in half?”

50

Teresa D. Patterson “Having two authors collaborate was the only way I could negotiate a bit more money. I’m sure you assumed I got offered that much money because of your name. Unfortunately, you’re not that great anymore.”

“You don’t have to be insulting,” Edmond said, frowning slightly.

“My bad. I apologize. I tried to get them to go with just you, Edmond, but they wouldn’t. I mean, can you blame them, really? You haven’t been on the New York Times bestselling list for over ten years. Your last book barely sold fifty thousand copies the first month it was printed,” he reminded, “Your name alone couldn’t get them to cut the check. So I propositioned them. I offered them the hottest publisher in the urban fiction game right now. They didn’t want him by himself, either. I had to come up with something.” He sighed. “Can you two just look at the bigger picture? You should be happy. This will solve all your problems. You should be jumping for joy. It’s a win-win situation for all involved.”

“Yeah, winning,” Donté said sarcastically.

Edmond just rolled his eyes.

“Chin up, boys. Let’s go back in there and get this over with. Remember, the sooner you get to the island, the sooner you can start writing.”

The three men returned to the conference room.

“Is everything okay?” Mrs. Swinson asked as they all sat down.

“Everything is just peachy,” Mr. Andrews assured. “We just had to iron out a few kinks, nothing major. Both men are ready to sign the 51

Writer’s Island

contract. Isn’t that right, Mr. Hardy and Mr. Thompson?” He gave them a Colgate smile as his eyes dared either to object.

Donté and Edmond followed Leon out of the building. A parked black sedan with the engine running awaited them. They all piled in and the driver proceeded to go.

“Before we arrive to the dock, I’ll need both of you men to hand over your cell phones,” Leon instructed. “You didn’t bring any other electronic devices along, did you?” he asked.

“No,” Edmond answered as he relinquished his iPhone.

“Make sure I get this back in the same condition I gave it to you,” Donté snapped, begrudgingly handing his phone to Leon.

Leon chuckled. “Don’t worry. I won’t crack your code and view your saved midget porn,” he joked, which elicited a laugh from Edmond.

“I won’t even dignify that with a response,” Donté said.

The car came to a halt and the men grabbed their carryon bags and got out of the car. Leon exited the vehicle to speak with them briefly. “This is where we part company. The boat will take you to Writer’s Island. You should have enough food and condiments to last you for a while. Of course, there’s typing paper and a typewriter that’ll be for typing up the manuscript. Someone will come in a week to re-stock your pantry, and I’ll come later in the month to check on your progress with the book.

52

Teresa D. Patterson I know you two can do this. So in the words of the late Rodney King, “Can we all just get along?”

“Fuck you,” Donté said and stalked off in the direction of the dock. Edmond remained silent.

Leon gave a salute and hopped back into the sedan and it drove off. Edmond followed Donté.

The captain of the boat was a blond-haired, blue-eyed guy in his late twenties or early thirties.

He wore flip flops, cut off jean shorts, and a black Batman muscle shirt which revealed all of his many lewd tattoos of cartoon figures.

Donté frowned at a tattoo of Betty Boop with big breasts. “We’re here to go to the island,” he said.

“Well, dude, I’m ready to take ya. Climb on aboard. My name is Dillon.”

“How long will it take to get there?” Edmond asked.

“It’s about a twenty minute ride on the waves.

We’ll be there in no time,” he said, revving up the sailboat’s engine.

The two men got on the boat and took a seat across from each other. The eighty-five degree Florida heat engulfed them with a humidity similar to a hot sauna. The sun was like a celestial fireball in the sky that caused both men to squint. Edmond unzipped his duffel bag and rummaged around. He withdrew a pair of sunglasses, zipped the bag back up and placed it next to him. He placed the sunglasses on his face and sat back.

Donté frowned. He’d forgotten his shades. He really hated that because he believed the eyes were 53

Writer’s Island

the windows to the soul. He didn’t need Edmond looking into his eyes trying to read him.

He already missed his cell phone. He couldn’t remember going twenty-four hours without it.

Browsing the internet had become a habit. Almost any information he needed to know was at his fingertips. Google had become somewhat of a friend to him. Scrolling through the different status updates on Facebook could keep him entertained for hours. He could learn almost anything he wanted to from YouTube. He didn’t know how he’d make it for thirty days without a phone. He really had to be desperate to agree to such terms. Life without a cell phone would be like living on another planet. He couldn’t even text his ex to inquire about his daughter. It sucked.

He exhaled. It dawned on him he’d be on an isolated island with only one other person for an entire month. There would be no women to deliver mind-blowing fellatio, no wet warm pussy to sink his throbbing dick into. He’d end up with blue balls for real.

His mind wandered as the boat skimmed over the waves and lulled him into a hazy state. While incarcerated, he hadn’t had access to many women except for the guards. Most of them looked like pit bulls by the face and weren’t interested in men anyway. Whenever he’d tried to sweet talk one of them, they hurt his ego by turning him down. His right palm had grown chapped from hand jacking his dick when the built up pressure had gotten to be too much. He’d gone for as long as he could before 54

Teresa D. Patterson he’d felt like his loins would burst. One night, he’d finally given into his urges.

A he/she who went by the name Trishanna had been trying to get at him since his first week in lock down. He’d convinced himself he’d never go out like that. He wasn’t gay. Homosexuality was not in his DNA. However, as the time passed and Trishanna swished by him with his/her shirt tied in a knot, licking his/her lips and winking, he started to think differently. So what if he let another man suck his dick? What would it hurt? It was kind of out of necessity. It would have no bearings on his manhood. Getting head would be as far as it went.

Besides, Trishanna wanted to be a woman and paraded around like one. He’d just pretend right along with the he/she and use that mouth for his satisfaction.

He’d used Trishanna’s lips and throat to satisfy his sexual urges until he’d gotten lucky enough to catch the attention of one of the new female guards.

Leila. Leila had been a gorgeous, voluptuous, darkskinned woman with wide hips and huge breasts that she couldn’t hide behind a uniform. She’d also been insatiable. She’d let him put it in every hole imaginable. She loved to suck him off until he’d nut down her throat, and she’d greedily swallow every drop. He’d almost fallen in love with her until he’d found out he hadn’t been the only one she’d been sucking and fucking. She’d been treating the prison system as her personal dick laboratorium.

Unfortunately, she’d gotten caught banging one of the inmates and ended up losing her job. Around 55

Writer’s Island

that time, he only had a few months left on his sentence, so he’d decided to keep his dick in his pants for that duration.

The boat jerked and his eyes snapped open.

“Shit,” Dillon swore, “I think I hit a dolphin. I hate those motherfuckers.”

“How could you possibly hate a dolphin?”

Edmond asked.

“They are not as cute and innocent as you may think. They will drag you underwater, take you to their caves and rape you,” Dillon said.

Edmond and Donté exchanged looks. They both wondered if Dillon wasn’t wrapped too tight.

Dillon caught their exchange. “Google it if you don’t believe me. I swear to God it’s true. Dolphins are horny little bastards. Flipper will fuck you in the blink of an eye,” he said causing both men to burst out in laughter.

“I guess I won’t be swimming with the dolphins once I get back to civilization,” Donté said.

“Good choice.” Dillon began to slow the boat down. “We have arrived at our destination.” They all gazed at the shoreline as it grew closer and closer. “Welcome to Writer’s Island,” Dillon said, killing the sailboat’s engine.

The two men grabbed their carryon bags and climbed out the boat. They landed in about a foot of water and trudged through it to get to the bank.

“Good luck,” Dillon called to them.

“Hopefully, the weather will stay clear and there won’t be any issues out here. It’s a beautiful, 56

Teresa D. Patterson peaceful island. Have fun writing, and I’ll see you two again in a month’s time.” He restarted the engine, and they watched as the boat quickly faded away in the distance.

Donté and Edmond looked around. There seemed to be coconut palm trees as far as the eye could see. A wooden cabin nestled amidst the palms. A well-trodden path led up to it. The men took the trail. As they walked, they could hear the shrill squawks of birds roosting in the trees.

Edmond leapt to the side as a coconut fell, barely missing his head.

“Damn,” he said. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d think there was a monkey hiding in the tree and it threw that damn thing.”

Donté picked it up and inspected the hardshelled brown seed. “I’ve always wondered what fresh coconut taste like. I guess I’ll find out today.”

He tucked the large nut under his arm.

“By the time we leave this island, you probably won’t want to see another one of those for as long as you live,” Edmond remarked.

When they opened the door to the cabin, both of their eyes widened at the décor. The laminated planks from the hardwood floor gleamed. To the left, there was a fireplace encased in stone. A few feet above the mantle hung a deer’s head. Two kerosene lanterns sat on the mantle on opposite ends. A lamp with a white shade rested on a side table next to a suede couch. A small wooden, threelegged stool had been placed in front of the 57

Writer’s Island

fireplace, perfect for sitting and gazing into the mesmerizing flames when the fire was lit.

“This place is nice,” Edmond remarked.

Donté shrugged and frowned at the deer’s head.

“They could have left that shit out. Who wants to stare into the eyes of a dead deer every day?”

“Now that you’ve mentioned it, that is kind of creepy,” Edmond said.

58

Word from the Author Thank you so much for reading this excerpt from Writer’s Island. Feel free to email me at teresadpatterson2004@yahoo.com or hit me up on my Facebook wall and let me know what you think about this upcoming release. I love receiving feedback from readers!

Also, Writer’s Island is now available for preorder at these select retailers for $2.99: B & N: https://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/writersisland-teresa-d-patterson/1127329595? ean=2940154604922 Kobo: https://www.kobo.com/us/en/ebook/writer-sisland ibooks: https://itunes.apple.com/us/book/writersisland/id1303326202?mt=11 Preorder and save! The retail price will be $4.99 on the date of publication.

59