Topped (Under the Covers #2) - Kayti McGee Page 0,3

bigger mental headcase.

Ding-ding!

I scowl. If it is my mother again, so help me, I’m going to throw my phone against the wall. She needs to learn a lesson. As in, don’t tell your daughter about your incompetent lovers. Because gross. Because no. Because all the fucking reasons.

Ah, an email. Maybe, just maybe, it’s fan mail. I love fan mail, especially when it comes after I’ve cried over four pages of agonizing writing in the middle of the night, two bottles of wine in. Those are my favorite letters in the whole wide world. Bethany Bonafont could probably wallpaper her entire house ten times over with fan mail, those goddamn crowd favorites, and I could wallpaper…my bathroom…but at least I get fan mail? It could be worse. I could be writing atrocious dino-smut and receiving unsolicited naked pictures from fans.

At least, that’s what the rumors say happens. I wouldn’t know because I’m fucking classy, thank you very much.

Not a fan letter, disappointing. But it’s almost as good, when I’m already drunk and not super happy. Instead, it’s a notification from Amazon about a new book coming out from my arch-enemy, Charlie Shivers. He’s the douche Jane wants to be like, writing ridiculous books about sexual cactuses and ramming people up the butt with unicorn horns. (I’m putting mental quotes around the term “Books.”).

He’s hardly even considered an author, but the asshole makes more money than I will ever likely see in my lifetime.

Not that I’m bitter or anything.

Not that I’m a pathological liar or anything.

I click the link in the email and almost spew wine all over my keyboard. It’s already ranked in the top 200 and has like ten five-star reviews. How is this even possible? He has to buy off his reviewers, that’s the only way this makes sense. Or maybe he has a street team and sets them all on his links as soon as they release.

Maybe I should get a street team.

I bet Bethany Bonafont has a street team. Note to self: get a street team.

I chug my glass and one-click the stupid “book” to see what this one is all about. It’s called Taken by the Amorous Gay Velociraptor’s Mouth. Like, how is that even sexy? How are people reading this filth? It sounds painful and stupid, not sexy and funny.

Fuuuucckkk this guy. In the butt, with a velociraptor.

Darvet Sandscone is an average bartender by day and a superhero sleuth by night. After a hard day on the job, a young triceratops asks him for help, and he finds himself in the darkest part of the city: No Man’s Land. The police moved out months ago and left the dinosaurs to fend for themselves.

When hunting for the purse snatcher, he finds himself cornered by a tribe of rabid velociraptors hungry for one thing, and one thing only: his dick.

Of course I’m going to fucking read it. I’m part of the problem.

I pour another glass of wine and open up the book, no doubt twenty pages of ridiculous gay-on-raptor action that probably took him a whole ten minutes to write. He probably spent more time Photoshopping his ridiculous book’s cover than he did writing it.

Hell, he probably spent more time uploading the damn thing to Amazon than he did writing it.

Did I mention he’s my arch-enemy? I hate him.

I’m too drunk to stop reading. I make it through the whole thing in less than fifteen minutes, and it’s the most appalling garbage I’ve ever read in my life. Well, next to the other filth he writes that I’m embarrassed to admit I’ve read. I’m also embarrassed to admit it’s kind of really funny.

Like I said, I’m part of the problem.

At least, it’s funny until I check his rank again. In the fifteen minutes it took me to read, he’s shot up to number 155. Overall. On all of Amazon. Fuck. Me. Sideways. I click over to another tab and look up my latest, Life and Love in the Texas Desert, and see that it’s only ranked number 825.

Me, 825. I spent weeks working on that book, churning through edits and countless free bottles of wine from next door. I poured my soul into that book and my heroine. Sleepless nights were spent in this very room, typing up a storm, obeying my muse and everything she demanded of me, and I’m freaking 825.

This fool spends, what, ten minutes? An hour? And he’s number 155. He just barely settles underneath Bethany Bonafont’s regency romance from a six months