Topped Read Online Free Page B

author, but the information we all have to share about branding and marketing is priceless. Plus, I get to write that puppy off on my taxes. Along with all my Buddy Lunch expenses, because it’s totally research for my next big hit.
    Pro-tip: Accountants make the goddamn world go ‘round. Maggie gets a giant bottle of Grey Goose every Christmas in thanks for keeping my shit together. I’ll learn to make my own covers of half-naked men fucking zombie robots and keep up a street team, but dammit, I’ll pay for someone to keep my taxes in order. I’m an adult, after all. While I like writing about things going up the ass, I don’t need the IRS up mine.
    New title: Donged by the Delinquent Tax Bill.
    I drink another beer and log on to my favorite stock image website. Before I got into writing, I was a romance cover model, thanks to an old college buddy. He got into it through his ex-girlfriend, who was some sort of hotshot photographer, and introduced us to the world of stock image modeling. Of course, I spent more time in the gym those days, but I graced my fair share of covers. Every once in a while, I catch myself on a cover on the Amazon Top 100 and it’s a pretty kickass feeling.
    Also, I find myself on this website a lot. Sometimes I didn’t even search for myself when I find me. That’s the most exciting.
    I haven’t yet used myself on the cover, but after another Tank 7, I decide this is the perfect book to start. I did a photo shoot as a cop a few years back, and you can’t beat that shit. I’m one of the top hits for “sexy cop,” which makes me feel pretty awesome, and I get to work on the cover. It’s one of my favorites, full of robots and explosions and my sexy abs dead center. Just as I finish it up, Ted sends me back the edited copy of the new book. It didn’t take him long, which is another reason why I love him.
    He probably interrupted some butt-banging time himself to edit, which means he’s one of the best bros you can get. Did I mention I effing love the Man Circle? Good dudes, good dudes.
    Next up comes the marketing. I’m exhausted and half-drunk, ready for bed and needing to get ready for the conference tomorrow, but work first. I throw together some ads and target them using data mined from previous campaigns. It’s a lot of work, but I’m getting better at it. Hopefully, after tomorrow, I’ll be a champ at it. If I can cut my marketing time in half, I’ll be a happy, happy camper. Happiest of them all.
    I finish the last dregs of beer in my bottle and log back on to Amazon to see how Gay Velociraptor is faring. Another jump, this time to number 32! And 4.2 stars average rating—wowzers. I scroll down to read the love letters from my fans. This is my favorite part. I know a ton of authors don’t read reviews, but they are like crack to me.
    My fans, lovingly dubbed the Creatures, are totally in on the joke that is my books, and they love them. Their reviews are all fairly hilarious. It’s my favorite way to end the night.
    People who get it write me reviews just as good as the books I write. And they are some loyal motherfuckers. I really have the best fans ever. Bethany Bonafont and her crew—they have some name—I don’t care—can keep their middle-aged horny housewife readers. I’ll take my fucked up and hilarious crew any day of the week. Love the shit out of them.
    I finish reading a review that says the book gave them gay Velociraptor babies and move on to the next. One star? I deserve at least two for being so ridiculous. What gives? I glance at the author and my teeth grind. Randi fucking Rose. Again. What, does she stalk me just to leave shitty reviews?
    Maybe she wants to do me. Maybe these reviews are a cry for attention, in hopes I’ll go fuck her for more stars. Ha! She fucking wishes. This is exactly why I voted against her in the RTW Awards. God, that girl is worse than a trapped fart.
    I pause for a moment and then grab my idea notebook. Seduced by the