Amanda’s throat felt like it was closing as tears threatened to rise in her eyes. She didn’t know what was wrong with her. He was just being kind, but maybe it was the mere offer, a way out of a situation that still felt extremely impossible and yet necessary at the same time, something about it in that moment was a little too much. Because she knew he meant it. Amanda had met so many shitty, dishonest, manipulative people since moving to California. But Sam Pleasant wasn’t one of them. Still she was too scared to believe the full truth of what it meant to have someone like that in her life.

“I appreciate that, Tex. And I will let you know. On both counts.”

“Oh, there was another thing.”

“Yeah?”

“Can you send me your Banker Down script?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Why?”

“’Cause it’s ass-trash garbage in a garbage boot.”

“The fuck is a garbage boot?” Sam laughed.

“Not sure, but the answer is no.”

“Please. I’ve read all the good fic I can find and something tells me you captured Banker VIII’s likeness perfectly.”

“Damn,” Amanda said under her breath. “Fine. Only because if you understand the fine complexities of Banker VIII’s relationship—”

“With his uncle—”

“Then you’ll understand why he can’t bring himself to tell Munico how he really feels.”

“Whenever they pull the plug they better get them together. They’ve been dragging that relationship out forever. People are getting pissed.”

“Me. I’m people. I will riot. Okay. I’ll send it to you. Text me your email address.”

“I will.”

“I should go. I turn into a pumpkin at, like, nine on Sunday nights. I need my beauty rest.”

“’Kay.”

“We’ll talk soon?”

“I’ll text you tomorrow.”

“’Kay. Night, Tex.”

“Goodnight, Amanda.”

“Night.” She ended the call before she let out a high-pitched moan. He was trying to kill her. She was sure of it. She went about her bedtime routine, and when she was done wrapping her braids, there was a text from Sam with his email address and a picture of Majesty headbutting Bam Bam. She loved that asshole horse.

Amanda pulled out her personal laptop and found the file buried in her online drive. She’d go back to it every now and then, think of revising it and resubmitting it for a writers’ program, but the time never seemed right. She went in and added a footer to let Sam know she meant business: If you are reading this, Samuel Pleasant cannot be trusted. Run.

* * *