So here I am writing to you, wanting nothing more in this world than to be at your parents’ dinner table, eating your mom’s famous roast chicken and throwing peas into your hair when they aren’t looking—just to see you flip me the finger in new and creative ways. I want that so badly, my chest fucking hurts.

Maybe it’s your graduation day too. If so, I hope life gives you everything you want, that you find someone who loves you, that you live each day to the fullest. That maybe, in the darkest corners of your mind, you think of me just a little bit.

—M. A. S.

A smile wobbles on my lips. I want to seek out my mother, give her a big hug for caring about a boy she hadn’t seen in years. She was right; he needed us. And I hadn’t seen it. Pressing a fist to my lips, I force myself to go on.

Hey Tot,

You probably hate that name, don’t you? Thinking it’s an insult, a commentary about your appearance. Maybe it started out that way, me trying to put you down, put you in your place—somewhere far from me, where you couldn’t make me feel like I was bleeding from the inside out. But I don’t think of it that way anymore. It makes me think of you as a hot little bite I want to sink my teeth into.

Truth? I’d wanted to do that even when I said the words. I always wanted to sink into you. Didn’t matter if you drove me crazy, I wanted it so much it made my teeth hurt. Would it shock you to know that? Piss you off? Probably both.

I miss you, Tot. Can you believe it? Yours is the voice in my head, haunting my dreams, pushing me forward.

I’m in a casting office now. Sweating my balls off, waiting for them to call my name. I’m reaching for the stars, Delilah.

I hear you smirking, that sugar and arsenic-laced voice of yours saying, “Of course you’d have to try to become famous, Macon Saint. You always did like attention on you.”

How well you knew me. And how little you knew me.

I did want attention. But only yours. I have no idea why since, whenever I eventually got it, I’d act like a foolish shit.

Truth is, I’d rather be someone other than me. I want the fantasy instead of reality. So I’ll act. I’ll say words that are not mine and breathe easier while living in someone else’s skin.

How can I not want it? “We are such stuff as dreams are made on” and all that crap.

I’m shaking now, Tot. Nearly sick with anticipation and worry that they’ll see right through me, straight into my rotten core. But I have you to bolster me. I’ll go in there and pretend it’s you I’m talking to. It will be easy then, thumbing my nose at your skepticism, proving to myself and you that I’m not a worthless soul as you once so aptly put.

Your hate gives me strength.

I’m probably a selfish fuck for feeling that. No, I know I am. But it’s true.

Fuck, I miss you. Why? Why do I miss you so much?

You’ll never answer because there’s no way in hell I’m sending this.

But I do.

I

Miss

You

Delilah

Ann

Baker

My little

Hot

Tater

Tot—

I choke out a laugh. Irritating and boorish man. Oddly sweet man. His hastily scrawled words send tingling warmth over my breasts and up my thighs. Shaking my head, I spy the bold slashes of his next letter, the handwriting bigger than usual, taking up more space on the page.

Behold! I am Arasmus, bastard son of Jon’ash, brother of King Ulser of the Braxtons.

I have been exiled to the Sorrow Lands, forced to fight for my food, my shelter, my existence. Until . . .

Well, production hasn’t let me in on the rest. I’m sure it will be epic and angst-filled, and if my character manages to live through this season it will be a fucking miracle. If you’ve read any of the Dark Castle books, you’ll notice heads have a way of separating from key characters’ necks. We’re not following the books to the letter, so I’m not certain of Arsamus’s fate.

Makes my neck hurt just thinking about it, though.

But for now? I party.

Or I will tonight.

At the moment, I’m in my car, writing in this damn notebook I still have in the glove compartment.

Writing to tell you that I hate you once more.

I hate you, Delilah Ann Baker, cold and cruel Tater Tot.

I hate that I just got the call from my agent, telling me that, yes, I . . . Macon Saint, a virtual nobody in Hollywood, landed the coveted role of Arasmus in Dark Castle . . . the most anticipated series to come to cable in decades, and who do I immediately want to tell?