He tilts down the rearview mirror to see Maddy in the back seat, her hands neatly tucked in her lap, looking out the window. It was in moments like this that she seemed much more mature than she normally was.


    “Almost there.” He leans his head over the headrest, eyes on the road, slick and icy this early in the year. His windshield wipers flash across the glass, while he glances past the long patches of frozen grass along the roadways.


    Parking is a nightmare, but then again it always is in Montreal. Along the street, Jacob picks up Maddy from her seat and locks the car three times to make sure it’s safe. Hoisting her over his shoulders, he carries her up to the door, where he has to bend down so she does not hit the doorframe.


    The lobby is empty, except for the low hum of the lights and a few awards on the wall. It smells of cigarette smoke and an unhealthy amount of cologne. “Can you let Royce know I’m here?” Jacob sets Maddy down on the couch with a groan. “I’ll be back in thirty minutes, promise.” He kisses Maddy on the top of the head, which she makes a short chirp about.


    The young man behind the desk nods, maybe twenty if Jacob had to guess. The two of them looked awfully similar, so much they could be related.


    Royce’s office is tiny, cramped, and full of junk. Awards, posters, books, vintage printers, and typewriters. Everything is the same sickly shade of beige. Jacob wiggles his way into the seat across from Mr. Marcus Royce, coughing slightly to ease the tension. “Good morning.” His nervous laughter only serves to make things worse.


    “Morning. Look, I called you in on emergency because I think I have the best offer you are going to get in a while.” Royce pulls his blonde coils away from his face, pressing his chin against his wrist with a blank expression. “I needed to speak to you in person.”


    “Oh! That’s perfect! Is it for my novel?” His eyes light up with excitement, his heart flutters, and he lurches forward, unable to contain himself.


    “Ha, no.” He takes a drag of his cigarette, the smoke pooling around his chest as he blows out. “It’s a bio gig.”


    His lips pull back in a curt smile, settling back into his seat. Jacob looks across the wall to a large printout, framed in bronze. Inside is a half-face illustration portrait of his best friend, Christopher Niles. The blocky colours pull out his most defining features, his 422cj frames, his straight blonde hair spiked up in crew cut with extra steps.


    “About one Doctor Elliot DeMile, he’s a big power player in the medical game. Won a Gairdner award this year, and he’s looking to have a bio written about him. I called you immediately because I knew you’d be the best worker for the job.”


    Jacob pinches his nose up for a second before letting everything drop. “My bio on Chris was only successful because I knew him beforehand. I don’t think I could make a proper bio of a stranger.”


    This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.


    “That’s why you’ll interview him daily for a couple of months, writing as you go along. Eventually, you’ll know him well enough to write him.” Royce takes another puff, Jacob’s fists are clenched so tight they feel as if they’d pop like a blister.


    “Royce, I don’t think you’re hearing me. I-”


    “No, you’re not hearing me. He paid, upfront, five hundred dollars for you to live on so you could dedicate yourself to his project.” Royce tosses an envelope across the table, which Jacob doesn’t even attempt to catch. He’s starstruck, staring at the table, his breath stopping momentarily. “He said this was for the first month, he’ll be signing checks for the first five months, as long as you’re writing.”


    “No, no, he’s crazy! I can’t take a stranger’s check!” Jacob hesitantly takes the envelope in his hands, flipping up the unsealed flap and pulling it out to see if it is real. He tosses it back as soon as he sees the number as if it was going to burn him. “Royce, I don’t want to do another bio, I want to write what I want to write. Not some… Look, I don’t want a sugar daddy, I want to create. You understand that, right?”


    “No, I don’t.” Royce stands up, his rolling chair spinning back as he places his hands on the table, flat, his nails ash-covered and ugly. “You have that little girl out there to take care of. Take the fucking deal, boy.” His voice was low and crackling, their faces now centimeters apart, he could smell his breath stained with bourbon. “I already accepted on your behalf. You’re taking the deal or it’ll be given to someone else. I’m offering you first, don’t play high-and-mighty on me.”


    Jacob’s hands twitch, before lying down between his knees. “Can I at least have a day to think?”


    “I’ll give it to someone else by the end of the day,” Royce repeats, rolling his eyes.


    Sellout. He thinks. You’re a damn sellout. Do you realize how much money you’d waste if you threw this out? Do you realize you can’t take care of Maddy with some stranger? What’s she going to do, stay with her mom? Oh! And not to mention, you’re putting her around some fucking stranger, who could be anyone, anyone at all! Public figures are creeps, always. But, you could use the money. Look at you, so fucking poor you need to take shady-ass deals to make ends meet.


    “I’ll take it,” Jacob says after a few moments pause, his eyes clenched tight. “I’ll take the five hundred and I’ll take the deal, okay?”


    “Smart.” Royce finally smiles for the first time today. He pulls out a large set of documents with tags all along the sides. “You’ve got two weeks to show me something. I’m expecting to have at least a hundred pages in the next three months.”


    He simpers with pain, taking a pen from the holder and beginning to sign away his name. Royce passes over a small business card with Doctor DeMile’s information, and he knows he’s fucked, it’s all in calligraphy. Hand done.


    “You’ll meet him tomorrow, he said he had a day off. Call him tonight to set up a time.” Royce’s voice is bitter but smooths out as he puffs off his nicotine stick. “Don’t fuck this up, for all of us. You, me, and that little girl.”


    “Won’t fuck it up. I promise.” Jacob smiles, pushing back the set of papers, and stuffing the check into his jacket pocket. That was the most money he’s had on him at a single time in years.