Total pages in book: 130
Estimated words: 126425 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 632(@200wpm)___ 506(@250wpm)___ 421(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 126425 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 632(@200wpm)___ 506(@250wpm)___ 421(@300wpm)
Weary is… ‘I need a neck massage and a good fuck.’
I debate the merits of wearing a tie in front of the mirror, smirking at myself as I do the whole with-without thing.
I go with ‘with.’ But I make it loose, like I’ve been working hard pushing paper around all day, complaining about clients, and calling for my assistant on the interphones.
I like this look. I think my next male lead needs this look. What should I call it? ‘Dirty office?’ No. That conjures up images of trash cans and janitors, who I am sure can be sexy. But that requires a lot of backstory for a romance novel.
I’ll call this look… ‘after hours.’ Mmm. Much better. This conjures up images of nightclubs and sex in the bathroom.
Dare I think about bedding lovely Cordelia tonight? Is she that kind of woman?
Probably not.
But it doesn’t hurt to send the right message. I mean, I’m totally up for sex on the first non-date if she is.
In this moment, I have a revelation. I am writing scenes in my head. I am building characters. And while yes, this is something writers do… it’s not something I have been doing. Not since that disastrous flirt with science fiction.
Could it be that Cordelia is my muse?
Could she be the inspiration I’ve been waiting for?
Is Cordelia Sarantopoulos my light at the end of a very dark tunnel of self-loathing? Will Steve Smith shed his insecurities after a calamitous run-in with murderous critics and live to write another sci-fi masterpiece?
Holy shit. I’m even writing blurbs in my head.
Maybe Terry was right?
Maybe my life is a romance novel?
Maybe that’s the secret to success? Live life like it’s fiction.
I might have to trademark that.
Essie and Mike have already gone down to the ALIBI Ultra Lounge on the casino level where the private, invite-only mixer is being held, so I enter the party alone. Looking around, I know almost everyone by name.
Even though none of these people know I’m the real SS, author of all those amazing books, they all know I’m Essie’s kinda weird—but in a hot way—twin brother, Steve. And they all start waving to me and calling me over.
“Ro-Bro!”
“Steeeeeve! Ro-Bro! What’s up?”
They, meaning the husbands of the other romance authors, started calling me the Ro-Bro like… immediately. The very first signing Essie and I went to, the husbands were all over me thinking I was one of them. But then Mr. Blake, husband to Penny Blake—not their real names—found out I was Essie’s brother and he coined me the Ro-Bro.
Do I hate it? Not exactly. I mean, I wanted to hate it. Mr. Blake is annoying as fuck. But it’s a double entendre, so while I maybe didn’t fall in love with it, neither could I loathe it.
I do love a good hidden meaning, after all.
And one day, if it ever comes out that I’m the real face behind the SS pen name, people will get the joke. It’ll be fun. It’ll be fine. They might make me into a meme, but I feel like it would not be so bad to be a cartoon version of the Ro-Bro.
Since Cordelia and Britney aren’t here yet, I offer up hellos to the other bros in the form of waving back and make my way over to Essie and Mike, who are standing in a crowd of nearly a dozen newbie authors, who I know are newbies because I’ve never seen them before.
I nod my head as I’m introduced, but keep one eye on the entrance to the lounge so I can greet Cordelia when she arrives.
I’m going to gush about that book of hers. Gush. That’s a technical term in my business. It means to go over-the-top insane in front of people so they get a paralyzing sense of FOMO and start one-clicking the pre-order.
Which, unfortunately, won’t be the same book that my Cordy let me read. But who cares. I’m gonna gush about it anyway.
Suddenly, there she is at the entrance! Backlit by a rainbow bokeh effect of blurry slot-machine lights. I pause to tilt my head a little. She. Looks. Gorgeous.
Her navy-blue dress falls just past the knees with a… a… no. Reminiscent of the bygone days of Prohibition, where one looks for an escape from the dystopian nightmare of their real-life poverty in the dark alleys of a hidden speakeasy entrance.
She’s wearing a flapper dress. And I love it. Every single tassel strand jiggles and dances as she scans the room looking for me. Britney is dressed up in much the same way and I begin to sense a theme here.
Oh, shit. They got the parties mixed up. Roaring Twenties night is on Saturday and it’s for the fans. Tonight is get-drunk casual—or, in my case, ‘after hours’—and it’s just authors plus one.
In this same moment I sense the rest of the room is, well, reading the room. They have noticed that one among them has shown up in the wrong attire.