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)
I swipe the app away, slightly disturbed at just how easy it was to track someone down. But that’s a conspiracy theory for another day. I run my fingers through my hair, and leave the maintenance hallway, heading in the direction of the Baccarat Lounge.
I find it easily. I’ve been in there myself after a long night of winning. I like to tip big—even if I’m losing—and the Baccarat Lounge has the best bartenders. They are like… movie-level great. The kind who listen—the kind who love to listen. Like that bartender in The Shining. He was the best. Well, until he got Jack to go all REDRUM-y and shit.
Anyway. Focus, Steve.
I stop in the entrance to the lounge. It’s small and almost always deserted, the perfect place to write. And that’s exactly what Cordelia is doing. She’s in the middle of a half-moon-shaped booth covered in maroon leather, obscured by shadows except for the blue light of her laptop screen illuminating her face, furiously typing away.
I take a moment to feel jealous at how easily her fingertips float across the keyboard. I haven’t had a writing session like that in many months. Hmm. Now that I think about it, it’s been a year. Wow. What the hell have I been doing for the last year? Pac-Man and darts? Wallowing in my own self-pity over my disastrous failure as a science fiction writer? Sitting on my laurels?
Yes, yes, and yes.
Changes are coming. That’s for sure. And those changes start with my personal life, i.e. Cordelia Sarantopoulos.
I put on the brave face—doing my best to forget about how she dismissed me earlier—and stride over to her booth. I pause at the edge of her table.
She does not look up. She’s so caught up in her writing, she doesn’t even notice me.
I clear my throat. “Hello, Cordelia. Fancy meeting you here.”
She looks up, startled, her wide eyes searching out mine. And then she… frowns. Her brows knit together in… what is that? Menace? It’s menace.
Why does she hate me? What did I do?
“Oh. It’s you.”
I force a smile. “It’s me. Um. So. Can I sit?” She’s gonna say no. It’s written all over her face. “I promise, it’s just for a moment. I will leave you to your writing. I just…” I don’t wait for her to grant me permission, I simply slip into the booth. Sliding towards her, but still keeping an appropriate amount of distance between us. “I don’t know why you’re mad—”
“I’m not mad.”
“Cordelia. You’re not even looking at me. We had such a great night—”
She slams her laptop closed and leans towards me with squinted eyes.
“Holy shit. Why do you suddenly hate me?”
“Why? Why? I’ll tell you why!” She pauses here to take a breath, then quickly surveys the lounge, like she wants to make sure no one will overhear this conversation. Satisfied that we’re pretty much alone, aside from Lloyd the bartender, she whispers, “I know who you are.”
“Oooookay. Steve, though, right? You know I’m Steve. Because that’s who I am.”
“You know what I’m talking about.”
“I really don’t.”
“You’re… SS.”
I blink at her. “What?”
“Don’t deny it.”
“Why would you even think that?”
“Because your sister, Essie—clever that, by the way. Essie. SS.” She huffs. “My God, the deceit! Essie was getting drunk with Britney last night—”
Oh, shit.
“And she made a little mistake.”
“A mistake?”
“A mistake. She kept saying that Leslie Munch, aka Raylen Star, aka the most talented, though bitchy, romance author in the world at one time, accused you of plagiarism. Accused you of stealing.”
“OK. But… I did tell you that in the little banner alleyway yesterday, remember?”
“No. That’s not what I mean. Essie said she accused Steve. Steve, Steve, Steve!”
“Ohhhhhhh.”
“Yeah. Ohhhhh. So.” Cordelia tilts her chin up and folds her arms. “Deny it. I dare you.”
Well, I could deny it. She has no proof. But… I like this woman. I might even be planning a future with her. Which is crazy, but so is maintaining a secret identity as a romance author while still showing up to romance conventions and all the other nonsensical stuff I’ve done over the last decade just to serve my ego. And so the answer to my private question about when it’s appropriate to tell your possible love interest that you are living a lie would be right here and now.
Besides, I’m tired of this. Something has to give. So I just shrug. “OK. Fine. It’s me. I’m SS. Steve Smith. I was a science fiction writer, couldn’t make it, so I started writing romance on a whim. It was a joke. Kind of. I mean, I don’t want you to think I didn’t put my heart into it, because I did. But then…” I throw up my hand. “It blew up, Cordelia. And whatever, right? I thought to myself, It’s good money. It’s a fluke. It’s a little side gig that will fizzle out and that will be that. But it didn’t fizzle out. It just got bigger.”