by Libby Howard
Or maybe I’d read.
I put Taco on top of my comforter, then eyed the stack of paperbacks on my bedside table. Feeling as if I were crossing the point of no return, I picked them up, examining the covers. They showed lots of bare man chest with rippling abs and pecs big enough to fill out a B cup bra. A few of the book covers sported arcane symbols behind the man, looking as if they’d been branded into the dark city-scape with fire. Others had a knife between the title text with drops of red blood dripping down the blade. I chose the dog-eared one that looked like it had been read a hundred times and set the others back on the bedside table.
At four in the morning, I was still reading—and I was contemplating that cold shower. The girls had been right—this was steamy stuff. But the books held more than just sexy-time romance; they were well written with complex characters and they had engaging, if unbelievably fantastic, plots. I found myself on edge, unable to put the book down until I knew whether Trelanie survived the dungeon of horrors or not. I hoped Roman didn’t sweep in for the rescue, wanting the woman to fight her way through the ghouls and undead to freedom unaided. I was pretty sure she was going to survive, given that this was book one of what was to be a ten--book series, but my heart still raced as I read the big battle scene.
And Roman… I’d never known such a damaged, angsty, borderline psychotic character in my life. Why was everyone wanting Trelanie to end up with this undead creep who hacked into her cell phone, stalked her when she went on dates, and even kidnapped her, all with the flimsy excuse of wanting to keep her ‘safe’? I agreed with Olive: Girl needed to get a stake and go all Van Helsing on this guy. I much preferred Barton Wells, the bookish researcher who’d discovered through his studies how to inoculate against the vampirism virus and had single-handedly taken down an entire coven of evil witches—all from the confines of his wheelchair. I got the feeling that I was in the minority, though. From our conversations on the porch, it seemed that all my strong feminist friends, who would have either pepper-sprayed Roman or taken out a restraining order on him in real life, were half in love with him.
I wanted to finish it. I so wanted to power through the night and read ‘the end’ on this surprisingly addictive book, but the words were starting to blur together and Luanne Trainor might not appreciate me falling asleep behind the wheel when I picked her up at the airport in six short hours, so I left Trelanie in the dungeon, shouting expletives at her captors and yanking futilely on her chains, and rolled over to sleep.
Chapter 3
I was up early, getting in some sunrise yoga with Daisy before hauling the two hours to the airport in my car to pick up our celebrity author. I’d swung by the do-it-yourself carwash earlier in the week to give my auto a good clean-out and washing. Yes, the sedan was older than both Madison and Henry, but she was in decent shape and still had a lot of miles left in her, thanks to my frugal driving habits over the last decade. I’d still given her a quick look over before heading to the airport, just so I wouldn’t be embarrassed by an inch of dust on the dashboard or the stray petrified French fry wedged between the seat and the console.
The hourly garage was packed, so I needed to park all the way at the top, then hurry to get to the airport before the plane landed. It would probably take Ms. Trainor twenty minutes or more to get off the plane and through the concourse to where I was to meet her, but I didn’t want to take any chances.
I made it in plenty of time and stood in the baggage claim area, feeling like a total idiot as I held up a sign with Luanne’s name in bold Sharpie. It was me and the limo drivers, eyeing every passerby expectantly. I’d seen the author’s picture on the back of the books on my nightstand but didn’t trust that I would recognize her. Given the amount of professional make-up, lighting, and Photoshopping that went into even the most casual social media post nowadays, there was a good chance Ms. Trainor wouldn’t look anything like her picture.
It was a good thing I had the sign, because the woman that arrived in one of those motorized carts, beeping along with one of the airport staff driving, bore only a faint resemblance to the headshot I’d seen. Yes, the Luanne Trainor in front of me had long auburn hair, but instead of tamed waves it was sprayed out into a cross between ‘80s big hair and ‘70s Farrah Fawcett. The make-up that looked understated in her photo in reality seemed to have been applied with a particularly liberal trowel. Instead of an elegant A-line dress, she wore Peg Bundy leopard-print tights and a short, baggy shirt that looked as if it had been stolen from the set of Flashdance.
And her shoes… The author waited for the driver to assist her in climbing from the car, which was probably wise. Her glossy red pumps were on three-inch platform soles, and had pointed stiletto heels that looked to be five inches long. She was practically en pointe. I had no idea how she stood in those things, let alone walked.
She looked at my sign and made no move to come toward me. I noticed that the driver of the cart had gone over and spoken to another employee who was hauling an enormous roller-bag our way.
He parked the bag beside her, and as I approached, she thrust the huge roller-bag at me.
I grabbed the handle of the suitcase because the only other alternative was to let it fall onto the floor, then I shoved my sign under my arm and extended my hand. “Ms. Trainor? I’m Kay Carrera. I’ll be coordinating everything for you this weekend. It’s wonderful to meet you.”
She gave my hand a quick pump. “Thanks. Is your limo out front?”
Limo? Was that New York slang for any sort of car service automobile? Surely she wasn’t expecting an actual limousine. We didn’t have those sorts of things in Locust Point, or in Milford, for that matter. Even the kids on prom nights didn’t get limousines. Brides needed to contract with car services an hour away if they wanted one.
“Um, my car is in the garage.” I hesitated, looking down at her shoes—which were more like really expensive leather stilts. I doubted she could make it to the curb, let alone my car on the sixth floor of the garage. “Uh, I’ll go get it and come pick you up.”
She didn’t say anything, and I went back and forth on whether I should haul the huge suitcase all the way to the car or leave it with her on the curb. Probably the latter.
Thankfully she followed me as I exited the airport and went the short distance to where the pick-up area was. It took a while. She didn’t move very quickly in those shoes.
“Why don’t you sit here?” I indicated the bench a few feet from the curb. “I’ll bring the car around.”
“I’m not sitting on that,” she protested. “It’s filthy. Do you know how much these pants cost?”
I took a deep breath and decided I couldn’t trust myself to respond. No, I didn’t know how much her pants cost. And yes, the bench probably was dirty, but in my opinion, it was preferable to standing around in those heels. Maybe I should have brought some of those toilet-seat covers from the airport restroom to put down on the bench for her.
Leaving the roller-bag by her side, I took off at a brisk walk across the roadway, breaking into a jog as I hit the parking garage. The elevator took forever, and it wasn’t exactly easy backing my car out of the tiny parking space I’d wedged it into, but I did the best I could to limit how long Ms. Trainor had to stand around in those ridiculous shoes.
Pulling up to the curb, I hopped out to find Luanne Trainor staring with horror at my car.
“That’s not…I’m not getting in that thing. I can’t be seen in that.”
I felt as though she’d slapped me. For a second, I wanted to cry, then I got angry. There was nothing wrong with my car. It was old, but it wasn’t rusty or dented up. It was squeaky clean. And if she didn’t like it, she could walk the almost hundred miles to Milford. I wasn’t getting paid to do this. I’d taken the day off work and volunteered my time and gas to haul her back and forth. No way was this woman going to make me feel ashamed about my car.
“If you have a problem, then call your agent,” I told her. “We don’t have car co
mpanies with actual limousines in Milford or Locust Point, and my sedan is a heck of a lot cleaner and better smelling than some of the taxis around here. If you truly don’t want me to drive you, then you’ll need to sit here—oh, sorry, I mean stand here—and wait for a car service to show up that meets your standards.”
The woman blinked at me in surprise. “I guess I shouldn’t be so shocked that there are no limos in the sticks here. At least it’s clean. I’ll just wear my sunglasses and scoot down a bit so no one sees me in there.”
Oh, for Pete’s sake. I bit my tongue and went around to pop the trunk.
“Did my agent send you my list of dietary requirements?” she asked.
Oh, no. Here come the ‘no green M&Ms’ rules. Although in all fairness the woman might have a terrible peanut allergy or something. It wouldn’t do to have our guest speaker going into anaphylactic shock on stage during her presentation. I made a mental note to check and make sure somebody got the list. “No, but she probably sent them to Nancy, who’s taking care of the venue and the catering.”
“And the inn? My agent said the choices in your little town were pretty much the Motel 6 and some Norman Bates hotel.”
I was more than a bit stung by the criticism. Milford wasn’t exactly Richmond-sized, but it was a real city with a nice selection of hotels. “All the chains are on the outskirts. We thought you’d want to be fairly close to the theater where you’ll be speaking, so we booked your stay at Billingsly’s Bed and Breakfast. It’s lovely and only three blocks away.”
She made no move to come toward my vehicle. “Is there a car and driver assigned to me? Or is that your job?”
Deciding she wasn’t going to bring her suitcase the scant eight feet to my car, I walked over and grabbed it.
“You’re in town two nights.” I hefted her bag into the trunk and turned to find her behind me, extending the smaller one for me to do the same. “Is there somewhere you need to go that you’d need a car service?”
She sniffed, pushing the bag into my hands. “I do. How close is Bayforest?
Bayforest? What the heck would she need to do in Bayforest? It was even smaller than Locust Point. All that town had to its name was a church, a bakery, and a gas station.
“It’s an hour from Milford.” I took a deep breath. “Would you like me to take you there? Tonight? Or…” It would have to be tonight. She was booked the rest of the weekend and flying back to New York on Sunday morning. There went my séance plans with Olive and the potential late-night movie with Judge Beck.
“Maybe Sunday morning, before I fly out.” She waved a hand in the air. “Oh, and I’ll need a ride to the theater. I’m assuming a little town like Milbank doesn’t have taxi service.”
“Milford. Yes, we do have taxis, but you have to call for one and it takes about twenty minutes. You’re better off calling an Uber. And the theater is three blocks from your B&B. You can walk there.”
I glanced down at her shoes, hoping she’d brought some alternative footwear, or she wouldn’t be walking anywhere. A surge of irritation ran through me. Maybe I wasn’t the best choice of people to pick Luanne Trainor from the airport after all. Nancy should have picked someone else. I grimaced, thinking of the two-hour car ride with this detestable woman. With any luck, she’d be on her phone the whole time and I wouldn’t have to actually interact with her once we were on our way. I envisioned driving up to Billingsly’s and shoving her and her bag onto the curb, then peeling rubber away from there.
“I can’t walk three blocks in my heels,” she grumbled. “I’ll need to speak to my agent about this.”
Her poor agent. Did this agent even have a name? Or a gender? Whoever he—or she— was, they weren’t paying this agent enough to deal with Ms. Trainor.
I slammed the trunk shut with a bit more force then necessary, then went to get into the car. I had my door open before I realized our speaker was behind me, staring at the rear door handle behind the driver’s seat. Not wanting to get into an argument in the middle of the airport pick-up lane and realizing that I probably needed to make nice with this woman, I turned around and opened the door for her. Two days. Just two days and she’d be gone. I waited for her to settle herself in the back seat and closed the door, then counted to ten and took slow cleansing breaths as I got into my car and navigated out of the airport.
Once we were on the highway, I peeked in the rearview mirror and saw her typing away on her phone. A few times she grumbled something about needing a stiff drink, and something else about stupid lawyers, stupid people with broken printers, and stupid people who couldn’t get their butts to a notary. Eventually she tossed the phone onto the seat hard enough that I heard it bounce.
Maybe she was just having a horrible day and I’d caught her at the absolute worst time in her life. I found it hard to connect the author of those thrilling, steamy, insightful novels with this…unpleasant diva so I took a deep breath and vowed to give the woman a second chance.
“I’ll admit I’m probably the only woman in the county who hasn’t read your books,” I commented, glancing at her once again through the rearview. “I started book one of your Fanged Darkness series last night and barely got any sleep. It’s really good.”
“Thank you. I’m glad you enjoyed it.”
Could her response be any more wooden? I gritted my teeth and tried again. “I’m at the part where Trelanie is a captive in the dungeon. I know she has to live because there are supposed to be nine other books in the series before it ends, but I’m really afraid for her. You did a great job with the tension in that scene.”
I could practically feel the eye roll from the back seat passenger. “Let me guess, you’re an author as well and would like me to look at something you wrote and recommend it to my agent.”
Unpleasant diva was beginning to seem like an understatement. How could such a horrible woman write such amazing novels?
“No, but I used to be a journalist,” I told her, trying to keep my tone light and friendly. “I’ve got a degree in English Literature, and I read a lot. At least I used to. I’m just delivering some praise and letting you know how much I love the book so far.”
“Good. Make sure you buy the rest of them because I don’t make any money if you borrow them from your friends or the library.”
“The library bought them somewhere,” I retorted. Yes, those were Daisy’s copies on my nightstand, but the woman didn’t have to be such a jerk about it.
“And I’ll bet you’re swooning over Roman, too. He’s the only reason everyone reads those books,” she snarled.
Why did she sound so bitter about that? And ‘those’ books? Did she hate what she was doing? I knew it would be tough to be trapped into continuing a series long after the muse had left, bowing to the pressures of a publishing house, rabid fans, and the need to pay the mortgage, but from what my friends had said, book six that released last year was just as good as book one. If she was going through the motions at this point, it clearly wasn’t showing in her prose—another indication that she was a very talented woman, no matter how nasty she was in person.
“I’m actually not a fan of Roman,” I confessed. “Sexual prowess aside, he doesn’t seem to have much going for him. I prefer Barton Wells.”
Her eyes about bugged out, then a sneer twisted her lips. “Barton Wells?”
“He’s smart and kind, and very brave. He lets Trelanie do her thing without the need to constantly try to save her. He doesn’t do weird stalker things like break into her house and watch her sleeping, or sneak around in the bushes outside the bar watching when she’s out with her friends. He respects her and admires her for her abilities and inner strength.”
“Women don’t want that in a man,” she scoffed. “I would have been penniless in a back alley if I’d written a series with Barton Wells as the hero and love interest.”
“Probably,” I agreed. “All my friends agree with you, at least as far as book boyfriends go.”
“It’s fantasy
,” she told me with a glare. “Entertainment. In real life, Roman would be in jail and he wouldn’t be a vampire, either. He’d just be some good looking, controlling ass of a guy. But in a fantasy world, he’s every woman’s ideal man.”
Not mine, but certainly Daisy’s and Kat’s, and Suzanne’s. At least when it came to fiction. But even though I wasn’t particularly fond of the hero, I was enjoying the series.
“And Barton Wells?” Luanne continued. “I don’t understand the vocal minority who have decided that idiot is worth any more page space then he already has gotten. I’m sorry I ever put him in the book.”
“Well, I’m not,” I retorted. Then I realized I needed to be nice to this woman and dialed it back a bit. “I like Barton Wells. And although I think Roman is kind of…intense, I like him too. I like all the characters you’ve written. You’re very talented and deserve your success.”
“I do deserve it. I deserve every dime of that money. Every dime,” Luanne grumbled. “I’m happy to cash my checks every six months. Although I wish it had been one of my other series that had taken off instead of these two.”
“You wrote other novels?” I asked in surprise. “Were they in a different genre? Literary fiction? Poetry?” She was clearly a talented storyteller, but LitFic and Poetry had a smaller audience and there was quite a bit of competition in discoverability. No wonder she was bitter if those far more difficult novels bombed where the lighter genre ones took off.
“No, my other books were fantasy novels as well.” She picked her phone up off the seat. “They’re better than Fanged Darkness or Infernal Awakenings. Far better. There’s no accounting for taste, I guess.”
I was far from fond of Luanne Trainor from what I’d experienced of her so far, but I did feel a tiny bit of sympathy for her at this. I couldn’t imagine how frustrating it would be to have written a series that came from your heart, only to have the one you felt was of lesser value take off.
