Slash and Burn

by Valerie Bronwen

  I nodded. “We were on the same connecting flight.”

  “I know you’re not supposed to speak ill of the dead, but she was a bitch,” Jerry hissed before giving our waitress a big smile and ordering a bottle of Barolo wine. After she went away, he smiled at me. “Sorry to order for you, but I figured you’d want a nice glass of Barolo. You know, to help calm your nerves.”

  “One can never go wrong with a fine wine, you know.” I smiled back at him. “It frightens me how well you know me.”

  “If only you were a man.”

  “If only you were a woman,” I countered as the waitress filled our glasses and took our orders.

  Once she was gone, Jerry raised his wineglass. “If only Dr. Dixon could see us now.”

  I grinned wickedly back at him as I clinked my glass against his. Dear old Dr. Dixon hated both Jerry’s and my writing. After our first stories were turned in, he required all of us students to make an appointment for a “conference” on our work. Jerry and I scheduled ours back to back. Deadly serious, Dr. Dixon told me flatly that if being a writer was my dream, I needed to find another dream because I would never be published. “You simply don’t have what it takes,” he told me, with a sympathy that was contradicted by the sparkling malice in his eyes, “and it would be criminal of me to encourage you any further.”

  He told Jerry the exact same thing.

  That night, smoking joints and drinking wine in Jerry’s roach-infested apartment, we vowed we would send him copies of our first books when they came out.

  When I got my very first box of books, I pulled one out and signed it: For Dr. Dixon, who told me I’d never be published—still waiting for your first book, asshole. And I hate Henry James. Best wishes, Tracy Norris.

  Oddly enough, I never heard back from him. Go figure.

  It took Jerry a little longer to get published, but he wrote a wonderful book about a true crime in the Garden District that hit at just the right time, becoming a runaway best seller and making him enough money to buy a big house and never have to worry about money again. Fifteen years later, the book was still selling a ridiculous number of copies per year in both paperback and hardcover—the ones he’d written since didn’t do quite as well, but as he often said, “It’s almost impossible to catch lightning in a bottle twice.”

  “I wonder what ever happened to him? He’s not at UNO anymore—I checked. Must have retired,” Jerry mused aloud, refilling his glass. His phone chirped again, and he scowled at it. He picked it up and typed on the screen. When he finished, he turned it off and put in his backpack. “You’d think Antinous sold more than a couple hundred copies, the way people are acting. No, I’m not going to cancel the weekend because she died.” He sipped his wine. “You said you met her at the airport?”

  “In Atlanta.” I nodded. “She sat down next to me in the gate area—we were on the same flight. Frankly, I thought she was kind of crazy.” The wine was really good, so I refilled my glass. “I mean, straight women are writing gay erotica now? Is that really a thing?” I remembered exactly what she’d said, and sighed. “She said she was bisexual, just too lazy to pursue a woman.” I rolled my eyes. “Anyway, I’d never heard of this—what is it—m / m erotica?”

  He rolled his eyes. “I don’t know that I would call it erotica—it’s romantic fantasy. No basis in reality.” He blew out an exasperated sigh. “Look, I’m all for people writing whatever they want to—I don’t want anyone telling me what I can and can’t write—but when you’re writing about an underprivileged, oppressed class of people, you have a responsibility to them to get it right.” He refilled his wineglass. “Imagine if a white woman was writing porn about people of color. Imagine the outrage! But because it’s just gay men, it’s okay.”

  I reached into my purse and pulled out my copy of The King’s Sword. “Well, this seemed a bit much to me,” I said slowly, staring at the cover design again. The more I looked at it, the more it resembled a parody of an old Rosemary Rogers novel. I put it down on the table.

  “Where did you get that?”

  “She gave it to me,” I replied.

  He reached over and picked it up, flipping it open to the title page. “‘I hope you enjoy reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it—hope you’ll become a fan!’” He choked off a laugh as he opened the book up and started reading aloud. “‘Jem’s chest heaved, his heart beating so fast and loud he could hear it echoing in his ears, so loud he feared the soldier bathing in the pond might hear it. He peered around the side of the tree trunk he was hiding behind again, and saw that the soldier was standing, his back to him as he scooped water up in both hands and poured it slowly and seductively over his head, the water beading up and running down the milky skin of his back, pooling in the crevasses created by his muscles before streaming into the deep valley between the round scoops of manflesh, that dark indent where the nectar Jem craved was waiting for him.’” He made a retching sound.

  I made a face. “That’s horrible. She did not say ‘dark indent where the nectar he craved,’ did she? You made that up!”

  He shook his head and closed the book. “I wish I was making that up.”

  I shuddered. “How did that get published?”

  “Well—”

  “I certainly hope you’re going to cancel the rest of this weekend,” a voice said.

  I looked up, annoyed, to see a man who looked to be in his late forties standing at our table, a scowl on his face. His voice was nasal and high-pitched, grating on me. He was wearing a plaid button-down shirt in various shades of brown that looked incredibly cheap. His stomach strained the lower buttons. The belt on his stained khaki shorts was cinched too tight, so his belly seemed to overflow over the top of it. The shirt wasn’t tucked in, either, adding to the overall sloppy appearance. His face was pitted and scarred, and angry red pimples dotted his chin and forehead. His short, curly hair was unkempt, streaked with gray, and looked more than a little greasy. His enormous black plastic-framed glasses were perched halfway down his piglike nose. He hadn’t shaved, either.

  Jerry smiled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. I knew that smile—it meant he was holding on to his temper and wanted nothing more than to punch this man, whoever he was, in the face. “Now, Kyle, you know I can’t do that.”

  “It’s disrespectful.” Kyle spat the words at him, curling his thin upper lip into a sneer. “A writer of Antinous’s stature—”

  “A writer of Antinous’s stature was lucky I included her in the goddamned program in the first fucking place.” Jerry’s voice was low and his eyes glinted dangerously. “She was a homophobic bitch with little to no talent and a liar on top of everything else.” His voice purred as he went on, sending a chill down my spine. “I only included her out of curiosity, you know—to see if she would have the gall to show up after everything she’s done.”

  The man’s face reddened. “You’ll be sorry—” he started to say, but Jerry cut him off.

  “You need to get the fuck away from us.” Jerry pushed his chair back and started to stand. “You don’t tell me how to run my event, and you’re lucky I don’t give you the ass-kicking you deserve. Now get out of here before I change my mind.”

  The interloper opened his mouth but apparently thought better of saying anything and turned on his heel.

  I waited a moment before asking, “Who in the hell was that?”

  “A troll.” Jerry rolled his eyes. “I swear to God, why on earth did I ever think bringing Angels and Demons to New Orleans was a good idea? I swear, gays are our own worst enemies.” He sighed and sipped his wine again. “His name is Kyle Bennett—but I call him Vyle. He’s horrible.” He picked up the book. “You wanted to know who would publish this crap? That’s who. He runs a small press called Asgard. He’s disgusting—he’ll do anything for money. And publishing that bitch was the least of his crimes.”

  I frowned. “Okay, from what you read I can see that she didn’t deserve to be published, but I would hardly call
it a crime.”

  “You know she pretended to be a man for years?” He flipped the book over and put his index finger on the author photo. “That’s this model named Dirk Mantooth—mostly does underwear work for gay companies. She hired him to pose for author photos, even to do book signings as her.” He sighed. “She started a review website, and with this guy’s picture everywhere on it as ‘her,’ just shredded the work of other writers—mostly books by actual gay male authors—in a horribly nasty and contemptuous way.” He clicked his tongue. “For someone who’s all about the gay men, she doesn’t like real ones very much. And another one of those straight women who’d had enough of being attacked by her on her website outed her over a year ago.” He laughed. “As you can imagine, it was quite a little scandal, with people weighing in on both sides—outraged that she’d been outed, as authors ‘have a right to privacy,’ others saying she was a vicious liar who deserved to be exposed.” He put the book back down. “She went after me once.” He smiled, his right eyebrow arching upward. “Once. Needless to say, she never made that mistake again.”

  “That was incredibly stupid of her.” Jerry never forgives and he never forgets. Of course, the flip side of that is he will crawl naked on his stomach over broken glass and burning coals for people he cares about.

  “Needless to say, I publicly shamed her to the point she publicly apologized to me on her website. Then her publisher dropped her—and Vyle picked her up.” His eyes narrowed. “He did that because he knew it would piss me off, of course. So when he suggested I include her in the program, how could I say no?” His eyes glinted again, sending a shiver down my spine. “I felt pretty confident she was going to have a miserable time—I invited some of her biggest online enemies, too.” He sighed. “And she was going to be on a panel I’m moderating. I was going to make her sorry she was ever born—but she had to go and kill herself or be murdered or whatever it was that happened to her.”

  “It had to be murder,” I replied, taking another sip of my wine. It really was quite good. I waited for the waitress to put down our plates before continuing, after thanking her, “I’m serious. It wasn’t a big enough fall for it to have been suicide or an accident.”

  “Yeah.” He nodded as he started in on his seafood bouillabaisse. “I know. I was just hoping. Murder means the cops are going to be around the rest of the weekend—and that’s going to be a royal pain in my ass.” He sighed. “If I ever volunteer to organize something like this again, please promise me you’ll shoot me once in each temple.”

  “No good deed.” I laughed and started in on my pork chop.

  It was delicious.

  Chapter Three

  I woke up more than a little groggy around seven the next morning.

  I was staying in a mini-suite on the eighth floor of the Hotel Monteleone, my favorite hotel in New Orleans. Jerry had graciously gotten me an upgrade, which I greatly appreciated. (It always helps, I find, to be friends with the conference organizer.) The conference was taking place in the meeting areas down on the mezzanine level, and this was the morning everything was starting. My own workshop / master class wasn’t until one in the afternoon, and I knew from experience that my nerves would start to get out of control the closer the time came. Teaching an actual class with college students never bothered me, but getting up in front of a room full of people who wanted to be writers for some reason always filled me with terror. I always tried to be gracious and encouraging—I had the example of the horror that was Dr. Dixon as a benchmark of what not to be—but I was always afraid I’d give the wrong advice or that someone would point out that I didn’t know what the hell I was talking about.

  Twelve best-selling mystery novels, several major award nominations, and five popular lesbian romances—and I still felt like a fraud calling myself an author.

  I supposed I would always feel that way.

  The mini-suite was absolutely gorgeous—and Jerry had arranged to have a box of chocolate-covered strawberries and a bottle of wine waiting for me in the room when I got back from dinner. I’d had a glass of the wine before bed, sitting on the comfortable sofa in the living room while going over what I’d already written on the new Laura Lassiter novel, hoping against hope that I’d figure out how to end the fucking thing. It hadn’t worked—actually the wine I’d had at dinner and the glass in the room had combined to convince me that everything I had already written on the book was garbage.

  Not exactly the best mindset to be in before teaching a writing workshop, was it?

  I grabbed one of the courtesy robes with the “M” monogrammed in gold thread on the left chest and wandered out into the living room to get a chocolate-covered strawberry. My laptop was sitting on the little desk next to the phone and the room service menu. I hadn’t closed it when I’d gone to bed last night, and the black screen glared at me accusingly. I grabbed a strawberry and fled back into the bathroom where the coffeemaker sat on the white marble counter. It was a Keurig, but they’d only given me two of those little K-Cup things—and there was no way two cups of coffee was going to be enough. I was very particular about my coffee—I liked French vanilla creamer rather than the little plastic cups of pseudo half-and-half they’d left for me, but I could deal for this morning. I’d go for a walk after my shower, I decided. There were any number of coffee shops in the French Quarter, and I could stop at the grocery store at Royal and St. Peter for some creamer to keep in the mini-fridge. Hell, they might even have K-Cups I could buy to keep in the room. I turned on a water spigot and filled the coffeemaker, popping one of the little cups into the top, and got it started while I brushed my teeth and washed my face. I popped the strawberry in my mouth as I added the half-and-half and a packet of sweetener to my cup. I ran a brush through my hair while I waited for the coffee to finish brewing. My stomach growled, and I decided to go forage for breakfast on Royal Street as soon as I’d polished off the coffee on hand.

  I took a good look at myself in the mirror and moaned. I looked horrible. I never sleep well in an unfamiliar bed no matter how tired I am, so despite my exhaustion I’d taken a sleeping pill after the pedi-cab I’d caught in front of Muriel’s had dropped me off.

  Well, I’d also been afraid of having nightmares. I didn’t have them all that often, but when I did they were awful. And seriously, I was almost certain to have one the night after a dead body landed almost in my lap.

  The coffee was excellent—hot and strong and exactly what I needed. As the caffeine worked its way through my system, the synapses in my brain started firing and brushing away the cobwebs the sleeping pill had left in my head. I closed my eyes and took another delicious sip as I sat back down at the desk in the living room. I quit the writing program and clicked to open my email program—I often find the best time to deal with emails is when I am waking up over my morning coffee. A quick glance through the return addresses of the new ones and I was able to relax—nothing from either editor or agent wondering where the unfinished manuscript was.

  I knew I needed to send yet another “I need at least another week” preemptive strike email to the two of them—it’s always better to ask for more time before they ask where the manuscript is—but just couldn’t face it at the moment. Missing deadlines drove me insane, nagged at me and made me crabby and unpleasant to deal with. For me, missing a deadline was a failure—and there was nothing I loathed more than failing at something.

  Anything, really. The therapist I’d seen after I’d fled to the north shore ten years earlier insisted that I needed to come to terms with my fear of failure, and that if I did, when I failed at something it wouldn’t cause me “meltdowns” in the future.

  I’d smiled at her. “No need to schedule another appointment. I guess I’m a failure at therapy, and I’m fine with it! Amazing progress for only one session! You’re a miracle worker.”

  I walked out and never went back.

  I finished going through my emails, and fortunately, there wasn’t anything that couldn’t wait un
til later—maybe even until after I’d gotten back to Wilbourne. There were some invitations to speak at writers’ conferences, a request for a radio interview, and an offer to speak in the fall to a women’s studies program in Alabama—nothing that required an immediate response. I closed the program and opened up a web browser, which automatically defaulted to Facebook. I scrolled through my news feed while finishing the coffee, and yawned.

  I am friends with some seriously boring people, I thought as I walked back into the bathroom.

  One of the many reasons I don’t like to stay in hotels is because usually the bathrooms are tiny and basically useless. This one at the Hotel Monteleone, on the other hand, was amazing, with an enormous sunken tub with Jacuzzi jets and a glassed-in shower with enough room for at least four or five people, were I so inclined. There was a long marble counter with two sinks, mirrors everywhere, and enough towels for a family. I love taking long, hot showers—really, nothing can quite wake you up in the morning like a long hot shower—and so I turned the water on while my second cup of coffee brewed. I made a mental list of what I wanted to do—make a run to the grocery store to get supplies for the room, a coffee shop and breakfast, check in on the conference, and take a quick browse around the book room.

  Half an hour later, with my long blond hair pulled back into a ponytail and wearing white denim shorts and a University of Louisiana-Rouen T-shirt, I walked out the front doors of the hotel and into the swampy heat and humidity. In spite of myself, I couldn’t help but smile as I started walking deeper into the Quarter. The cars driving by, the clopping of horse hooves, the milling pedestrians, and the noise—I hadn’t quite realized how much I’d missed New Orleans.

  Despite the early hour, it was quite warm already, so I was glad I’d decided to make an early-morning run on the errands. I could have lunch in the hotel restaurant, and all the events of the day were inside the hotel—so I wouldn’t have to go outside again until dinner. I knew there was a CC’s Coffee Shop on Decatur Street, so I turned at the corner and headed toward the river. There was a nice, cool breeze blowing off the Mississippi, carrying the sounds of a calliope on one of the riverboat cruise ships to me.