Booked Up

by Harper Logan

  “That was…” began Serge, his voice trailing off. His heart was beating so fast.

  Cam picked up a dish towel and put it back down. “Blunt. It was too blunt.”

  “I don’t know how many ways I can say I’m not—”

  “It’s okay. Don’t worry about it. It popped into my head. But you’re right. You’re not interested.”

  Serge had to get out of here right now. At this moment he didn’t care about his ultimate fate as a writer, didn’t care about the feud between him and Madeleine. All he wanted was to escape this feeling that he kept getting every time he was around Cam. “I’m really sorry about everything,” Serge said. He didn’t run for the door, exactly, but neither was his exit slow.

  11

  Cam

  In a way, Cam was glad when Madeleine called him back in on Sunday. After Sergio had left, he’d spent the afternoon at odds with himself. Had he been too pushy? With a guy like that, he felt like he almost had to be a little pushy, like it was part of the natural give-and-take of the conversation. But maybe he’d gone too far.

  But he stopped himself from going down that path. Too far? Here he was, criticizing himself for being too aggressive with Sergio, when Sergio had certainly been aggressive enough with Cam!

  “You look like you haven’t slept,” said Madeleine when she saw him Sunday morning.

  He put the bakery box on the counter. One of the happier things about working for Madeleine was how much time he got to spend at the bakery. He laughed every time he saw their sign: Cake My Day.

  “I’ve had better nights,” he said. “So what’s the big emergency? More scheming against Sergio?”

  She brushed his comment aside. “We have more important things to think about today than him. Have you been to East Street Books?”

  “Not in ages.”

  “I walked by their window yesterday. You know they have the window display.”

  “I’ve seen it.”

  “There was a table in the window display, with stacks and stacks of books. A small sign: Local Authors. But something was missing, Cam. Can you imagine what it was?”

  From her tone of voice, as cold and distant as she could manage, he thought he could imagine it. “Did they not have Dona Quintana?”

  “Not a single copy. I would like you to go there today, Cam. Do you know the owner, Gilbert Ross? No? He will be there this morning. Puttering. I need you to approach him and ask why the biggest star in Rosebridge’s literary heaven is not present on his little table.”

  He started to ask why he was being included in yet another of her feuds, but kept his mouth shut. It was something to do, at least, that had nothing in the world to do with Sergio. So maybe it would help take his mind off things. He grabbed one of the doughnuts from the bakery box, and ate it on the way.

  Sundays were quiet in Rosebridge. As serious a reputation as Beasley University had for academics, it was still full of college students, so Saturday nights were generally loud, boisterous, and followed by a Sunday morning so silent you could almost hear the collective hangover pounding in people’s heads.

  Many of the shops downtown would be closed until afternoon, but East Street Books was open.

  Cam hardly ever visited this shop. As much as he loved browsing for books, there was just something too dignified about East Street. There was a used bookstore about six blocks down that was like a magic cave deep underground, badly lit and filled to the ceiling with random titles, and you could spend hours there, going through old tattered westerns and mysteries with yellow-brown pages, until almost inevitably coming across a book you had no idea you wanted, until you saw it and decided you had to have it right now. There was a combination coffee-shop/bookstore about three blocks in the opposite direction, where you could wander the stacks and, even if you didn’t buy anything, at least have fun sipping and looking.

  But East Street was so proper, so clean, with its books lined up on the shelf so neatly a ruler might have been involved. Cam always felt like he shouldn’t touch anything in here, like he might accidentally leave fingerprints. It was sort of the same way he felt about the couches back home.

  When he looked through the window, he saw the local author display. There were poets he had grown familiar with, a nature essayist who’d recently written a book on the history of second- and third-growth forests in the area, several writers who had passed away decades ago and whose works were now only available in family-financed small press editions… and no Madeleine.

  He stepped into the store, a small bell tinkling as the door opened. A man in a sweater vest and gold-rimmed glasses looked up and smiled at him, cheeks rosy and balding pate shining.

  Not for the first time, Cam felt contrary entering the store. It even smelled good in here, like paper and fresh cookies, far better than the used bookstore with its scent of mildew or the coffee place that always smelled a little like pot. And yet his soul rebelled. This was the tourist version of what a bookstore should be: Clean, orderly, with no surprises. Literature should surprise, he had always thought. It should have an edge to it. He almost thought Madeleine should be happy not to be here. But then, commerce was commerce, and if you can’t succeed in your own town…

  “Looking for something in particular?” asked the man.

  “Yes, do you have Dona Quintana’s Long Illness?”

  The man pursed his lips. “I’m afraid we do not carry that particular book. But if you like stories set in that region, could I interest you in—”

  “Any Madeleine Stevens at all? To Swim with Swans?”

  The man clasped his hands together over his heart, and kept a friendly smile on his face. “I’m afraid I’ve stopped carrying her books. But if you would like to special order it…?”

  “I don’t understand. A local, bestselling author, and you don’t have her here?”

  “Sir, if there’s anything else I could help you with?”

  Cam sighed. Was anything in this job ever easy? “Okay. Look. I work for Madeleine.”

  The man blanched and stepped back. “Get out. I swear to god if you touch one thing in here—”

  “Wait, wait!”

  “I’ve heard all about you. Knocking displays over, pushing shelves to the ground. You were the one who called the Health Department to get Pallas Books shut down because they had store cats!”

  Cam blinked. Had Madeleine’s former assistant done anything but antagonize people?

  He had a choice to make here. The man was ready to physically throw him out, and this would be yet another Madeleine Mission that he had failed at.

  Was it better to admit he wasn’t that assistant, and just leave? He could understand why the guy didn’t want Madeleine’s books here. But to leave would mean risking his job yet again.

  Or would it be better to pretend to be that psycho, make sure some copies of Dona Quintana wound up on the shelves, and lose a little bit of his soul in the process?

  Hell, everyone thought he’d lost his soul already. That awful word drone kept echoing in his ears.

  Is that what people thought of him, really? That he’d do anything at Madeleine’s bidding? That he had no spine? No opinions of his own? That he existed only to serve?

  Worse, was that the position he’d put himself in by being so pliant?

  But how do you stand up to a woman you’ve idolized for much of your life?

  It was then that he noticed, on the counter next to the old-fashioned mechanical cash register, a display of books. Dark, bold colors on the cover. A gun, half in shadow. “Pistols in Pisa: A Novel” said the cover.

  He glared at the man. “Is that why you’re not carrying Madeleine’s books?” His finger jabbed toward the display. “Did Sergio Faletti get to you?”

  “Sir, I need you to get out. Right now.”

  Cam took a step closer. “I see how it is. Sergio has been spreading lies, hasn’t he? Trying to make my boss look bad. Let me tell you something. Madeleine has done more for the literary world than that fu
cking hack ever could.” The words tasted bitter in his mouth, like poison. He was light-headed. He felt he could hardly stand. He grabbed the top copy of Sergio’s book, and threw two twenties down onto the counter. “There, good for you, you caved in to his demands and sold a copy. Keep the change. But let me tell you something. Sergio Faletti is here for a couple months. Madeleine is here for the long haul. So you think carefully about who you want to piss off in this town.”

  “Is that a threat?”

  “You’re a bookshop owner. You’re the lowliest link on the literary food chain. I don’t need to threaten you. Get her books. You will have them in the window by tomorrow. Do you understand me?”

  The man took a handkerchief from his sweater vest pocket and dabbed his forehead. “Please just go. I’ll get her books. Tell her that, from me. Tell her I’ll put them on display. The last thing I need is trouble.”

  The shelter was closed on Sundays, but the windows stayed uncovered, so you could look inside and see the animals in the front rooms. The little white kitten was angrily sparring with the little orange again. Feet spread, tiny tail elevated, he uttered a mighty hiss that could not be heard through the glass.

  Cam’s fingers were pressed against the window. He took long, gulping breaths to try to calm himself down.

  “This isn’t me,” he whispered to himself. “This isn’t how I am. This isn’t what I do.”

  He was so angry. No. That wasn’t the right word for this upset. He’d succeeded. He’d been just as bitchy and ugly as Madeleine expected, and it hurt him inside. How had he expected to feel? The endorphin rush of finishing a big race? A sense of victory?

  He put his head against the glass. He was so confused. He didn’t know what to do. He knew what he wanted—or, in this case, who he wanted. But he couldn’t have Sergio. Sergio didn’t want him. The only connection between them was this rivalry, a rivalry that Cam wasn’t even directly part of. He was just a bit player in the drama unfolding between the two authors.

  The memory of Sergio’s hands on him was so strong he could almost feel them, right now. Pressing with a terrified urgency.

  This is why you never get involved with straight guys. As much as they wanted you, briefly, they always snapped back to their real lives, leaving you lonely, confused, angry.

  How could everything be going so wrong? Why couldn’t he get Sergio out of his head? What was he going to do?

  12

  Serge

  Serge needed to clear his head. So he did what came naturally, and went to the gym for a workout. He needed the endorphins that only came with really hard work.

  It had been a rough night. His computer screen bathing him with white light in the dark room, cursor blinking on a blank page.

  He knew the scene he had to write. Detective Valentino, on the case, meets the heiress of the first victim. She gives him some sass, but it’s clear she likes him. He makes his move, grabbing her hair as she gasps in pleasure, kissing her violently, feeling her respond.

  But the words wouldn’t come. He pictured the scene over and over in his head. Valentino’s rough stubble scraping across her throat. The feeling of her pulse against his lips. But every time he tried to write it, it felt flat.

  Valentino was just another sexist asshole, and the real mystery was why any woman on the page would want to be with him. Serge couldn’t do it. He couldn’t write another word about this man.

  It should have been so easy. It was just mapping his own reputation for womanizing onto a fake detective.

  It wasn’t working.

  So this morning, tortured, sleepless, he did the only thing he knew to do.

  The gym was practically deserted on a Sunday afternoon. He spent some time doing presses just below his maximum, then moved to dumbbell rows, lifting until his back was hot with effort. By the end, he’d worked up a sweat, feeling the beads of perspiration trickle down the lines of muscle and tendon, and his mind felt more centered. He grabbed his towel and headed off to the showers.

  The problem was, now that his mind was clear, it only wanted to focus on one thing: Yesterday with Cam. I want you. I want to sleep with you. If Serge wasn’t interested, then why did that line echo in his head, over and over? Why couldn’t it out of his mind? How did Cam have this effect on him?

  Do I like guys, or do I not? It seemed like it should be the easiest question in the world to answer. In normal life, you know what you like. Do you like banana splits? Do you like brussels sprouts? Do you like falling off a ladder?

  The other day, at the meeting with the students, he’d caught the magenta-pigtailed girl staring at him, repeatedly. What would she think of him, if it turned out he liked Cam?

  What would his agent think?

  What would the readers think?

  He pictured some middle-aged guy in a recliner, eagerly reading the sequel to Pistols in Pisa. What would that guy think, if there was a little footnote on the page: By the way, the author enjoys sucking cock.

  He’d throw the book across the room, wouldn’t he?

  Okay, but the question of how people will react to how you feel is a little different than the question of what you feel, right?

  So how did he feel about Cam?

  As Serge soaped himself up in the shower, the hot spray beating down on his newly tired muscles, he wondered what Cam looked like without clothes. He had the springy movements of someone carrying lean, wiry muscle. His arms were certainly strong. He wasn’t some loose desk-jockey. Serge imagined Cam stripped before him. Serge’s hand rubbed slow, soapy circles onto his tight abs.

  This was the gym shower, not his bathroom at home. There were strict rules against anything sexual happening here. Yet he couldn’t help it. He’d been so tense, and his life was so complicated, and if he could be honest with himself for just a second, all he wanted at this moment was to get close to Cam. His hand slid down through his pubes, lathering them up, before encircling his shaft. He could almost imagine it was Cam’s lips surrounding him, pressing against his girth, rubbing slowly up and down the length of his cock. He closed his eyes and leaned against the shower tile, stroking himself, using his other hand to cup his soapy balls, imagining Cam swallowing, licking, nibbling. But when he imagined Cam looking up at him with those big, innocent eyes, it was too much. He felt his balls contract, felt his orgasm pulse through him. His load shot out, and he gasped and stroked faster, milking himself, lost in the daydream of coming into Cam’s mouth.

  “It didn’t help clear my mind at all,” said Serge. He watched Tish load up the food processor with citrus and berries.

  “All I have to say is, yuck. I could’ve gone my whole life without hearing about that. You’re the reason people have to wear flip-flops into the gym shower.”

  He blushed, something he didn’t do very often. “It’s a little bit agonizing,” he said.

  “Jerking off in the shower? Sounds awful.”

  “No, everything else. Cam.”

  She spun the fruit until it was a frothy puree, then stopped the machine. “Have you considered the idea that you might actually like him? Maybe even guys in general?”

  “I’m not gay, Tish.”

  “I’m not saying you are. There’s a whole big landscape between only liking girls and only liking guys. Maybe you just live deeper in the country than you thought you did.”

  Why did that seem so unacceptable to him? It wasn’t disgust or anything like that. And it wasn’t a moral judgment. He knew plenty of gay guys, from writing groups, from the gym, just from being in the world. He realized that it was fear, rather than judgment.

  “When I’m working out, sometimes I’ll look at the guys around me,” he said, “but I don’t think that I’m looking at them like people I’d want to fuck. Just admiring what they’ve got going on.”

  That made Tish laugh. “What they’ve got going on? You never mentioned you’re checking guys out at the gym, you lech.”

  “Not like that! I mean, you know, one guy will have worked really
hard on his quads, and you kind of study them to see how he did it—”

  “I bet you do.”

  “Are you just going to make fun of me?”

  She nodded. “I really am, because it sounds like you’re making a bunch of excuses when you don’t really need to. So what if you like Cam? I’m not going to judge you for it. Nobody else is going to, either.”

  “You don’t know that. I have a reputation.”

  “Oh lord, don’t start with that again.”

  “But I do! When that book came out—”

  “That book, which was two years ago? Serge, who remembers that book?”

  “Plenty of people are still reading it.”

  “If you had just published your second, and everyone was talking about it, then I could see worrying about what people thought of you. But dude, nobody’s thinking of you right now. Even with your dumb prank of trying to keep people from selling Madeleine’s book, how is that supposed to change anything for you? You’re fading into the shadows, Serge.”

  “Harsh!”

  “But true! I mean, you’re in a university town that is swamped with artists, writers, tons of open-minded people. Do you know how artistic this place is? The shop I used to take my car to closed down and became a gallery, Serge. That’s the kind of place you’re living. I don’t think anyone here would care if you gave Cam a big kiss right in the middle of the street. But honestly, all of this might be moot, because does he even like you?”

  That was the other half of the question, wasn’t it? He could barely figure out how he felt about Cam. But what did Cam feel? Anything? The words he had said at his apartment came with such longing…but did he mean that? Was it an act?

  How could you work for Madeleine and still have any genuine human emotion? Cam had as much as admitted that Madeleine wanted him to seduce Serge. What kind of person did that? Did it matter, in the end, how Cam felt?