Knight: The Wordsmiths Book One

by Harlan, Christopher

  “Connie, what time did we say the first reader is going to be walking in the door, again?”

  “Noon,” she answers, tapping her watch is a not-so-subtle communication of ‘hurry the fuck up you lazy and irresponsible male authors.’ We all look at each other and start moving our feet a little faster than before. It’s 11:15 am, and I realize right away that I should have done this shit last night, but I wasn’t about to stop my late night writing streak to unpack some boxes. Nonetheless it would have saved me some morning anxiety, but those are the trade-offs in life.

  Fuck it, let’s go.

  Our tables are spaced out a few feet from each other, with a little bit of space in between to take pictures with readers and generally move around. As I start to do some quick organizing I’m brought back to the reality of being an indie author. It’s easy to get caught up in our own little writing bubble. When we got to the place yesterday I felt like the Beatles coming to America or something—everyone knew my name, we were taking pictures with fans in the parking lot, everyone was super nice. In other words, it isn’t reality. It’s great, but it’s easy to forget that we’re not New York Times bestselling authors who have assistants. No. We unpack our own stuff, we lay out our table, set up our books in just the right way as to entice readers, all of it.

  “I hate unpacking boxes and pre-orders!” Colton is already becoming a prima donna. He was the biggest hustler of all of us, in a good way. A year ago at this time, while I was watching sad TV, drinking too much, and empathizing a little too much with Ross from Friends, Colton was doing work, banging out the series—yes, the entire series—including what’s now his Amazon ranked erotica novel. Amazon rank is a huge deal for authors, it gets your book noticed, seen more frequently in searches for similar books, and generally gets you on the road to a successful career. But already minor success is getting to Colt. I love the kid, but I can see his head swelling a little bit. Then again, his cockiness is kind of what I like about him—he’s a loyal friend and an overall great human being, maybe he has a right to live this up a little, I just hope it’s not getting to him too much.

  “Me, too,” I agree, lifting my still tape-sealed boxes, hating myself for not devoting even a half hour to this yesterday. “But it’s part of the gig. Keeps me humble.”

  “Fuck being humble,” Colton jokes, only he’s not joking at all. “Do you do your own plumbing, or paint your own house? We need people doing this shit for us.”

  “First off, I did paint most of my own house, yes. I used to be an assistant over the summers in high school with a company that painted houses. It was how I made money as a kid.” He rolls his eyes at me. “And I agree, this is annoying, but just keep writing those books that climb the rankings and we won’t have to. At least you won’t, anyhow.”

  “And what makes you think he’s going to hit number 1 before I do?” I turn at the sound of Grayson’s voice, who has less work to do because of Connie being Connie and already having most of his shit out, organized in piles, and generally looking ready for the signing. “I’m in that race, boys, don’t bet against me.”

  “I like your competitive side,” Colton says. “It’s adorable that you think you’re getting there first, but you keep that dream going.”

  Colt’s joking. That’s what we do with each other. We’re sarcastic as fuck, even more competitive with each other than it seems, and give each other shit at every possible opportunity. From the outside it would look and sound like we’re brothers who don’t really get along, bickering and fucking with each other non-stop. But you have to be inside our little trust circle to see that external stuff for what it is—guys who love each other like brothers just acting like guys.

  That said, I can tell Grayson is a little annoyed that he isn’t where Colt is in terms of his career. He’s been writing the longest of any of us, and he published his first two books before I got my first out, and way before Colton got his out. Gray takes the older brother role in the group, and just like that older brother, I think he feels like he should be the first in line to some kind of material success. Unfortunately for him, this game doesn’t work like the British monarchy—power and success isn’t passed to the eldest son, it has to be earned and hustled for. So far Colton’s winning that race.

  “We’ll see,” Gray says, smiling as he takes out his last few pre-orders.

  By the time it’s 11:55 we’re all practically sweating. I open the window behind us which faces the street that stretches along with west side of the hotel. I can see the restaurant directly across from us, a barber shop on the corner, and a cute little ice cream place just in the distance. I won’t say it out loud because I don’t want to get shit from Colt, but it’s really quaint here. Moms and dads are walking around with their kids, people are going in and out of shops, and the whole place just has a feeling of niceness to it, if that’s even a word. I need coffee.

  Connie comes over just before the event is about to start with a piece of paper and a pen. “What do you guys want from Starbucks?” she asks, positioning a custom Grayson pen just over her paper. Colton and I look at her in disbelief.

  “Are you going?” I ask.

  “My husband. He’s gonna grab for you guys. We can’t have tired, under-caffeinated authors meeting and greeting all those wonderful women out there. It’s a bad look. Now what do you want?”

  Grayson’s order is already down on paper. Maybe I have it wrong about who’s the prima donna and who’s not. Gray ordered maybe the most pretentious drink ever. I’m trying to read it, but it goes on for three lines on Connie’s paper, so I know it has way too many parts for a simple coffee order. I’m not a whole lot better, but the only specifications I have for my drink are about three more shots of espresso than it comes with, and whole milk instead of that 2% shit they default to. Colt’s the easiest.

  “Black. Venti.”

  “That’s it?” Connie asks.

  “Black. Venti.”

  “Sugar? Cream?” Connie could never assist Colton. Gray’s the right author for her. Colt shakes his head before I chime in.

  “Connie, what you need to learn is that Colt takes his coffee like he takes his dick. Hot, large, and black. We don’t question these things, and we certainly don’t judge. Just get the man what he’s asking for, okay?” Connie starts laughing hysterically and finally writes down the words black and venti. “And please thank your husband for us, he’s the man.”

  “I know,” Connie says, taking the paper. “He’s a keeper.”

  By the time the first reader walks in the room we mostly have our shit together. I finish a little early and I’m still so full of ideas for my new book that I take out the laptop from my room and jot down a few paragraphs real quick. I probably look a little nuts but fuck it, I’m inspired! This laptop is a piece of shit, though. It’s one of those cheap ones that doesn’t have anything on it at all. The guy at the store looked at me like I was nuts when I bought it. I was half broke, and didn’t need anything fancy, anyhow. I had my phone to go online and download shit. The only thing I needed a laptop for was to not have to write all of my ideas by hand on a pad. But, still, when I make it big with this book I’m going to treat myself to a new machine.

  All of our tables are set up, and I had a specific Wordsmiths banner made up that I put on the wall behind us. I’m proud of myself for getting it all together. I have my pre-orders ready behind me, extra copies for purchase on the table—neatly stacked of course—my swag all over so that my readers can just take whatever they want, and I have about 100 Sharpies ready to sign. I’m hoping to meet some new readers as well. We all have our own group of fans of our work, but part of the point of this whole thing is to bring us together into one entity, one organization whose reach is wider than any one of us individually.

  I even went that extra mile and made some cool little stuff that readers love. There’s a character in one of my first books who’s a cop, so I went on Amazon and bought fake plastic evidence bags to put that book in.
Readers love that kind of stuff.

  I’m so caught up in the moment that’s about to happen that I forget I’m about to see Everleigh. It’ll be the first time since we parted ways in the lobby last night, and I’m excited to see her again. I want to tell her everything—how I wrote for the first time, how she inspired me, how much I enjoyed myself last night, and how much I want to see her again. I realize I can’t say all of those things the second she walks in, or even at all in front of other people, but those are just the thoughts going through my head. Then the first reader walks in, and I’m back into author mode.

  “You ready, boys?” Grayson yells down the row.

  “Ready!” I say.

  “Born ready, let’s sign some shit,” Colt says.

  And with that, the ladies come in.

  The first session goes smoothly. An hour passes in what feels like five minutes. I don’t love crowds of people in general, but this is different. I’m genuinely enjoying being around readers—mine and the other guys’—and I’m happy that my hand is cramping from all the books I’m signing. Grayson took the big brother lead on a few of the things involving the event. He had one of his readers who makes things make some cool shot glasses, blank canvases with our logo, and white mugs that we can all sign. Those things are great because it gets expensive to buy all of these paperbacks from all of us, so those items let readers have a fun experience and get all of our signatures without having to spend too much money.

  I have to say, the readers are great. They go from table to table, smiling like it’s romance novel Halloween, grabbing books that they pre-ordered, swag by the handful, and some paperbacks from each of us. I sign my books and some of the specially made swag for what seems like a hundred people, and I take more selfies than I ever have in my life. It’s a great event.

  When there’s a lull in the crowd I take a second to look down and reorganize my stuff at the table. I lay out some more swag, straighten up my books, and try to get as organized as possible for the next wave of readers who’ll be coming in soon. I’m crouched over, bent under my table taking out some more paperbacks from the box of extras I have stashed under there when I hear my name.

  “Oh. My. God. It’s Michael Fucking Knight!”

  I pull my head up from under the table too fast and smack it against the edge. “Ahh!” I yell as I stand up. When I come to my senses I see Everleigh standing in front of my table, looking as hot as ever.

  “Oh, shit,” I say without even processing. “Hey.”

  “Oh, shit, hey,” the girl standing next to to her says. She’s pretty also, but in a different way than Everleigh. She has a little more of an edge to her. “That’s a beautiful sentiment Mr. Knight.”

  “Just Knight is fine,” I tell her. “It’s nice to meet you. . .”

  “Harley,” Everleigh says. “This is one of my best friends, Harley.”

  “Nice to meet you Just Knight. This whole thing is awesome.”

  “Thank you. And thanks for being here. And who’s this?” I say, motioning to Everleigh’s other friend.

  “Rowan,” she says. “But you can call me Ro. Nice to meet you, Knight.”

  “The pleasure is all mine. Are you ladies having a good time?”

  “Better if I can meet your friend over there.” Harley is motioning towards Colt, who’s in the middle of taking his 50th selfie of the day.

  “You got it. Chase!”

  “Yo?” he answers. He looks at me and I wave him over. He puts up his give-me-a-minute index finger and finishes with his readers before coming over. When he finally does, he doesn’t look anywhere but at Harley. “Hi, I don’t think we’ve met. I’m. . .”

  “Colton Chase,” she fills in. “I know. I love your stuff.”

  “I think I love yours, too,” he says.

  I want to cringe at his terrible lines, but it’s kind of funny to me at the same time. Rowan steps away from the group to go towards Gray’s table, which is surrounded by readers, and I step to the side and let Colton talk to Harley. I have selfish motives. I really want to be alone with Everleigh, and this is the best I can do in this scenario.

  “How are you? You look great.”

  “Thanks,” she says, blushing a little and looking at me intensely. “So do you. How was the rest of your night?”

  There are other readers all around us, plus Gray and Colton, so I don’t want to say anything too obvious, and I have no idea what she told her friend, so I keep it close to the vest. “Not nearly as good as it could have been. But I got some writing done, which was nice. How about yours?”

  We smile at each other, an understanding existing between us without any more words spoken on the matter. I can’t say what I want to say, and neither can she, but there’s something in her look that lets me know that later on we’ll have plenty of time. And if not, we’ll make time. “Same. Could have been better. Apparently I had a few drinks and passed out.”

  “I’ve been there plenty of times, trust me.”

  “Can you sign this one for me?” Everleigh hands me a worn out old copy of Into Your Eyes, and as I take it from her hands I notice how messed up it is. It looks like a college textbook at the end of a semester. It’s faded, the pages are a little messed up, and it has little sticky notes and annotations inside of it.

  “Do you need a new copy? I have a bunch of extras.”

  “I love my copy,” she says. “I know it looks like its seen better days, but I’ve read it a lot. I used to make little notes and highlight passages that I loved the most. I love this copy, I want you to sign it.”

  I do what she asks. I’ve never seen such a read copy of one of my books. It’s kind of cool. I know the significance of this book to her, even though no one else does, and seeing it in physical form really touches me. Before I sign the inside cover I flip through the pages a little. I want to see some of her notes. She wasn’t kidding yesterday when she told me that this story impacted her life. There’s hardly a page without underlined or highlighted passages, and not a single chapter without some parenthetical notes. On one page all she wrote was ‘strong woman.’ On another it says ‘She found strength in her ability to love.’ All of them are either direct quotes or rephrased from things that I wrote. I feel honored seeing the care that she put into reading this book.

  She didn’t just read it—she experienced it.

  I go back to the front cover and choose the perfect place to sign. Some of my signatures were getting a little sloppy at the end, but with hers I take my time so that it’s something she’ll really appreciate. I sign Michael Knight in the center, then take a moment to write her a little note, and hand it back to her. “I hope you cherish that.”

  “I already do,” she says, smiling at me. “I hope you know that.”

  I smile back. I don’t want her to read the note I wrote her right here, so when she starts to open it I reach across the table and pinch it shut. “Not here,” I tell her. “Later. Read it later on.”

  “Okay.” she says, keeping it closed after I remove my hand. “Later.”

  She walks away from my table and meets up with her friends who are at Colton and Grayson’s tables. It’s both great and frustrating to see her. It’s great because every time I look at her I get excited and turned on like some high school boy because she’s so beautiful, but our surroundings won’t allow me to do anything about it in the open. I’m patient though, I can wait and figure out a time. I have her number, and I know that we both want to see each other again really badly, so I’m not worried at all. But, still, while watching her walk away I steal a look at her tight ass and feel my cock start to harden. I sit down on my chair as soon as I feel it to avoid anyone else seeing.

  I was the one who stopped things yesterday, and we haven’t seen each other since, but all that self-control and rationality goes right out the window as I watch her walk away. There’s something so base about the way she makes me feel. Not only is she pretty—she’s easily the prettiest woman in the room—but there’s so
mething so sexual about her without it being too obvious. There’s something in my body that just responds to her and wants to be pushed against her whenever I’m in her presence. I couldn’t explain it, and it has nothing to do with things we’ve said to one another, it’s just this powerful attraction that I’m not used to feeling for someone right away.

  The second signing goes on just like the first one did—packed with happy fans holding tote bags full of paperbacks for us all to sign our names to. The readers migrate from table to table, getting signatures, swiping some swag, taking pictures with one or all of us, and talking to each other. I’ve always been capable of separating myself from whatever situation I’m in to see it from an outside perspective. It’s something that’s served me well, especially as a writer. I’m always analyzing situations and describing their detail in my head, whether that detail makes it inside of a book or not. Today I just want to remember, because the whole day feels good. Thinking back now, as sad as it is to say, I can’t remember a time in the recent past where I went 48 hours without feeling shitty at least for a few minutes.

  The ghosts in my life like to check in with me at least once a day, just to say hi, sometimes to stay a while and chat, but they’re always there. Sometimes it’s a fear that I’m a failure as an author. Other times it’s the image of my ex cheating on me in full technicolor and sound. Or it could be just your run-of-the-mill anxiety about bills and career that everyone suffers from. No matter what the specifics, there really isn’t a twenty-four hour cycle that goes by when I don’t have at least some of those types of thoughts.

  But since the three of us packed up and left New York for this hotel, everything’s been great. I’ve been surrounded by wonderful, respectful fans, readers who can’t get enough of our work and who want to know what we’re all writing next, and now this amazing woman who I’m really feeling something for. It’s been one of the most satisfying and uncomplicated few day in memory, and it’s not even over yet.