Grayson: Wordsmith Chronicles Book 3

by Christopher Harlan

  Grayson swore to me that he wouldn’t tell the other guys what happened between us. I believed him, too, because he really doesn’t seem like that kind of guy. I had a boyfriend in college who did that to me in my junior year. We got drunk at a party and I gave him a blow job in my friend’s parent’s bedroom. Apparently while I was looking at his dick and trying to make him feel good he was taking a video of me from above my head. It was only ten seconds, but it made it’s way around campus for about a week. Every class I had on my schedule had at least one guy who’d seen the video. They used to make blow job signs at me from across the lecture hall and laugh with their friends. That was a terrible time. But Grayson doesn’t strike me as that guy at all, and honestly neither do Colton or Knight. But still, I like to keep things private unless I’m doing the telling. And right now I need to tell my girls.

  When I’m done telling them the story we’re each heading towards the bottom of our second glass of wine, and their jaws are practically hanging open. “You dirty, dirty slut. I love you so much. This is why we’re best friends.” Harley goes from shock to a strange kind of pride.

  “I didn’t expect that story.” Everleigh says. I can’t quite tell if there’s judgment in her voice or not, but maybe I’m just reading into things because I feel bad about the dress fitting. “But,” she continues as I brace myself. “I’m really fucking proud of you.”

  “What?” I don’t realize how high my voice is when I say that until I see the people in the room looking at me. “What?” I say again, much lower. “I thought you guys would think I did something stupid.”

  “Well I’m not sure running for with his was smart at first, but I’m proud of you. We both are.”

  “Proud? Why?”

  “I got this Ev.” Harley holds up her hand, which means she’s going to translate a normal sentiment into blunt Harley-speak. “Ro, you know we both love you, right? Like, really love you?” I nod. “Well, you’re the most. . .Amish of us all.”

  “Amish?” I ask.

  “Yeah. Like, if you ran off to Lancaster county, PA, and starting making your own cloth dresses and churning butter, I don’t think either of us would be particularly shocked, if you know what I mean.”

  “I’m trying to understand. You mean that you think I’m conservative. I knew that already, guys, you all miss no chance to tell me.”

  “It’s not just that,” Everleigh says, chiming in. “I think of you as outwardly prudish, which is one thing. But I think we both thought of you as a little. . .help me, Har.”

  “Innocent.”

  “Yeah, innocent.”

  “Innocent?” I ask, the word being said for the third time in about two seconds. “Like you think that I would never. . .”

  “Run off with a romance author and fuck him mercilessly in the woods. Innocent like that. You have to admit, Ro, if you heard a story like the one you just told, which of us would you think that story went with?”

  “You.”

  “Right,” she says. “And which of us would you not think that story happened to?” I point to myself. “Right. That’s all we’re saying. We’re proud of you for stepping outside of yourself.”

  “Oh, okay. Thanks, I guess.” I smile and we all laugh a little. I wonder what it is that makes me come across so different than I really am inside. I come across conservative, prudish, innocent, but I’m not really any of those things inside. I know I didn’t help much by how I was with the whole romance thing, but I come from a home where you just don’t talk about sex out loud. It’s my upbringing, so I guess that’s how I behave, but not talking about sex doesn’t mean that you don’t think about sex, or actually have it. That’s where they all get me wrong. Grayson got to see the real me. I hope he liked what he saw.

  We finish our drinks and never even order food. Fine by all of us. It’s the perfect way to hang out with my girls. I’m glad they’re proud of me. I’m proud of myself. It isn’t exactly like me to do something like that, and for once I just did what I felt like doing, and it made for one of the best weekends of my life.

  As we leave I think of Grayson. I remember what it was like to lay in bed, my head pressed up against his hard chest, the smell of him covering my entire body. I miss that feeling. I want to be there, pressed up against him again. But we left it like nothing had even happened between us. Maybe Grayson hoped that it hadn’t.

  Chapter 13

  Grayson

  I have a lunch date today.

  There’s only one person that I turn to besides my parents when I need guidance. He’s a guy that all the Wordsmiths have turned to from time time, both individually and as a group. He’s someone who started as an idol—a person who I molded my early career after, but who ultimately became a trusted friend. “North!” I yell as he walks in the door. We’re being true New Yorkers and grabbing a slice of pizza in between the events of our buys lives. Granted, North is ten times as busy as I am. The man has ten signings and seven books this year—and that’s on top of his Facebook live videos, mentoring hacks like me, and being married. The guy’s really Superman—or just a heavily tattooed Clark Kent.

  He makes the short walk from the front door to where I’m sitting, and he catches all sorts of stares from the people in the place. He’s a guy who inspires stares. Covered in tattoos, bald headed, and always with a scowl on his face when he’s not smiling, North is the kind of guy whose way you get out of. He’s on his way to yet another signing, swinging through as always, and he’s so generous with his time that he’s willing to meet me for lunch.

  “Grayson. What is going on, brother?” He gives me a big hug and we sit down.

  “Not much, man, how about you? Haven’t seen you since RAAC. How’s the series going?”

  “I’m sixty five thousand words into my new one already, but it needs a lot of editing. The main character needs a little bit more of an edge, I need a little more heat between the protagonist and the female lead, and I still need to find a way to have the readers attach to the next lead in character.” That answer is typical North. Ask him how is wife is and he’ll tell you she’s fine. Ask him about his new car and he’d tell you how sick it is. Ask him about a book he’s working on and he’s the most analytical mind you’ve ever met. He’ll tell you about characterization, plot, the benefits of a series over a standalone novel, and any other device you want to know about. Besides all that, he’s humble and he’s critical of his own work, always looking to make it better and improve upon weaknesses of his past books. He’ll be the first one to tell you the holes in his story, the problems with his characters, and the ways in which his plot could be stronger. His mind is always working, and being around it is like nothing else.

  “You’ll get it all worked out, North. You always do.”

  “Yeah, it’s a process, man, but I’m still in love with it. Writing is a woman I’ve been married to for years now, but we keep the relationship fresh. We still go out, we still talk, and we still fuck like rabbits. The second your writing becomes your roommate, you’re a hack author. Make your writing the hottest girl you ever had during your first date with her. You do that, and everything else will fall into place. Then it’s just about tightening up your mechanics. But your’e pretty good in that regard, I’ve read some of your stuff.”

  “Well thanks.” I tell him. “That means a lot coming from you, of all people.”

  I wasn’t kidding about North’s face. He’s not a huge guy at all, but he has one of those faces that’s just intimidating. Unless he’s smiling. His smile changes his whole demeanor from scary biker guy into the warm human being he actually is. His smile gives him away, which is why he doesn’t let it fly for just anyone. “You got it, man, you’re a hell of an author.” His words burn a little. They mean to do the opposite, but I have trouble hiding the pain his words cause. He sees it on my face right away. “What is it?”

  “I’m having a hell of a time right now, dude. That’s the truth.”

  “What’s going on?”
<
br />   “All this talk about books. I feel like I can’t give my books away right now. The sales of my last book are shit. I lost money on it, and my ranking on amazon was so bad that I don’t even want to say it out loud.” I sound whinny and I hate that. I can hear it but I can’t help it. The last thing I want to do is sound like I’m complaining because there are people with real problems in the world—problems a lot more significant than bad romance book sales. But this is something I’ve chosen to dedicate my life to, and the idea of having to walk away from it really hurts. I don’t even look up at North. I don’t want to see the disappointment in his face, like I’m being a little bitch. Instead I look at the floor, waiting to be told to man up, or to suck it up and dig my heels in. Instead what I hear is a kind voice coming from my otherwise gravelly friend and mentor, followed by a hand on my shoulder.

  “Listen to me, Grayson. This is a tough, tough business we’re in. Don’t let anyone ever tell you otherwise.” His tone of voice and his words take me by surprise, and I look up from the floor to make eye contact. Kind eyes stare back at me—eyes that wear a look of concern for my well being, and it warms my heart to see his compassion. “If anyone gets into this with the get-rich-quick mentality, they’re probably doomed to fail before they’ve even begun. I’m sure there are legions of those dumb motherfuckers out there—failed novelists in general, and failed indie romance novelists, in particular. I swear, Fifty Shades was more of a curse than a blessing.”

  He’s right. I hate to say it but he’s right. I also hate to admit that even though Mike had done all of this research on the industry before we got into it, in the back of my mind I still thought of it as a way to get rich—in not quickly, than at least faster than starting a business or climbing some corporate ladder. If I’m being honest I thought that I’d be making a living doing this by now, but the realities of this are hitting me, big time, and maybe what I see as failure is just a normal part of the climb to success. “I may have been one of those people. I feel like I was. But I tried to do everything correctly. Build the platform, stay active on social media, write good books, get professional editing and covers, all of it. It just doesn’t seem to be paying off.”

  North listens to every word I’m saying, but I can also see him thinking. The man’s mind is always at work, always analytical, whether it’s about his own career or someone else’s. He’s looking up to the ceiling, thinking of what to say next. “I get it. I do. Not everyone gets the experience that I had. I was lucky enough to hit it out of the gate pretty much from my second book, forward. Sure, I’ve had some ups and downs, but my downs are admittedly higher than some people ever reach in their entire career.”

  “You need to work on your pep talk skills, North.”

  “No, that’s not what I mean. I’m not trying to discourage you, Grayson. The opposite, in fact. I’m not trying to compare my career to yours. What I’m trying to communicate is that we all have different experiences in this crazy game. Some hit it out of the park and become millionaires the second they hit that ‘publish now’ button on Amazon, but that’s so rare I can’t even describe it to you. If you can think of ten authors who that happened to you need to realize that there are probably ten thousand who sold less than one hundred copies of their first book. Then how many of those people jumped ship, said ‘fuck it’ to this publishing bullshit, and went back to their normal jobs? Probably close to seventy five percent, and that’s a conservative effort. The other success stories aren’t glamorous. They aren’t home runs, they’re just singles and doubles, all the way to a winning score. What I’m trying to say is if you’re going to beat yourself up and compare your writing career to others, you at least have to make a fair comparison. Otherwise you’ll drive yourself fuckin bonkers.”

  This is why we listen to North. This, here. The words that are straightforward, sometimes hard to hear, but ultimately a truth that needs to be told. He’s right. I am being a little unfair to myself, but I decide to play devil’s advocate a little more, just to pick his brain a little. “Even if that’s the case,” I ask. “What’s the solution?”

  “What do you mean?” He asks.

  “Even if I don’t beat myself up and compare my rank on Amazon to EL James, or you, or anyone at that next level, how do I ever get there? Shouldn’t I be trying to be you guys in some way?”

  “Absolutely not,” North says emphatically. “Fuck no, Grayson, of course not. You think LeBron became LeBron by emulating others? Sure, he probably had his inspirations and heroes in basketball, but he became a legend by being himself—by forging his own path and becoming a hero himself. You want to have EL James’ career? Good for you. So do I. It’s a good goal to have. But you don’t get to be like EL by trying to mimic her. Just doesn’t work like that. You need to be you. Write the stories that matter and write them frequently. Be brutally critical of everything you put on paper so that you’re giving your readers something of value, not just another disposable romance book with a set of abs on the cover. Be Grayson Blackman.”

  I smile when he’s done with his speech. It’s a good one, and I’d expect nothing less. “Would you mind just saying all of that one more time so I can record it and play it once a night before bed?”

  “Hell, if I’m the last thing you want to think of while you’re lying in bed at the end of the day, I’d be happy to! Get your phone out, I’ll try to say it all dramatic this time.”

  We both laugh and everyone looks at us like we’re nuts. North’s slapping his leg and I’m crying, not only because of the joke, but because I feel better, and laughing like this is only something you can do when you’re unburdened, and North’s made me feel unburdened. “Shit man, I’m glad we made time for this. I needed that talk. I’ve been so down in the dumps.”

  “No need. You’re a great writer, Grayson, and you know that I don’t just say shit to make people feel good, right? I’m no one’s fucking cheerleader. If I tell you something you’d best believe it. And you’re great. Just be critical. As yourself what’s not connecting? Is it an exposure issue, or a cover issue, or a storyline issue? Don’t be afraid to experiment, and ask the readers. You’ll make it to the other end. All of you Wordsmiths will.”

  “Damn, man, I wish you were one of us, we’d be famous for sure. We almost asked you but we knew you’d say no.”

  “There are only a few organizations I belong to—my Motorcycle club, my church back home, and my family. Other than that I’m a standalone novel. Don’t take that personally, you understand, I think the world of you, Knight, and Colton.”

  “Oh we don’t, trust me. I’m not actually asking you, I know how you are. But thanks for the vote of confidence in us.”

  “Just think of me as an affiliate—an honorary member—a silent partner. I’m always here for you guys, you all know that by this point, I hope.”

  “We do. And I hope you know how much your direction has helped us. You really are True North.”

  “That was a clever one by Knight, I have to give him that. I like the name. Probably because only you all call me that.” We get our slices after our heart to heart and chow down. North’s a pizza folder, and I watch him like he’s doing some magic trick. “What?” He asks as I stare at him put the pizza in his mouth.

  “You’re a folder.”

  “Huh?”

  “Your pizza. You fold.”

  “You don’t?” He asks.

  “Never once in my life.”

  “No shit?”

  “Never.”

  “Okay, you got my interest now. How come?”

  “It’s going to sound super OCD and weird.”

  “Fuck all that, just say it. I find people’s little quirks interesting.”

  “Well, the thing about folding is that, if you do it, your mouth only hits the crust—the outside of the slice. When I appreciate the mouth feel of the cheese hitting the top of my palate. I wouldn’t want to give that up.”

  North starts laughing hysterically again, so much that lit
tle chewed pieces of cheese, bread, and sauce come shooting out of his mouth and get over the table. He covers his mouth and wipes up the table with one of the small mound of napkins we took out of the dispenser on our table. “Dude, you just said two things that were pure gold.”

  “What’s that?”

  “First, I think you just gave me a title for my next standalone novel.”

  “What?”

  “Mouth Feel. That’s fucking gold. Well done. Plus, you used the word ‘palate’ in a sentence in a way that I’ve never heard outside of a dentist’s office. See what I mean. You’re brilliant.” We keep eating our slices. North folds the hell out of his slice while I just eat mine straight up, tip to crust. “Want another slice?”

  “Yeah, fuck it, why not?” I say.

  “That’s the spirit. I’ll grab them.” North goes to the counter and grabs us each other slice. While he’s up there on line I get a text from Rowan.

  Rowan: Hey stranger. What are you doing?”

  Shit. I feel like an asshole. I have so much shit in my head that I’ve neglected Rowan. I’m not even sure what that means, butI know that I should have called or texted her more than I have since I got back. We slept together, for God’s sake, and now I’m that guy—the one who dropped her off at her place and hasn’t contacted her since. She probably thinks I used her just for sex. I need to fix this.

  Me: Hey. Rowan, I’m so sorry. I was catching up with the guys and all my writing stuff since I got back. No excuses, though, I should have texted.

  Rowan: I was starting to feel insecure about what happened.

  Me: Never. Please don’t. It’s honestly not you.

  Rowan: So. . . How are you making it up to me, then?

  Me: Dinner? Dancing? I’m good at that now, you know.

  Rowan: I wouldn’t go that far. Dinner sounds great. How about tomorrow night.

  Me: It’s a date. I’ll text you a place later. I’m finishing lunch with North.

  Rowan: Oh nice. Tell him I say hi, even though I’m not sure he remembers me.