All He Asks 3

by Sparrow, Felicity

  “Oh my, I think I need a seat,” she says, pretending to swoon. Mario searches for a stool.

  “Christine,” Raoul says urgently.

  Erik is already leaving the back room, pushing his way out into the crowd again. Grosvenor and Carlos are still back there, arguing under their breaths, too quietly for me to hear what they are saying.

  Attention rapidly shifts away from Sylvia once more.

  Erik is entirely too magnetic. He hasn’t even made a sound and everyone knows the master author has returned.

  “I’ll be answering questions in a few minutes,” Erik says loudly. “If you’d like to talk to me, form a line by the rear table.” He gestures to one of the seats closest to the elevator—a seat close to me.

  “Excuse me.” Sylvia’s knuckles are white as she clutches the pages she intended to read. “It’s time for my book reading.”

  But people are already lining up to speak with Erik Duke. Sylvia may be Erik’s equal in sales, but not in notoriety; she will have more books, more book readings. On the other hand, nobody knows when Erik might be seen again.

  I’m afraid that we’ll all be seeing far too much of him very, very soon.

  Everyone looks thrilled to see Erik now that the initial surprise has worn off, but he doesn’t return their excitement. His expression is hard, his eyes empty. Only I know him well enough to see the faintest spark of smoldering anger.

  I have always assumed that Erik avoids the public because he’s shy in some way, but now I see the truth.

  Erik avoids the public because he hates them. Hates everyone.

  While the party’s attendees form a line, he saunters around the bar.

  His path goes right past me.

  “Follow me,” Erik said without stopping. He doesn’t touch me, doesn’t look at me—he doesn’t need to. He knows that I’m caught in the black hole of his presence.

  My body obeys him, while my mind—well, to be honest, my mind isn’t doing much of anything.

  Erik consumes me.

  Raoul tries to stop me. I can feel his hand brush against my shoulder. But I’ve already moved away, out of his orbit and into Erik’s. The darkness is so much more alluring than the light, and far more powerful.

  It’s strange to walk in Erik’s wake. All heads turn as he passes. The world shifts to acknowledge him.

  And I am there behind him, the world shifting around me, too.

  He takes the microphone from Sylvia. She’s too shocked to fight back.

  “I’ve published under contract with Durand-Price for years,” Erik says. The room is silent. His voice resonates. “I’ve watched many authors come and go, some more talented than others. I’ve also watched Sylvia Stone’s meteoric rise.”

  Sylvia flushes, trying to make it look like she’s flattered. In truth, I can see she’s furious, searching for an escape. But now that he’s mentioned her, she can’t leave any more than I can.

  “A lengthy career is difficult for skilled authors to hack,” Erik continues. “And it’s impossible for the unskilled storytellers, even if there’s high demand for the drivel they produce. It doesn’t take long for the most untalented flame to burn out.”

  So quiet.

  It is terrifying, this absolute silence.

  “Christine.” He extends a hand toward me.

  There is nobody in the room except Erik Duke. Oxygen dwindles, leaving me light-headed, dizzy, ultra-focused on the fingers beckoning to mine.

  He’s a puppeteer and I dangle on the end of his strings.

  I step forward.

  Gazing at Erik, we are closer than we’ve been in days. My body remembers what it was like to press against him. I hunger for more of it. I wish that he would take me now, damn everything around us and the consequences that might unfold.

  I don’t care if he’s a killer.

  The crowd begins murmuring, reminding me that they exist. They are confused, wondering why Erik would have summoned some nobody to the stage. Nobody has any clue who I am.

  But I feel my fate shifting like the tides under the moon.

  “What are you doing?” Sylvia hisses, quietly enough that the microphone won’t pick up her voice.

  The look Erik shoots at her is pure cruelty. His words, however, are intended for the audience. “It’s time that everyone should get to know the woman who’s written the last seven Sylvia Stone books.” He pushes me in front of him. His hand cups my stomach protectively, hot and all-consuming. He leans over my shoulder to speak. “This is the true talent behind Sylvia Stone’s name—Christine Durand.”

  And just like that, I’ve gone from a nobody to someone the whole world will know.

  Three

  My face is on the television.

  It’s not just my face. It’s my face, my body, my look of numb horror—and all of that is beside Erik Duke.

  In this photograph, he’s staring at me intently. It must be obvious that our relationship isn’t purely professional. That look is probably making televisions all across the nation catch fire.

  And now everyone knows.

  We’ve made the news.

  It’s a controversy, using ghost writers. People become emotionally invested in the authors they love. As one of the most popular and prolific writers of our generation, Sylvia Stone has many adoring fans who think that they have learned who she is through her books.

  The idea that the things they love can be emulated by another author is more than shocking. It’s offensive.

  This is the information that everyone is now discussing. The channel we’re currently on has a roundtable of experts talking about Sylvia. They’re analyzing the style of her last book, picking out lines, comparing them to books that she published twenty years ago.

  And as they analyze, they talk about betrayal.

  “What do you think of ghost writers?” asks Mira, a blond woman with plastic features.

  “They’re a necessity of the business. Sylvia Stone’s an institution! Do you think she wants to spend her time writing more books when she can be enjoying her money?” This comes from Ralph, a blustering man with a toupee and an ill-fitting suit. He’s a fixture on the news channels because his personality is so polarizing. You love him or hate him. Most people love to hate him. It makes for good TV.

  “You’re too cynical,” says another man. I don’t recognize him, but the screen says his name is Truman Holmes. “Writing is more art than business. When you buy a book, you’re buying a piece of the author. You expect that you’re getting to know that author. It’s sickening to think of all the readers Sylvia Stone and Durand-Price have deceived.”

  Ralph says that Truman’s opinion is “bullshit,” but he’s bleeped by the network censors.

  As they continue to argue, Raoul steps in front of the TV screen. His body blocks my view of the discussion. His coat is unbuttoned, swinging wide to expose his narrow hips.

  “My phone won’t stop ringing,” he says. “I’ve had to turn the damn thing off. I’m tired of telling reporters that I don’t have any comment.”

  He’s not speaking to me, but rather to Carlos, who stands behind the couch on which I sit. The three of us are at Raoul’s condominium. It’s not far from Durand-Price, no more than a five minute car ride when traffic is decent. That makes Raoul’s home the best place for an impromptu meeting away from the chaos of reporters.

  After Erik’s announcement, the members of the media in attendance had been virtually frothing at the mouth. They’d all wanted a piece of Erik and Sylvia—and scariest of all, they had wanted a piece of me.

  Raoul had been virtually forced to carry me away. Only building security had enabled us to reach the garage unscathed.

  In all of the commotion, Erik had vanished again. As far as I could tell, he had dissolved into the shadows. First he had appeared in my apartment somehow, and now he was entering and exiting parties without being seen. The man was practically a ghost.

  If not for Raoul and Carlos, I would be going insane right n
ow.

  Even with Raoul’s body blocking me from seeing it, I can still hear the people at the roundtable on TV talking.

  “The question is, why did Erik Duke even come out of hiding for this?” Truman asks. “It’s been a long time since anyone has seen him. Now he appears at an industry party to ‘out’ Sylvia Stone as this fraud, this betrayer—”

  “Your opinions are stupid and you should feel bad,” Ralph says.

  Carlos grabs the remote control, turns down the volume. “I don’t want to see what this is going to do to our stock in the morning,” he says grimly, dropping onto the sofa beside me. He stretches out to stare at the ceiling. “Authors. I hate authors. Present company excluded, of course.”

  My cheeks heat. He’s right to hate authors, especially me.

  “This is my fault,” I say.

  “No, Christine, no.” Raoul drops to his knees in front of me, cupping my hands in his. “This is because of Duke and Stone. They’re the ones playing sick little games. Don’t you dare forget that.”

  Grosvenor Lateen enters, clutching his iPhone in one fist. He has sweated through his suit at the armpits. “Did you know I can’t retire for three more years? Three more years. I don’t think I’ll be alive in three years.” He flings his cell phone onto Raoul’s coffee table. It skitters across the surface and crashes to the ground. “All right. We need to figure this out right now. Damage control ideas. I want to hear them.”

  Carlos straightens. “This is your problem, Lateen.”

  “My problem? There were no problems until you two seized control of the company and Moonlight Sonata!”

  “These authors have been festering in the heart of Durand-Price for years,” Raoul says. “You can’t blame this on us.” He massages his temples. “But you’re right. We need a plan. If nothing else, we need to know what to tell the media. What’s going to cause the least damage?”

  “Can’t we just ignore the media? They’re only interested in this because of that goddamn author, Erik whatsisface.” Carlos was never very big on reading books. Even the most famous authors elude him. The publishing company is a trophy for him, entirely unrelated to his personal interests. “Tomorrow, there will be car bombs in Palestine or Kardashians getting naked and they’ll forget about us completely.”

  “We can’t rely on that,” Grosvenor says, although a considering look has crossed his wrinkled features. “Unless we could fabricate something. I have contacts at other publishing companies. Someone might know about a brewing scandal we could break early.”

  “More publishing scandals will only keep the attention on ours for longer,” Raoul says.

  I can’t listen to this anymore. I stand up, go to the windows. It’s so dark outside.

  Everyone at the roundtable on the TV is still talking. The men in the room with me start plotting in whispers, and their lowered voices allow me to hear everything.

  “Now, let’s talk Christine Durand. Does that name sound familiar to you? Durand.”

  “Like the publishing company,” Mira says.

  Ralph talks over her. “Like the publishing company! Our research has discovered that she’s the only surviving child of the great Fletcher Durand.”

  “Really? That Fletcher Durand?”

  “Do you think it’s any coincidence that the daughter of Fletcher Durand is ghostwriting for Sylvia Stone? Or that Durand-Price’s bestselling author is putting her in the limelight like this? I smell a conspiracy.”

  “That’s just your body odor,” Truman says.

  Someone has the courtesy to turn off the television after that.

  “It’s getting late,” Raoul says. “Send those emails, Grosvenor. There’s not much else to be done before the stock market opens in the morning. We should rest.” I can tell he’s talking specifically about me. He’s watching me from across the room.

  Is it so obvious that I’m worn past the point of exhaustion? The fatigue isn’t physical. It’s deep in my bones.

  “I’m sure I’ll sleep great with this hanging over my financial portfolio,” Carlos says dryly, but he’s walking toward the door with Grosvenor. As much as I appreciate the presence of both men, I’m relieved to see them going.

  Grosvenor takes my hand briefly. “Are you still willing to do anything to fix this?”

  “Anything,” I say. “I’ll even sign Sylvia’s insane contract if that’s what it takes.” Anything to make it all go away.

  “Good girl.” And he leaves with Carlos.

  I’m alone with Raoul—the first time we’ve had an opportunity to speak since leaving his office.

  He stands on the other side of the couch. Only feet away but miles apart.

  “Christine,” he begins.

  My cell phone buzzes in my pocket and my heart leaps, certain that it must be Erik contacting me. I’m almost shaking too much to extract it from my pocket.

  The number on the screen isn’t Erik’s.

  It belongs to my mother.

  I’m not certain if I’m disappointed by this development or not.

  I can see that Raoul thinks Erik is calling me, too. I’m quick to assure him otherwise. “Look, it’s my mom.” I show him the phone.

  “Angela?” He relaxes, but only a fraction. “Tell her that the Chance boys say hello.”

  “I will.”

  I answer the call as I leave the room.

  My mother is instantly speaking, giving me no opportunity for greetings. “I saw you on the news. My God, Christine, tell me it can’t be true!”

  Mother is a very big fan of Sylvia Stone. If you knew her, you wouldn’t be surprised at all. I’m sure she’d get along with the author wonderfully.

  I respond hesitantly. “The situation is complicated, Mother.” Not that I think my mom would talk to the press, but—well, she might talk to the press. I have to be careful what I tell her. It’s important that I don’t say anything that endangers the publishing company further.

  “I would say so! Erik Duke, of all people, trying to make trouble for that poor woman… Will you tell her that my heart aches for her? She’ll be in my prayers,” Mother says.

  I close my eyes, massage my fingers over my temple. A headache is developing. “I’m sure your prayers will mean the world to her.”

  “What is wrong with that terrible, evil man?” she goes on. I’m not sure she even heard me speak. “Hurting poor Sylvia, and putting you on the spot like that! What does he have against you?”

  My mom must be blind to have no idea what’s going on in Erik Duke’s head. His expression in the photograph the news is circling isn’t exactly subtle.

  “Publishing’s a difficult industry,” I say. “It’s all very political. I can’t begin to guess at everyone’s motives.” Remembering what Erik had said at the party about owning Durand-Price, I ask, “Daddy didn’t know Erik Duke, did he?”

  It’s dangerous territory, bringing up my father.

  “It wouldn’t surprise me if he had. Like attracts like, after all—but no. I don’t think so. I never met him.” She sniffs disdainfully. “Why? Is that awful horror author lying about something else? I’ll tell you, I’m thoroughly unsurprised about this behavior coming from a pervert like him. Did you even read his last book?”

  I’d read it. I’d helped him through to the end, in fact.

  And I’d loved every page.

  “Yes, I read it,” I say.

  “Pornography! That’s what it is.”

  My head is throbbing. Time for a change of subject. “On an unrelated note, the Chance boys say hello.”

  “Chance? You mean Carlos and Raoul Chance?” My mother’s voice sharpens until it has an edge that could cut. “Are you spending time with the Chances again?”

  “Only those two.”

  “Oh.” I can hear her relaxing over the phone. “Well, that’s fine then.” As if I need her approval for who I hang out with. Honestly. “How are they doing? Have they fallen far from the tree?”

  What my mother is asking is whe
ther or not they’re anything like their parents.

  Specifically, if they’re anything like their mother.

  My dad, Fletcher Durand, was a great author and businessman. Nobody could argue that. He was also a great father, if you ask me.

  However, if you were to ask my mother about him, she would have several things to say about her experience as Fletcher Durand’s wife.

  Father, God rest his soul, was a passionate man. His passions most often ran along with his business, his art.

  Sometimes, those passions ran along with other women.

  I’d always thought that he loved my mother as much as she loved him. But when he succumbed to his disease, and his lawyer delivered the will to my family, we had been unpleasantly surprised to discover how much money Father had left to Ellora Chance, mother to Raoul and Carlos.

  Ellora denied having an affair with Father. She still denies it, as far as I know.

  That little surprise in his will had severed the family fortune. It had crippled us and left the Chances that much richer, not that they needed the money.

  My mother interpreted that as an insult and an admission of guilt. It was how Father had told us, post-mortem, that he had loved Ellora, and that all the summers the Chances and Durands spent at our beach house had little to do with the business we’d assumed he was conducting.

  I won’t make excuses for him. I don’t know why he would have had an affair with Ellora, nor do I understand why he left so little money to me when I was young and vulnerable and aching.

  All I know is that I’m not angry at him. I loved Father. When he was still on this Earth, he took care of me, loved me, nurtured my soul. He gave me the gift of writing. For that, I will always be grateful. And I will never believe that the fortune left to Ellora Chance was intended to be an insult.

  It’s not as though I can ask him.

  I’ve been quiet for too long. My mother is speaking again. “Just be careful with them. They’re sweet boys, but they’ve never made any gesture of contrition.”

  “They shouldn’t have to apologize for things our parents did.” I won’t listen to my mother acting like Raoul is betrayal waiting to happen.