A Novel Seduction

by Gwyn Cready

  Well, Ellery thought, pausing at the end of the third chapter and gazing at Axel’s long fingers laced over his buckle as he slept, if he had told me we were dealing with Joseph Campbell’s monomyth here—a hero on an Odysseus-slash-Skywalker-slash-Potter–esque journey—I would have certainly been a bit more understanding. There’s nothing like a hero on a quest to engage one’s interest.

  On the other hand, she could definitely do without the glowing eyes, iridescent skin and biting as a metaphor for sex. As far as Ellery was concerned, literature had pretty much done all it needed to do with vampires after Bram Stoker’s Dracula, and even with that book, one needed to read with one’s eyes partly averted to keep from straining one’s credulity.

  Far worse, however, was the amateurish dialogue and characterization, especially those of the teenage Britta, who seemed to spend most of her time yearning for Harold and running her hands wistfully through her “chestnut tresses” and who was potentially the most passive woman in literature since Snow White during her poisoned-apple phase.

  Ellery was grateful Jill had aligned herself with Team Ynez, for Ynez at least seemed capable of kicking some cold-blooded ass when she had to.

  Which reminded Ellery: She’d better read whatever she could about the Monkey Bar, for that seemed to be where most of this part of the article would be focused.

  She paged through the book, stopping at the first reference to the Monkey Bar she spotted, and found herself in the middle of Ynez’s flashback retelling of her first visit to the place. It seemed Romgar presided over it, and it was crawling with criminal he-devils who drank and caroused and pillaged—a pretty spot-on description if she recalled Axel’s time there correctly—and who imprisoned the souls of the dead in a cauldron of fire high on a ledge above the bar.

  Ynez, determined to free the soul of her beloved grandmother, had wrestled her way across the monkey bars one-armed while fighting off the he-devils with a sword and a killer pair of heels. No woman had made it to the ledge before, and the whores who serviced the he-devils watched in amazement as Ynez, who had been told only a complete sacrifice would free the souls, stripped to her skin and threw her clothes into the cauldron to renounce her human life.

  With the help of the now-inspired whores, the souls, finally free of their torment, flew around the bar before driving out the he-devils. Ynez donned Romgar’s leather duster and, with tears in her eyes, announced that the gates of hell would be guarded by her army of she-devil whores from that time forward.

  Ellery gazed out the window, thinking about what it would be like to kick all the lame-ass men out of Vanity Place, starting with Buhl Martin Black and ending with the jerk in Finance who kicked her expense report back every time she submitted one. Then she smiled, remembering how she had led her first set of summer interns through the grueling paces of putting together a magazine like Vanity Place. She had felt pretty empowered, especially when they began to master the timelines and the internal politics and the tightening of prose. In a fit of good-natured fun at the end of the summer they’d given her a hat like the one Napoleon wore, but now that she thought about it, she could definitely see herself in Ynez’s floor-length leather duster.

  Axel made a contented baby coo, and Ellery returned to the book.

  Harold, who had been a medic in the Iraqi War, and who had witnessed Ynez’s triumph from the cell in which he’d been imprisoned by the he-devils, ran to Ynez. He knew that, despite her victory, the wound on her thigh was grave. She refused the painkiller he offered for fear that if her vigilance waned for even a moment, the he-devils would return.

  Harold promised to keep her safe, but she was adamant, growing more frantic as the wound on her thigh worsened. They began to wrestle, and Ynez, with the fierceness of recent battle still coursing through her veins, pinned him beneath her. Harold told her he knew she held his life in her hands, but said that not even a tyrant can rule without trusting someone, and that she needed to trust him or she would die.

  Ynez looked into his eyes, determined to find a lie, but could not. She rolled onto her back, opened her mouth and accepted the painkiller he placed there.

  The ball of heat that flared in Ellery’s belly at this intimate act so surprised her, she jerked and dropped the book.

  “Whoa, there,” Axel said, stretching. “Horse balk?”

  “No.” Her cheeks began to burn.

  He looked at the novel and his eyes narrowed. “Were you asleep? Honestly, Ellery, you might not like it, but it’s an assignment. Can you at least attempt to take it seriously?”

  “I’m reading it.” She fished it off the floor.

  “Oh.” He shrugged. “In that case, wake me when we land.” He balled up his jacket again and settled himself in the other direction.

  Men. How had Axel caught her at the one moment she’d been swept into the silly story? Yeesh! Ridiculous twaddle. Nonetheless, she found herself reveling in the moment when Ynez relented and accepted Harold’s help. She wondered how long Ynez had struggled on her own and how hard it must have been for her to let down her guard even for a moment.

  Gah!

  What was she doing? She closed the book and dropped it into her bag. She had spent all the time she intended with Harold and Ynez. She-devils? Seriously? This was not an article that was going to be built on heaving hips and breathless bosoms.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Monkey Bar, Pittsburgh

  Axel had taken all the setup shots he needed: the crowd, the neon, the all-female bartenders and the infamous monkey bars. Now he had to wait until Ellery arrived. For the rest of the shots, he wanted the camera to “see” the place as she saw it.

  He settled onto a stool at the bar and ordered a Hard Hat. He was glad to see they carried Brendan’s beer here. He hoped that meant distribution was strong enough that he’d have at least a crack of making a go of it if he bought the place.

  The bar had changed so much since he’d first frequented the place, he hardly recognized it. Sure, the monkey bars had been there, traversed mainly by drunk college students trying to impress each other; but before Vamp, the Monkey Bar had been a proper drinking establishment, filled with muted TVS showing hockey.

  Now the place was abuzz with music and littered with Vamp memorabilia, and fully eighty percent of the clientele were women—not that he was complaining, mind you, but it was sort of a shock to his system.

  His phone rang and he answered without looking, assuming it was Ellery.

  “Hey, Boner,” Annie said. “How’d you talk your way out of this morning’s misstep?”

  He flushed to his ears. She meant, of course, the “jumping Ellery’s bones” comment.

  “A little soft-shoe. Jill hardly noticed.”

  “Jill!” she cried, disappointed. “I thought it had been Ellery.”

  Axel smiled. “Oh, that would have been a treat to explain.”

  “Did you get the books?”

  “I did. Kiltlander, Vamp and a third.” He extracted the bag with the remaining two books from his pack, and when he did, he saw the paper stapled there, which he’d forgotten.

  “Only three?”

  “Annie, if I can get Ellery to read any one of them, I’ll consider it a major victory.” He unfolded the paper and found a phone number scribbled there and the name, Sierra. He laughed and crumpled it.

  “What?” his sister said.

  The bartender dropped off the beer, and Axel fished his wallet out of his pocket and handed him a ten. “I don’t get women.”

  His sister laughed. “That’s a fact. But how does it relate to what we’re talking about?”

  “The clerk at the bookstore today,” he said. “I mean, I was asking her questions about the books when I bought them, but I swear to you, we were not connecting on any level.”

  “So?”

  “So she slipped me her phone number. I just found it attached to the bag. I know my charms are irresistible, but this woman was fifteen years younger than me, easily.”
/>   “Axel, Axel, Axel…”

  He could almost see her shaking her head. “What?”

  “First, women are stupid. Second, they get considerably stupider when a man of any sort engages them in conversation about a romance novel. Which book were you talking about?”

  He gazed into the thick white head of the beer, trying to remember. “Vamp, for a while. She was definitely not a Team Ynez supporter. But she really lit up when I mentioned Kiltlander.”

  Annie made a noise somewhere between seeing a basket of puppies and having an orgasm. “See,” she cried. “It’s magic! Honest to God, I don’t understand why more men don’t read it. Don’t they understand they could get any woman they wanted into bed if they just acted like Jemmie in Kiltlander?”

  Before Axel could fully ponder this pronouncement, his phone buzzed with a blocked number. “Hang on. I’ve got another call coming in. I think it’s Ellery.” He pressed the screen and said, “Ellery?”

  “Brendan. Sorry to disappoint you, bud. Jeez, are you seeing her again?”

  Axel winced. “No. What’s up?”

  “I hear you’re in Pittsburgh.”

  Axel swallowed a long draft, savoring the up-front wheat followed by the mid-palate clove. A true Hefeweizen. He thought about what he might do with it if he were in charge. “Word travels fast.”

  “I know the bartender there. Axel, the guy upped his bid.”

  Axel jumped off the barstool. “What? We have a deal.”

  “We got no deal, man. He’s willing to kick in an extra ten grand.”

  Axel groaned. He could barely meet the price before. He’d never be able to meet it if it was ten thousand more. “Look, I want the brewery, okay? This is my dream. We’ve gotta be able to work this out. C’mon, man.”

  Brendan sighed. “If only the guy weren’t such a jerk.”

  “He’s a jerk?”

  “Oh, yeah. He’s an investor. No love for beer. He’s planning to sell the brand name to some conglomerate, who will promptly kill it; then the guy’s going to sell the place off piece by piece.”

  “You know me,” Axel said after drinking most of what was left in his glass. “I love beer.”

  “Oh, I know you love beer. Everyone who knows you knows you love beer. But I need the money.”

  “But who’s going to keep your baby alive, eh? Who’s going to invest the brewery with the same love you do?” Axel was dissembling a bit. Hard Hat was great, but Brendan hadn’t taken enough care in years to produce any other beers that rose above the ordinary.

  Brendan growled—the unhappy growl of a man about to say good-bye to an extra ten grand—and Axel began to relax.

  “If I tell this guy no, I’m going to need something in return, Axel.”

  “What?”

  “Help, for one.”

  “Sure. Anytime.”

  “Tonight.”

  “Tonight?” Axel looked at his watch. He and Ellery wouldn’t be done here until two or three a.m. The flight to Philly, where they’d catch the flight to London, left the next day at two in the afternoon. It depended on how fluid Brendan’s definition of “tonight” was. “What’s up?”

  “Dumping the yeast,” Brendan said, and Axel grimaced. Ninety percent of brewing was cleaning, but dumping the yeast was one of the dirtiest jobs in the brewing world. “Sure, I can help.”

  “Help?” Brendan laughed. “I’m cashing in my chips for the night, friend. You’re it.”

  Axel agreed, wrapped up the call and returned to Annie. What had she been saying before Brendan called that had peaked Axel’s interest? “Sorry. A beer thing.”

  “Are you supposed to be having beer things with the diabetes?”

  Axel smacked his forehead. He hadn’t taken his evening injection. He’d only been diagnosed a couple months before, and the routine still got away from him sometimes. “Yes, Mother. I’m allowed to have a couple beers a day. In fact, it’s encouraged. It reduces insulin resistance—in moderation, of course.”

  “Moderation, huh?”

  “Moderation is my middle name.”

  “Only if your first name is ‘im—.’”

  Axel’s phone buzzed again. “Another call,” he said. “Hang on.” He hit the ANSWER button.

  “Brendan, again. Sorry. I forgot to tell you the key is over the door.”

  “Got it.” He returned to his sister. “I’m back.”

  “Popular guy. That’s okay. I was just calling to razz you.”

  “Much appreciated, as always.” His phone buzzed again. “Oh, for God’s sake. Gotta run. Love you.” He clicked to the other call. “Jesus, can you possibly get everything you need to say into one call?”

  “I’ll try, Mackenzie,” Buhl Martin Black said flatly, “but I pay you enough to listen no matter how many calls it takes.”

  Axel felt his heart drop to his shoes. “Oh, God, sir, I’m sorry. I thought it was my friend.”

  “Some friend. How’s the article coming?”

  “We’ve only just begun.”

  “Very catchy. Have you considered putting that to music? Anything else?”

  “Well, I’ve given her some books to read—”

  “Vamp?”

  “Yes. That’s the primary one. There are a couple of others. We’re in Pittsburgh now to shoot at the Monkey Bar.”

  “What the hell is the Monkey Bar?”

  Axel was moderately relieved to hear that Black hadn’t read the book, either.

  “Gateway to hell, sir. Very popular with Vamp’s female readers.” An ooga-oogasiren went off, accompanied by a flashing red light, and Axel turned to see a woman mount the stand at the start of the monkey bars and, cheered on by her friends, twist and turn her way across to the platform at the other end as the patrons parted like the Red Sea beneath her. There she squirmed her way out of her bra, slipping it out from under her blouse to the hoots and hollers of the crowd, and threw it into the cauldron. The cauldron, which looked to Axel like a hastily repainted garbage can, served as the repository of cast-off souls. It was also the source of the annoying flashing lights. The barkeep immediately filled a mug with Budweiser and slapped it on the starting platform: the woman’s reward for divesting herself of what was undoubtedly a forty-dollar piece of lingerie. She was not able to claim the far more prestigious prize—one of the free Monkey Bar T-shirts pinned on hooks above the cauldron—as that required the blouse to go as well. Nonetheless, the place went nuts. Women whistled, her friends yelled, “Ynez, Ynez!” and the few men in the place gazed at their shoes, unsure whether to cheer or simply hope they weren’t asked to leave.

  “What’s going on there, Mackenzie?”

  “Another soul thrown in with Team Ynez, sir. Happens every fifteen minutes or so. Very exciting. They love the book here.”

  “Glad to hear it. What exactly has Ellery written so far?”

  “What’s that? I think I’m losing the call.” Axel held the phone at arm’s length and signaled the bartender for a refill. “We’ll have to try to talk tomorrow. I can’t hear any—” He hit the END button and turned his phone off.

  He hoped Ellery would start writing something soon. There were only so many times that trick was going to fly.

  “Team Ynez?” the bartender asked, dropping another mug in front of him.

  “Oh, you know it, pal.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Airport Marriott, Pittsburgh

  Ellery rolled the hotel desk chair back and forth, gazing at the empty page on her laptop screen.

  It seemed silly to try to write something in the twenty minutes before she had to dress and head to the Monkey Bar, but she thought if she could produce at least a single, stunning sentence on the subject of romance novels, she’d feel like she had some momentum going.

  She held her finger over the keys, waiting as all writers do for that kernel of insight to wriggle itself loose from the recesses of her brain and land with a sizzle on the page, accompanied by a crescendo of harp sweeps marking the pros
e’s incomparable beauty.

  Unfortunately, the only kernel that wriggled loose was the one she’d already known: Romances were drivel. Yes, Ynez could stir something primitive in her, and Harold could send a shiver down her spine, but it was a trick, nothing more than pandering to a sex-hungry reader.

  Oh, God, if she were only writing about John Irving…

  She loved Irving, loved his muscular prose and the wrestling and New England characters who filled the pages of his books. She even loved the bizarre tragicomic events that fueled his plots, like Duncan losing an eye in Garp and the TV reporter losing his hand to a lion in The Fourth Hand. His stories struck her deeply and lived on in her head years after she had finished reading them.

  She hit a few keys.

  Why do critics wrestle with John Irving?

  She loved it. A perfect first line.

  Literary critics try to take Irving to the mat for his navel-examining plots, character arcs littered with body parts and scenes approaching slapstick, but Irving always manages an escape.

  God, she was on a roll. This was the sort of writing she could do twenty-four hours a day with hardly a conscious thought. Her hands flew over the keyboard until she had a paragraph and then two. She was in the middle of the third, kernels popping like dried Iowa corn in her head, when her eyes came to rest on the copy of Vamp. Her fingers slowed as the thought of Harold demanding Ynez’s submission to his care crept sultrily through her mind. It was a trick, yes, but tricks were worthy of some investigation, weren’t they? For example, if she wanted to take a quick look just to find out whether Harold and Ynez ended up having sex, that certainly didn’t mean she had raised the story in her head to the level of, well, literature.

  Her fingers had slowed and stopped. She looked at the screen.

  In his later novels, Irving does just the opposite, using Harold and other metaphors to demonstrate sex sex sex Ynez on top?