by Ann McMan
What the hell? The author’s name wasV. Jay-Jay Singh.
Yeah. Shawn put the book down. I don’t think so.
She took a quick look around to see if anyone was watching her. As casually as she could, she drifted over to the next table.
General/Romance.
Thank god. There were loads of books on this table. Clearly, this was one of the more popular sub-genres. One caught her eye—more because it didn’t have a cover showing two well-endowed, hot women clinching anything. She picked it up. Jericho.
Okay. This might have potential. She turned it over to read the blurb.
Sultry and beautiful librarian flees carnage of a failed marriage . . . yadda, yadda, yadda . . . car breaks down . . . yadda, yadda, yadda . . . gorgeous and blue-eyed local doctor encounters a solitary figure, stranded along the side of a country road . . . yadda, yadda, yadda . . . fight their growing passion . . . yadda, yadda, yadda . . . everlasting love . . . yadda, yadda, yadda . . . on to the sequel.
Shawn snorted in disgust and put the book down. Good god. Does anybody write anything original?
She looked back at the book. Still. I wonder how she got them to agree to that cover?
Someone bumped into her and apologized. Shawn checked her watch. The pre-Con Mixer was due to start in about twenty minutes, and the vendor area was filling up.
She heard laughter and looked toward the coppery sound. Three women were standing together near a big table loaded with hats and koozies—all emblazoned with CLIT-Con logos. One of the women caught Shawn’s eye. She was on the short side, with a head of cropped, gray-streaked, husky-looking hair—the kind you just wanted to play with. She was still laughing at something someone had said, and she had a fantastic set of dimples. The rest of her assets looked pretty appealing, too.
Shawn stood there, trying to persuade herself that she really did need a ten-thousandth koozie, when someone behind her called out to the group.
“Kate! What time did you get here, babe?”
A very large woman, wearing a tight black Harley t-shirt that proclaimed, “If you can read this, the bitch fell off,” pushed past her and made a beeline for the group. She had an impressive mullet that fell below her broad shoulders.
She wrapped the smaller woman up in a big, butchy bear hug, and then turned around to motion another woman over.
“Greta? Get over here and meet the famous Kate Winston.”
Shawn was stunned. Every ounce of that shitty vegan wine started to bubble up inside her.
Ohmygod. Did I really almost go over there and hit on fucking Eraserhead? How did I not recognize her? It must have been the glasses . . .
She needed to hide. She needed to throw up.
She needed to find a goddamn exit sign.
This was not happening. In her haste to escape, she backed into a tall pyramid of books and knocked it over. Of course, it would be the biggest fucking display in the whole fucking vendor area of the whole fucking conference. And of course, every fucking person in the whole fucking hall turned around to fucking stare at the fucking klutz who fucking knocked it over. Including She of the Poison Pen.
Shawn got to her knees and scooped up the books.
Oh god. The display contained about twelve thousand copies of Gyno Galaxy IV. Wait. That wasn’t all. There also were copies of Gyno Galaxy II, Gyno Galaxy III, and the flagship of the series, Gyno Galaxy: Probing Explorations. Good god.
On the other hand . . . V. Jay-Jay had an entire Gyno franchise?
She needed to talk to her publisher . . .
The pre-con mixer was rocking and rolling. Literally This year, the organizers were basking in receipts from record-breaking registration numbers. This meant that in addition to better (non-vegan) wine that actually came in bottles, and cheeses imported from places more exotic than Indiana, there was music. Live music. Played by live musicians, with real instruments. And they were actually good—unlike last year’s endless, canned recordings of Israel Kamakawiwo’ole.
However, Kate did have to admit that his cover of “Sisters are Doin’ It for Themselves” was surprisingly tuneful and upbeat. Who knew you could riff on a ukulele like that?
She had staked out a nice corner behind one of the huge potted palms near the wine bar, and was doing her best to avoid getting sucked into conversations with . . . well, anyone. She was on sensory overload from having to listen to so many endless appeals for reviews, and just wanted to enjoy a few minutes of solitude. She put on her reading glasses and did a halfway credible job of hiding her nametag beneath her jacket, in the hopes that most people wouldn’t recognize her. So far, it seemed to be working pretty well.
What she really wanted to avoid was running into Shawn Harris—who was certain to be here tonight.
She scanned the big ballroom again.
Not that she’d even know how to recognize Harris if she did show up. The photo on her Facebook page didn’t reveal much. The author was wearing a red ball cap that covered most of her face, and there was no photo on her book jacket. Her Web page had the same damn hat picture—Harris was obviously very attached to that tool thingy she was holding. Ridiculous. Why would her publisher put up with that kind of sophomoric crap?
Kate drained her second glass of wine and wondered how long she’d have to wait for the crowd near the bar to thin out so she could mosey over and ask that surly bartender for a refill. What was his problem? It wasn’t like he was paying for the stuff himself.
Maybe he just didn’t like lesbians?
She smiled. If so, he was in for a long night.
She thought about Harris’s book again, and their artfully choreographed, High Noon-stylefaceoff tomorrow afternoon.
If you held her down and threatened her with death, dismemberment, or sharing an elevator with Newt Gingrich, she’d have to admit that some parts of Bottle Rocket hinted at a quirky kind of originality. And it was also true that there were occasional snatches of prose that weren’t half bad . . . once you got past the overblown language and epic conventions.
God . . . what was with the crush of people just standing there near the damn bar? The surly bartender caught her eye. I know you’re going to make me open another bottle of the Shiraz, his gaze seemed to say.
Kate looked away and tried to hide her empty wine glass.
Shit. She saw Quinn heading her way. The big woman was still wearing her black Harley shirt and a tight pair of jeans that were several sizes too small. For some reason, she had added a pair of zip-on leather chaps to her ensemble, and they made her legs look like overstuffed sausages.
“Kate?” The voice came out of nowhere and scared the shit out of her. She jumped, and nearly dropped her glass. It was Gwen Carlisle.
“Since when did you become one of the Con Palm-Pilots?” Gwen asked. “What are you doing hiding out back here?”
Kate smiled with relief. “Gwen. Thank god you’re here.” She lowered her voice. “Right now, I’m hiding from Quinn.”
Gwen looked confused. “Quinn? Quinn who?”
“Quinn Glatfelter.”
Gwen looked incredulous. “The BDSM author?”
“That’s the one.”
“She’s here?” Gwen glanced around.
Kate grabbed her by the arm. “Stop it. She’s right behind you.”
Gwen turned back toward her. “Was that her in the chaps?”
Kate nodded. “Yeah. Subtle. Kinda hard to miss, isn’t she?”
“I’ll say.”
Kate couldn’t tell if Gwen was appalled or intrigued.
“Is your publisher interested in broadening their author list?” She paused. “Literally?”
Gwen snorted. “Very funny.” She took a big sip from her tall pilsner glass. Funny. Kate would never have pegged Gwen as a beer drinker. “Tell me, Kate. Why aren’t you a writer? We’d sign you in a heartbeat.”
“I am a writer.” She raised an eyebrow. “I think it’s possible that you might have a passing familiarity with some of my recent pros
e work?”
“That’s not what I meant, and you know it. But while we’re on the subject. Why did you eviscerate Shawn’s book the way you did? You know as well as I do that it’s a great read. Exponentially better, I’ll warrant, than seventy-five percent of the crap that crosses your desk.”
Kate shrugged. “That’s true.”
“So? Why the hatchet job?”
Kate looked at her. “You think Harris has the chops to make it as a mainstream novelist, don’t you?”
Gwen nodded. “Of course I do.”
“Well. So do I.”
Gwen’s jaw dropped. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me.”
“Oh, I heard you all right. I just don’t understand you. Why the hell would you post a toxic review like that of a book you really liked?”
“I didn’t say that I liked Bottle Rocket. I said that I agreed with you that Shawn Harris has the chops to make it as a mainstream author. This book, however, is not the vehicle that will get her there. Any shot at real brilliance it had was completely undercut by its regrettable adherence to the same old clichés and worn-out plot devices that define most of the genre.”
Gwen stood there for a moment without speaking. “It’s hard to argue with you, Kate. You know your shit.”
Kate was unfazed by the compliment. “That’s what they pay me for.”
“Still,” Gwen continued, “you have to admit that Bottle Rocket, as a lesbian novel, deserved higher marks than you gave it.”
Kate shrugged. “I don’t rank books according to how much better or worse they are than the rest of what’s floating around in the shallow end of the pool. I’m a critic, not a reviewer. There’s a difference.”
“Care to explain the difference to me?”
“I’d be happy to,” Kate smiled sweetly at her, “tomorrow at ten o’clock.”
Gwen sighed and finished her beer. “You’re a tough nut to crack, Winston.”
Kate did not disagree. “So they tell me.”
Gwen held up her pilsner glass. “I’m dry. Wanna stroll on over to the bar and get topped off?”
Kate hesitated.
“Oh, come on.” Gwen took her by the elbow and tugged her forward. “This damn plant isn’t going anyplace.”
They walked toward the bar. The line was ridiculously long. She noticed that most of the people in the line were holding two glasses—one empty, and one someplace short of empty. Smart. It seemed like a good system—top them both off, then rotate back around to the end of the line and start all over again.
She sighed. “We’re going to be here all night.”
“Nah,” Gwen reassured her. “It’s all in who you know.”
Kate looked at her. “What do you mean?”
Gwen held up a forefinger. “Watch and learn.” She scanned the line ahead of them. “Vivien!”
A small, redhead, wearing a lime green jumpsuit, turned around, then waved vigorously when she saw Gwen.
“I heard from the Poughkeepsie Public Library,” Gwen called out.
Vivien waved them both forward. “Come on up here with us,” she shouted over the din.
Gwen nudged Kate. “See? Told you.”
They advanced two-thirds of the way forward in the line.
“Viv, meet Kate Winston.”
Vivien K. O’Reilly trained a pair of very round and surprised eyes on Kate.
“No shit?” She looked Kate over. “The She-Bitch herself. Badass hair.”
“Um . . . thanks?” Kate replied.
Gwen chuckled. “So, Viv. The Poughkeepsie Public Library would love to have you do a reading—and we can fit it in right before the Rehoboth shindig.”
“Fabulous.” Vivien did a little joyous jig and waved the hand holding her pilsner glass around. A spray of white foam flew all over the back of the woman standing in line just front of her. Fortunately for Viv, she was too engrossed in her conversation with V. Jay-Jay Singh to notice.
V. Jay-Jay Singh?
Oh shit.
V. Jay-Jay had been after Kate for months to review her Gyno Galaxy series, and Kate had dodged or ignored so many calls from her that she’d need an abacus to count them all. She looked wistfully at her potted palm, then down at her empty wine glass. It was a tough call—more wine, or facing the music with V. Jay-Jay.
Someone walked past them, carrying two wine glasses that had plastic tops.
Go cups? For real?
Kate touched Gwen on the sleeve. “Excuse me, I think I may have left the iron on in my room. I’m gonna duck out and go check on it, okay?”
“Gwen looked at her strangely. “Okaaaaay.”
Kate held out a hand. “Nice to have met you, Viv. Best of luck with your book.”
“Thanks.” Viv shook her hand and gave it a little squeeze before releasing it. “I wasn’t kidding about the hair.”
“Really?” Kate raised an eyebrow. “How about the ‘She Bitch’ part?”
Viv thought about it. “No. I pretty much meant that, too. But from me, that’s not a bad thing.” She looked Kate up and down again. “Not bad at all.”
Kate gave her a wary little smile and walked off, wondering for a moment if Viv might actually be the elusive HellBent4Leather character who now made regular appearances on her blog.
She fought an impulse to run a hand through her short, husky hair. What was so damn odd about it?
She walked toward the main doors to the lobby and its bank of elevators and saw yet another crush of people she needed to maneuver around. It felt like a damn conspiracy. Every person she’d pissed off or worked to avoid for the last five years seemed to be attending this conference en masse.
She veered off and doubled back toward the wine bar, where Gwen and Viv were no longer in evidence. They must’ve refilled their glasses and headed off for greener pastures. A makeshift bussing area had been set up behind the bar, and beyond that was a door that probably led to the service galley for this ballroom. White-coated servers buzzed in and out, carrying large trays of hors d’oeuvres and crates of glasses. Maybe I can sneak through there and make my way back to the elevators without being noticed?
As she got closer to the service area, she realized she wasn’t the only one to have this idea. Another woman was lounging around back there, doing a poor job of acting like she belonged in that part of the reception area. Kate could tell by the way she kept stealing nervous-looking glances around the room as she inched closer to the exit that she didn’t quite have the confidence required to sneak out with authority.
Amateur, she thought.
A server, carrying a big tray of dirty plates and glasses, nearly knocked the woman over as he flew past her en route to the galley. Kate laughed as the woman comically jumped out of his way, then quickly looked around to see if anyone had noticed. She saw Kate looking back at her and turned five shades of red. She quickly cast about like the room was on fire, and she was desperate to escape.
Kate thought she was cute, in a clumsy Ellen DeGeneres-meets-Buster Keaton sort of way. She had wispy hair with blonde highlights, and smiling eyes—even though they looked panicked and a bit maniacal right now. She was wearing faded jeans, a white blouse with an oversized man’s tuxedo jacket, and running shoes that looked like they’d seen a lot of hard use. She wasn’t petite, but she wasn’t large either. She just looked . . . solid. Like someone you could tuck into and not worry about toppling over. Like someone who might still be standing after being hit by a tsunami, or a horde of impatient busboys.
The woman stole another look at Kate, and her agitation seemed to increase.
Kate decided to take pity on the poor creature and scout around for another way to escape the mixer. She turned on her heel to head toward the main lobby exits and ran smack into a tall busser carrying a big tray loaded with empty . . . somethings, who was making a beeline for the back of the hall. He was more fleet of foot than Kate, and managed to dodge her without spilling his cargo—a feat that earned him a hearty round of applause a
nd a few wolf whistles from the revelers who were close enough to witness the near disaster.
Kate didn’t fare quite as well.
She went sprawling into a cluster of big potted plants that had been concealing another group of shy types. When she exploded through the leafy wall of their hideout, they scattered like beads from a broken necklace. In her clumsy attempt to right herself and minimize her mortification, she slipped on a big clump of Spanish moss. She lost her footing again—this time, crashing into a table where several authors were seated.
Miraculously, they all managed to pick their drinks up off the table before Kate came to rest on top of it.
“Well,” she heard one of the authors remark, as she lay spread-eagled across their plates of canapés and crudités, “this has to be the best damn hot bar I’ve ever had at one of these things.”
Kate rolled her head toward the sound and realized two things—the side of her face was now covered with something pasty that tasted like pretty good pimento cheese, and the voice above her belonged to none other than V. Jay-Jay Singh.
Life was a capricious bitch, and she took no prisoners.
Well, she thought, morosely. At least I created enough of a diversion to allow that other poor schmoe to escape.
The other poor schmoe didn’t waste any time beating a hasty retreat, once all eyes in the room were pointed toward the spectacle of the miraculous, tumbling blogger.
Shawn smiled. If Kate Winston weren’t such a complete virago, she’d actually feel a little sorry for her. It had to be mortifying to end up flat on your back like that—splayed out across all those little plates like the world’s biggest appetizer. And what a drag to take a tumble and end up in a supine position on top of the table belonging to the erotic authors.
On the other hand, it couldn’t happen to a more deserving subject.
Still. Eraserhead did look kind of cute with all those bits of kale sticking out of her hair . . .
Shawn punched the elevator button for the ninth floor.
She still needed to finish her opening remarks about Bottle Rocket for the faceoff tomorrow. The moderator asked her to prepare a short, two-minute intro that would bring the audience up to speed about the plot and themes of the book. She’d been trying to work on it in fits all day and wasn’t making much progress. Probably because she knew that Winston was doing her version of the same thing, and she felt hamstringed, trying to second guess what the acerbic critic was likely to say.
