What does a male diva look like? Picture a mid-level writer who’s convinced himself that the ten lonely women who love his books are a representative sample of all the women in the United States, and the ego that would accompany that kind of worldview. They can be seen strutting around with a PA that they’re taking full advantage of at all times. What does that mean? The good authors treat their PA’s like true assistants—as an essential part of what they do. The shitty authors use their PA’s like glorified book interns, asking them to do all the shit work that the author doesn’t, but should, do themselves. I know a guy who even has his PA make up the social media posts that he uses for takeovers and to advertise his new books! She’s basically his unpaid social media handler, and he treats her like total shit. I don’t care how hot an author is, or how much a woman loves being part of the indie book world, there’s no reason in the world to take that kind of shit from anyone, let alone a second rate author with an overinflated ego.
I don’t even have a PA. I had a few that I tried out here and there but it never worked out. I remember when I published my first book, and didn’t know shit about this crazy book world, a bunch of women came out of the woodwork to ‘friend’ me on Facebook and offer their ‘amazing’ PA skills. I’d listen politely, and a few times I’d even get excited. And then they’d hit me with the money they expected to post for me a set number of times per day. That’s not most PA’s, but I always seem to attract the social media crazies and the people looking to take advantage of authors. After a while I just got used to flying solo and handling all of my author responsibilities myself.
Right now those responsibilities are limited to brushing my teeth, waking Harley up so she can help get me organized, and throwing last night’s dirty-ass clothes into a white garbage bag. I toss my shirt, socks, and underwear into the bag as quietly as I can, trying not to wake Harley. She looks so hot laying there, and I’d love nothing more than to wake her up in a very special way and have another go, but I want her to be as rested as possible for the signing. My pants are the last thing that need crumpling, so I reach down to throw them in the bag when I feel an object.
Roland. That’s right, that asshole handed me something as the guys and I were leaving. I almost forgot. I take out the crumpled envelope and slide my finger along the back to open the seal. Inside there’s a photograph sitting inside with the picture facing outwards. I lift it up, expecting another shot of me in some compromising situation related to my arrest. It’s not that, though. It’s not me in the picture at all. There’s a man, but I’ve never seen him before. He’s sitting at what looks like a restaurant table across from Harley, and he’s holding her hand across the table they’re sitting at. The perspective on the picture looks just like the one Roland (or whoever) had taken of me—it’s obviously low quality, and taken from a distance away. Even so, I’m seeing a strange man holding her hand and it’s making me angry.
I try to rationalize the anger I’m feeling so that I don’t lose my shit. That’s got to be her brother or something. A brother I didn’t know she had because, well, we don’t know as much about each other’s lives as we could. That’s who it must be. He came to visit after a long trip away, and he met up with her at their favorite restaurant. There’s a date written in black sharpie in the top right hand corner that, if true, dates this as three days ago. Three days? If she was meeting with her brother three days ago why didn’t she just tell me? Did she lie to me? Has she lied to me about anything else?
These crazy thoughts fill my head fast, and I start to get really angry. Just then I notice that there’s a second picture, jammed behind the other one, and when I take a look at the image my heart starts pounding. It’s basically the same picture, with one major exception. They’re kissing. It’s a frozen shot of his lips and hers touching while they’re sitting across from one other. That’s not how you greet your brother. My anger goes from a one to ten in no time at all, and I try to employ all those coping mechanisms—taking deep breaths to slow my heart rate, trying to think positive thoughts, and doing enough self-talk to quiet the insanity coursing through my brain. The normal part of my brain is shut off though, and I just feel like a big ape who wants to club the other male who’s sniffing around his female. I know that sounds ridiculous, but all the deep breathing in the world can’t stop what I’m feeling.
I start to hear Harley stir from all the noise the plastic bag and the ripping of the envelope are making, and as soon as I hear the mattress creek I grab everything and rush into the bathroom to cool down. I don’t know what’s wrong with me, but the feeling inside rushes over me in a wave of anger. I feel jealous, confused, resentful, and a whole host of other negative emotions, all at the same time. I throw some cold water on my face to relax.
I catch myself in the mirror and I don’t like what I see. I don’t even realize that my fist is clenched, and I have a look of madness on my face, like I’m about to do something crazy. Then I see something that really frightens me, and all the anger and frustration is replaced with embarrassment—I see my father staring back at me. People always said that we looked alike. He was big, tall, dark hair and eyes, just like me, but I never saw it. Maybe I just didn’t want to see it. But right now I see him looking back at me, not because our facial features are similar, but because of the expression I’m making. It’s only a few seconds but it snaps me out of my momentary rage, and I come back to the land of the sane. Stop it, Colt, I tell myself. Take a deep breath and relax. I hear Cordelia’s voice repeating that mantra from therapy— ‘. . .break the cycle, Colt, only you can break the cycle.’
I take a deep, deep breath again, this time letting the rise and fall of my chest slow my heart. I close my eyes while I breathe, repeating the mantra again and again inside my head. I promise myself when I close my eyes that there will be a perfectly logical explanation, and that she’ll explain the whole thing to me later on. But that angry, jealous voice finds it’s way back, even through the repetition of my mantra, even through my deep breathing. But why would she lie to you? Why? Is there any logical explanation for that, Colt?
I hadn’t planned on taking a shower right now, but I’m already in here and it’s a good way to stall for a few minutes, so I turn the water on as hot as it’ll go and get in. Ten minutes later I step out, and I hear Harley moving around in the room. I feel better, but not completely. But I know I have to put all of those feelings behind me, and fast, because we have the biggest signing of our lives in front of us, and I need to be all there, mentally.
I open up the bathroom door and see how happy Harley looks. We really did have a great ending to the night, but the start of my morning has been anything but. Not only that, but I’m a little nervous about the size of this event for some reason.
“Hey there, sexy naked man in a towel. Good morning.”
“Morning,” I say curtly.
“You okay?”
“Yeah,” I lie. “I’m good, just. . .I didn’t sleep that well. My neck’s a little sore.”
“Oh, you want me to rub it? And then I’ll work on your neck, too.” She smiles but I don’t. I try to force it but it just comes out weird and awkward. She catches that there’s something obviously wrong with me, but this isn’t the time to get into it. “Damn, you really did sleep badly, didn’t you? Well snap out of it, your adoring fans are waiting all over this place.”
“Yeah,” I say awkwardly. “I’m going to go meet the guys to discuss some stuff, all right?”
“Sure, that’s fine.”
She’s looking at me funny again as I get dressed. All I want to do is leave this room so that I can gather my thoughts and get ready. I think being around the guys will help. I get my pants and shirt on as fast as I can over still wet skin, and then walk out of the room with a short wave. “I’ll see you down there, okay?”
“Sure,” she says. “See you down there.”
Once the room door is closed behind me I feel like total shit that I’m acting this way, but I also feel th
e same emotions and have the same questions that put me in this mood. If we were at home I would have addressed it right away, but we’re here, at the biggest signing of my career.
I text Grayson to see where he is.
Gray: I’m in the lobby grabbing what’s left of the muffins. Come down.
Me: Is Mike with you?
Gray: No, still getting ready. I think him and Everleigh are working on their first illegitimate child this morning, so it might be a few minutes. But come down, we can chill and start on our table.
Me: I’ll be right there.
I get in the elevator and head down to the lobby. I can already see the differences between this signing and ours. The number of people isn’t even comparable. There are readers—mostly women—everywhere. I don’t think I’m that well known, but I keep my eyes forward in the elevator for fear someone will recognize me and want what would be the worst selfie ever. My face isn’t in a smiling mood at the moment. I know that I’ll have to change that in about an hour or so, but right now I’m not in the mood to interact with fans or readers.
The elevator dings and the door opens to an even larger congregation of people, all moving around kinetically. You can feel the energy in the room. It’s like a small, indoor, condensed version of the energy you get if you walk around Times Square in Manhattan. Surprisingly, I catch sight of Gray right away through the haze of bodies, and he looks like he’s almost done with whatever muffins were left after all these people got through the complimentary continental breakfasts the hotel had out.
“Hey, dude, how was your room?”
“Small, but really nice. Harley surprised me when I got back in after dinner last night.”
“Ohhh. Niiice.”
I smile. Gray has a way of making me do that sometimes. “Yeah, something like that. What did you and Mike do after sushi?”
“We went to one of the hotel bars. For a second I swore KL, Johnathan and Roland were going to follow us and keep the bullshit up, but we didn’t see them again. They made yet another social media post like the little high school girls they are.”
“Damn, really?”
“Yeah, it wasn’t just about you. It was more of a collective ‘fuck you’ to all of us. Don’t worry, it was petty and got barely any likes at all. Just a bunch of shocked emoji faces.”
“Those guys are straight out of a bad cartoon. When are they going to learn that readers don’t like that shit?”
“Sometime around never, I’m guessing. It’s all they’ve got, man. Their books suck, they’re trying to copy what we’re doing and it’s not working at all. This drama is the only way they stay on the radar, you know. It’s clickbait shit. I feel sorry for them, man. We just have to do us and forget about their petty bullshit. They’ll get weeded out eventually.”
Gray’s right. Gray’s usually right. It’s not just the Brotherhood. They’re the latest drama in the indie world, but they’re not the only thing, and they certainly won’t be the last. This sub culture is as filled with drama as it is with books to read. If the indie book world was a large town, it would be like Derry, Maine—the fictitious town that a lot of early Stephen King books took place in. There would be a lot of great people, a few complete assholes, and a lot of drama underneath the surface. You see it all the time on social media. For every post about a great new author, or a book that’s a must read, there are about ten posts that involve drama of some sort.
Just in the last year there were a million posts about book stuffing, which is when authors make their ebooks overly long by putting like three books in a single file. They do this because with Kindle Unlimited—the Netflix of the book world—they get paid every time a reader swipes to a new page, so the more pages, the more money. Once KU was introduced it didn’t take unethical writers very long to figure out that if they release 3,000 page books that they get paid way more than they would for a 300 page book.
Before that there was Sexygate, as it came to be known really quickly. It’s a hashtag and everything! Sexygate was when this obviously crazy hack author decided that she was going to ‘protect her brand’ and differentiate herself by copywriting the word ‘sexy’ so that no other authors could us it in the titles of their book. That became such an online shit show that I had to stop going on social media for about two weeks. Like I said, there’s never a shortage of drama, and like a good game of whack-a-mole, when the noise of one scandal dies down, another pops up to take it’s place. And right now, that’s the Brotherhood vs. The Wordsmiths.
“People are posting about it,” Gray says. “Even though we haven’t responded at all, people are using the hashtag #teamwordsmith. It’s pretty cool.”
“That is cool. I hope readers had shirts made with that, and wear that go up to their table to tell them what assholes they are. Speaking of them, where are they, I don’t see any of their ugly faces.”
“Who cares, let it go. Let’s worry about ourselves. You eating?”
“Nah, I’m in a mood this morning, I have no appetite.”
“In a mood?” Gray asks. “Why? Cause of those guys? Come on man, you’ve gotta stop it. Look around. We’re here! You sound like you had a great night with a hot woman you’re into. What’s the problem?” I hesitate for a second because I don’t feel like getting into it right now, but I also don’t want to be evasive and weird. Grayson’s my boy, so I give him the really short version. “That is weird,” he says after I tell him about the photos. “But at the same time, she doesn’t seem like that kind of girl, I’m sure there’s an explanation, why don’t you just talk to her?”
“I will. Not now. Let’s go set up while Mike finishes whatever Mike is doing.”
“Sounds like a plan.” Gray puts his arm around my shoulders as we start walking. “You’re better than all this, dude. You helped me get out of my funk, now let this place do the same for you. The Wordsmiths are arriving, man, enjoy it.”
This is what best friends are for.
This is all best friends are there for.
To say the right things at just the right moments.
Always.
22
Colton
“I feel really fucking small right now, how about everyone else?” Mike finally arrived after Gray and I did most of the table stuff, having that nice, post sex glow about him.
“Speak for your damn self, Knight,” Gray jokes. “I like this environment, it gives us more opportunity to meet readers.”
“Yeah,” I say, jumping in to their little debate. “Or it gives us more of an opportunity to get lost in the giant crowd.” The other guys shoot me a look like I’m being Mr. Negative. “I’m just saying, there are a few different ways you could look at it.”
“And you’re choosing the most negative one? Well, for one I say fuck that, Colt. I’m choosing to look at it positively. Why the hell did we come here if we’re going to be intimidated? You scared?”
He knows that’ll get my attention. That used to be a trigger of mine back in college. We’d go out, and being the loud, cocky, brash assholes we could be at times, we’d inevitably get into shit with other groups of guys. Mostly it was verbal—typical guy shit—shouting a few ‘fuck you’s’ and ‘you’re a pussy’ across a crowded bar on a Friday or Saturday night, nothing out of the ordinary. But whenever another guy asked if I was scared I’d puff my chest up and be ready to go, full out.
“Why’d you have to go there?”
“Cause I knew it would get you to stop being a little bitch, and it worked. Stop being intimidated. It’s time for the Wordsmiths to take this shit over!”
“Look at Gray, being Mr. Positive.” Knight smiles at him. “I like it. And he’s right, Colt, let’s get after this shit.”
We’re setting up our table when the girls all come by at the same time. Everleigh is basically Mike’s PA at this point. I guess she’s more like his partner. He even said on the way up that she was going to give him some input into his new series that he’s trying to shop around to publishing comp
anies. I’m happy for him. Harley and I aren’t there yet. After what I found in my pocket last night, I don’t know where the hell Harley and I are. I stormed out of the hotel room a little bit, and I’m trying my hardest to suppress what’s left of the anger I felt before, and to not act like a total dick towards her, but it’s difficult. At least I’m in an environment that’s easy to get distracted in. Right now personal shit doesn’t matter. Gray’s right, it’s all about the Wordsmiths right now.
“Hey,” she says, walking up to me while I get my books out of boxes and onto the tables. “You kind of ran out of the room before. Everything cool?”
“Yeah, cool.” I can hear how flippant I sound. I wouldn’t believe me either, and I know that she’s way too intuitive to take me at my word, but she’s willing to drop it so that we can get ready for this signing. She doesn’t say much more, and doesn’t ask me any more questions. She just gets to work, helping me unpack my boxes and set up my table. Mike’s on the far right hand side of the long table, Gray’s next to him, and I’m on the other end. Gray’s in heaven, sandwiched between Ev and Harley, and right as the event is about to get started he leans over.
“Where’s Rowan?”
“She wanted to walk around and meet some authors,” Harley tells him. “Don’t worry, I’m sure she’ll be by with her stack of free books you gave her to get them signed.”
Colton: Wordsmith Chronicles Book 2 (The Wordsmith Chronicles) Page 16
