Page 26 of Strider's Misstep

My fist bangs down on the desk. “StoryTeller should get her under control and beat it out of her. I need that number. It’s fuckin’ bro code, not hos.” I punctuate my words by repeating the action of my hand hitting wood.

Data rolls his eyes. “Sometimes it’s hard to believe you were married.”

“Low fuckin’ blow and too fuckin’ soon,” I snarl at him. But he does make me think. Yeah, in the early days, I picked battles carefully with my wife, soon learning like any husband, you didn’t demand. You asked. Marriage was about give and take. But fuck it, StoryTeller should know where his loyalty lies.

Data lifts and lowers one shoulder. “Sorry, Prez.” He doesn’t sound particularly contrite. “Look, it’s not an immediate matterof life or death. If I can’t find her, it’s a good bet that no one else can. If there is a risk, then it will be when she comes out of hiding to go to that book event.”

It’s not what I want to hear. I’m not a patient man. While I trust Data, I can’t prevent the doubt curling inside me, souring my stomach that he might be wrong. What if that fucking husband of hers knows more than we think he does? What if we’re sitting here twiddling our thumbs, waiting for her to turn up at the signing, but she never comes?

A large part of me wants to go to Arizona and shake the details out of StoryTeller’s wife. She couldn’t blame her husband if I was the one to do it, could she? On the other hand, that would get me a well-earned beatdown from her man, and maybe even Chaz, the prez of that club.

I finally settle for the one thing I can do. “Get back in touch with ST,” I demand. “Tell him to make sure Sheri keeps in touch with Jasmine. The second she thinks something’s not right, all bets are off.”

Sensing the meeting is over, Data stands, a flick of his hand letting me know he’s going to comply.

CHAPTER TEN

JASMINE

THREE WEEKS UNTIL MOTORCYCLES, MOBSTERS AND MAYHEM…

Pinching myself, and not for the first time, I confirm I am awake and not dreaming. It doesn’t seem long since I envied Sheri for going to that amazing event as a reader, and now I’ll be attending as a signing author. Can life get better than this? Oh, it could, I might have a man like Strider by my side, but for now, I’ll concentrate on the good things and try not to miss what I can’t have.

Three weeks.On one hand, the time’s dragged. On the other, it’s flown by far too fast. Looking down the list of the authors attending, I feel like an impostor.How could my books ever be as good as theirs?It’s like the royalty of motorcycle club romance writers, and I’m not sure how I’ll fit in.

My nerves are worse as it’s the first signing I’m going to. I should have started with something smaller. I haven’t a clue what’s going to be expected of me, and I don’t want to do anything wrong or make a fool of myself.

One good thing is that the online support from other authors has been magnanimous and so, so, helpful. It seems most can remember being a newbie themselves, and even some old hands are still courting advice about things I hadn’t even considered.What kind of swag do readers most enjoy?

Eyeing the banner I erected in my lounge, I feel a sense of pride. It had only been from studying images of the last event that I realised it was needed. I’d had so much fun working with my cover designer to come up with something that had both my name and a slogan that represented my writing and with a, hopefully, tantalising background image.

SeeingJ Frobisherwritten in such big words made me proud, but also made me question whether I’m suffering delusions of grandeur. Although I’ve four books published, I’m a baby in the author world.

When I go through the preorders, part of me is glad I haven’t published many more. I can’t believe the number of people who want the whole series to date. It makes me wonder how authors with forty-plus books cope.

My hands had actually shaken when I pressed the button, committing myself to purchase a large order for my paperback books. When the boxes had arrived, I’d nervously opened them, horror stories in my head of damaged copies or the right covers with the wrong contents inside. To my delight, and putting it down to beginners’ luck, everything I’d ordered was present and correct.

Daily, it seemed, packages arrived with swag—pens, bookmarks, and the patches for my motorcycle club, with which I’m delighted. I’ve also got some bags carrying my logo that are big enough to hold each set of books.

I’ve thought of everything, haven’t I?

A musical interlude interrupts my thoughts. Taking out my phone, I answer it.

“Sheri.” I chuckle. “Your daily check-in?” I don’t know why she calls so often, but I’m not going to complain. It’s nice to have someone to bounce ideas off.

“Look, I’m living vicariously through you.” She laughs back. “I’m beyond excited about going to Dallas. I can’t wait. I want to be a part ofeverything.”

“I’m not complaining. You’ve been so much help. Those pens you suggested will be great for signing the books.”

“And don’t forget the markers. You’ll be signing shit all day. Readers had plush penises and everything last year.”

She’s my expert, and I doubt she’ll be leading me wrong. She certainly hasn’t so far. “Oh,” I tell her. “Those penis lollipops arrived.”

Sniggering, she asks, “Have you tried one?”

I snort. “I’ve managed to resist.”

“You’ve got your banner, table runner, lights for the table and assorted swag?” She gets down to business, running through a checklist we’d composed.

---