Page 1 of Red Flag, Green Light

Prologue

Some people say I’m insane. I respectfully ignore their opinion.

Mars

Coercion is wrong.

I know this. You know this. Everyone knows this.

Blackmail is illegal. No one is a fan of extortion. Or threats. Or infringements upon their free will.

This is common sense, I fear. It is abundant. It is obvious. It is agreed upon unanimously in the minds of nearly every half-sane person—and even, on occasion, it is agreed upon in the minds of every less-than-half-sane person, too.

Like me, of course.

But, well.

As with most things in this world—i.e. grammar, math…nepotism—there are exceptions to the rules.

And for this? There is one itty-bitty, teeny-weeny, tiny-whiny exception…

Allow me to explain the grand, grand wonder that is…?Book Girlies.?

Ahh, book girlies.

Shuffling a deck of cards, I watch the live footage spread out across my triple monitors, grin, and sigh.

I adore book girlies.

Book girlies—all kinds, not just the dark romance angels who support my and my dear brother’s livelihood—arenuts.

Once upon a time, I had the honor of talking to a sweet young woman fond of historical fiction, high fantasy, anddocumentaries. Heavy stuff.Realisticheavy stuff, no less. I don’t know how she ended up inmyinbox, or why she felt the need to tell me all about her current read in extreme detail, but I have one particular line she sent me immortalized on my computer—as a motivational poster I made in Canva.

Slapped across a sunset photo in charming, swirling font, it reads: I’m not really sure if it’s incest or not, but I am sure it’ll be fine.

Graciously, it was fine. I know this, because I emailed her back, asking that she keep me abreast on the status of whether or not the main characters—who did not know they were related—had a Princess Leia and Luke Skywalker moment.

Every so often these days, I’ll email her to ask about what she’s reading. Once, I simply sent her a link to “Sweet Home Alabama” and said I hoped the song wouldn’t end up on her current-read’s playlist.

But, anyway, I’m about to lose the plot.

Let’s see…where was I…ohyes.

Book Girlies.

Book girlies are the carrot cake of the world.

They see coercion and say, “Yes.” They go feral for things that people should maybe not go feral for. Like. I don’t know. The utter disregard of boundaries.

For true book girlies, it doesn’t even need to be unhinged ordark. It just needs to be an implication of love that supersedes sense.

Did that male lead who couldn’t get over his ex—even after she’d moved on—crash her wedding in a grand, public, embarrassing gesture (which confused her endlessly and emotionally manipulated her into choosing him over her groom)? You bet. Are the book girlies eating it up? Oh, one million percent.

He just loved hersooomuch, they say. Or, wildly, they’lldeclare:I wish someone cared that much about me!

Crazy how we all want someone to care about us to the point of emotional manipulation. Just…loveme until I lose the ability to access my common sense. Everyone wants it. And I get it. It is ever so, so, so, very exhausting tothink.

Don’t tell me you don’t agree. You’ll only be lying to yourself. And me. Which is rude. If you chase after entertainment, like television, as a means to relax and refresh, you are chasing after the spare few moments you can get to shut your frontal lobe down. Thinking is tiring. And withoverthinkingon the rise, it’s no wonder we’re all so desperate.

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