Page 86 of Doctorshipped
“Jayme’s Fiona’s tutor,” I correct, reaching up and dabbing at the moisture in my eyes.
“Sounds like she might teach you a thing or two as well.”
28
JAYME
“Okay! Okay! Bite her neck a little more from behind. I can't see your eyes,” Ella Mae shouts from about ten feet away.
“You can totally back out of this,” I whisper in a hushed voice to Brooks for probably the hundredth time this hour.
“Not a chance,” he says, chuckling. “I mean, how many guys can say they were once a vampire? This is total resume gold.”
“You’re a fireman. When will you need a resume containing,acted as a vampire in a photo shoot for a relatively obscure fantasy author,as a credential?”
In his best vampire voice, Brooks says, “You neahhh-ver knowww. I trry to keeeeep my op-tions oooopen.”
I crack up. Ella Mae puts her hand on her hip and lowers her phone. “Seriously, you two? I can’t use these shots if you’re always laughing.” She pauses. “Though. They are pretty cute. Especially this one of you two looking into one another’s eyes. It’s so hashtag relationship goals!”
“If the relationship is friends,” I say.
“No one has to know you two are just friends. I mean, it’s social media. Do you really think everything you see on there is real? That’s why God made filters. Duh.”
She shakes her head like I’m unbelievable for wanting to be authentic.
Brooks looks at me with an expression that says everything I’m thinking.
“Well, I don’t want to mislead my readers.”
“Jayme. Dear. You aren’t misleading them. You areleadingthem. And where are you leading them?”
“I don’t know?”
Ella Mae literally face palms. Her hand slaps her forehead with an audible smack.
“You are leading them to your books. Your books. Which are …?”
“Great?” I ask.
“Ugh. No. I mean, yes. Of course. But your books are fantasy. Fantasy means make-believe. I mean, do you suppose they will believe you know an actual vampire when they see this hunk of a man biting your neck?”
Brooks cuts into this diatribe to say, “Thank you.”
Ella Mae barely regards him. “You’re welcome. It’s facts. I mean, look at you. Anyway. Do you think they believe he’s like some hottie from Transylvania, who, oh, I don’t know, just happened to relocate to podunk Ohio to find the exact Type-O blood match of his dreams?”
I don’t know whether anyone will think that exact thought, but I’m so using the idea as plot inspiration.
I answer Ella Mae with what I think she wants to hear. If you haven’t noticed, wrong answers are determined by Ella Mae. Kind of like the Queen of Hearts inAlice in Wonderland, only no one’s head is getting chopped off—at least not yet.
“No,” I tell her. “They know he’s dressed up.”
“Ex-act-ly. Soooo. You have to remember they know you’re playing. Making an insinuation that he’s your love interest only piques their interest. And on social media, piqued interest tickles the algorithm. And sweetie, we want to tickle that algorithm until it’s doubled over and crying for mercy. Do you understand?”
That would be a hard no.
Do I understand algorithms? I’m an author, not a tech nerd. And, also, while we’re at it, do I understand why I need to ask my friend to humiliate himself and bite my neck, and how that will in the least bit help me get a book deal?
What I do understand is that Ella Mae is a social media guru. And as such, I follow her direction, regardless of how ridiculous it makes me feel right now.
