Page 68 of Role Play
“Romance section,” I interject loudly, pointing to the store directory. “Second floor, back corner.”
“Classic,” Saylor snickers, his eyes dancing with mischief. “Hide all the smut where the kiddies can’t stumble on it.”
“Speaking of stumbling onto smut,” Taio says as we head toward the stairs, “remember that client who wanted you to dress as a lumberjack, Hawk? You had to get that glue-on beard. What was her name…Margaret? Marjorie?”
“Margot,” I correct reluctantly. “And I told you that in confidence, asshole.”
“Nothing’s in confidence when you come home with splinters in your ass,” Taio counters, earning a howl of laughter from Saylor.
“Christ, mate,” Saylor wheezes, wiping actual tears from his eyes. “What were you two doing? Fucking on a log?”
“Authentic rustic furniture,” I mutter, feeling my neck heat. “It was a cabin in the woods. Can you shut up about it now?”
“With authentic splinters,” Taio adds helpfully.
I flip him off as we reach the second floor. “All right, focus. We’re here for Sora.”
“Ah, yes, the famous conch shell girl,” Saylor says with exaggerated reverence. “The one who’s got Hawkins all twisted up with those puppy-dog eyes.” He whines and whimpers like a baby golden retriever.
“I’m not twisted up.” Though the flush creeping up my neck probably tells a different story. “I’m helping her with research. In exchange for a place to stay with Dakota.”
“And you brought us because…?” Taio prompts, already drifting toward the romance section with suspiciously familiar ease.
“Because of poor judgment, clearly. But seriously, I need to understand what’s selling. What readers want. What Sora should be emulating.” I lower my voice as we pass a cluster of browsing women. “You both deal with female fantasies for a living. I figured you might have some insights.”
“Oh, I’ve got insights,” Saylor says, waggling his eyebrows suggestively. “Women say they want a sensitive bloke who listens, but what they also want is to be bent over a couch, and after a proper pounding, for you to put your tongue right on their?—”
“Jesus, Saylor, we’re in public,” I hiss, noticing a nearby shopper’s scandalized expression.
“Just keeping it real.” He shrugs, unrepentant. “Isn’t that what you’re asking for? The inside scoop on what women really want?”
“In their books,” I clarify. “Not in their beds.”
“Same thing, brochacho,” Taio chimes in. “That’s the whole appeal of romance novels. Classy girls doing really unclassy things.”
I can’t argue with that logic, so I don’t try. Instead, I take in the romance section, which is more extensive than I expected, occupying nearly a quarter of the floor space. The shelves are organized by subgenre, with colorful, eye-catching covers facing outward.
“Fan out,” I instruct, adopting what Taio calls my dad voice. “Taio, you take closed-door and paranormal. Saylor, contemporary and suspense. I’ll handle fantasy and whatever ‘dark romance’ is.”
“Uh, no, my guy. If there’s no sex, I’m not reading it. Put Saylor on the fluffy cotton-ball stuff,” Taio declares.
Saylor cuts him a side glance. “What is paranormal?” he asks.
“Vampire fuckers,” Taio answers casually.
“Like thatTwilightmovie?” I ask, cautiously.
“Excuse me,” Taio says, looking offended. “It was a book first, you caveman. And no, that stuff is for tweens. Adult paranormal is like vibrating alien dicks and werewolves knotting.”
“What is knotting?” I immediately regret it when Taio opens his mouth to explain.
“It’s when the hero’s dick has a bulbous base that gets stuck?—”
“Never mind,” I interrupt hastily. “I don’t want to know.”
“Your loss,” Taio says with a shrug, already running his fingers along the spines of books with a familiarity that’s frankly disturbing. “Some of those shifter romances would blow your mind. And other parts.”
As we disperse, I notice something odd. The bookstore has gone strangely quiet. Glancing around, I catch at least three women pretending not to watch us, phones angled suspiciously in our direction.
