Page 14 of Five
In spite of his words, he doesn’t look to be in much of a hurry. He pulls a piece of paper from his wallet and scrawls something on it with a pencil he produces from somewhere, whittled down to a stub, and pushes the paper into my hand.
“That’s my number,” he says.
The first guy—Rem?—looks at him in astonishment. “You motherfucker,” he says, enunciating each syllable. He shakes his head and looks at me. “Call him,” he directs. “He’ll transfer you to me, because he’s a man whore and doesn’t deserve a nice girl like you.”
I laugh and tuck the paper in my pocket. “I, uh… okay, sure.”
“We gotta go. It was nice meeting you, Neve.” With another rueful shake of his head, he tugs Cope away. Cope walks backwards, making the ‘call me’ gesture with his hand and waggling his eyebrows.
“You should definitely call us, sweetheart,” he calls.
I watch them go, a familiar wistfulness making my chest ache.
Us?I pat the piece of paper in my pocket.
I might just do that.
Oliver
I shift on the straight-backed wooden chair, uncomfortable as hell. My ass is already starting to go numb, and we’re just getting started.
“Why does every fucking bookstore have these same jackass chairs…” It’s a rhetorical question but my brother, Oscar, answers anyway.
“Because they don’t want anyone falling asleep while they read that shit you write.”
I tug at the leather necklace that circles my neck. The dog tags it holds sit in the hollow of my throat; a reminder of my time spent in Afghanistan. I was only there four years, but that was plenty long enough to last a lifetime.
I was thrilled to spend my inactive duty years working the odd job and writing, something I started doing as a kid. “That shit pays good fucking money,” I remind Oz now. “James Hunt is a household name.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
I glance past Oscar to the rest of my friends—Cope, Jesse, and Remi—already in their own seats and talking to one another. “Thanks for coming, man,” I say to Oscar. I nod at the guys. “And dragging them along. I appreciate the moral support.”
I’m beyond uncomfortable, one of the reasons it means so much to have my brothers of the heart and brother by blood with me. I’ve never been particularly fond of people as a general rule. It’s the whole reason I trained and served as a scout sniper when I joined the Marines out of high school—so I could deal with jackasses from a distance.
“You know we wouldn’t miss it.” Oz’s mouth ticks up at the corner in a sly display of humor, and I hear what he left unsaid.
Wouldn’t miss the chance to see you make a fool of yourself.
I never should’ve agreed to this stupid interview.
My agent had been adamant though… it was the largest media group in Florida, and they were being nice enough to conduct the interview in a Books Galore superstore in Key West, so we could segue into a question/answer time and follow up with a signing. It was mind-boggling to me that people actually wanted my John Hancock in their books. Shit, I’m still baffled that they want to read my books.
They’re a combination of thriller and romance, with my agent and editors pressing me to lean more heavily toward the romance part of the quotient in order to gain a larger female readership. So far, it’s been working. While my stories appeal to both genders, women comprise a surprising majority of my readership.
Already people—mostly women— are thronging the aisles of the store as far as I can see from my seat in the building’s rear. I know from previous events that they’re fascinated by the thought of getting in a photo or a quick conversation…probably because I’ve developed a reputation for being reclusive and don’t do this very often.
I heave a sigh and fiddle with the necklace again. As grateful as I am for my fans, writing would be so much easier if I didn’t have to worry with people. After the singular event that changed my life as a child, crowds instill an anxiousness in me that I find difficult to shake for days after.
I understand the reasons behind it. All the psychobabble whys and wherefores… it’s no big leap to make the connection that crowds make me nervous because it was in the midst of a crowd that I was lost.
Still doesn’t make it easier to deal with.
But like I just told Oz, at least the guys were here for me, regardless of whether it was for support or their personal entertainment.
I smother a laugh. I’ve never seen Jesse look so damn awkward as he does now, his massive ass parked in one of these tiny chairs designed for thin women and children.
The reporter, a tall, pretty woman in her mid-twenties—just a bit younger than me, if I had to guess—leans over and touches my knee, letting her fingers linger. “We’re just about ready.”
