Page 32 of Room 1212

“Nothing… in real life, but I don’t read romance novels for their accuracy. It just isn’t hot if the guys look like anyone you pass on the street.”

“Yeah,” Roger agreed. “Remember what you said about being old and fat? When you watch porn, it’s not because you like their personalities. Nothing is an average size. Huge schlongs on the men, massive knockers on the women. Jordan Kepler’s novels have always been kinda like porn to me, now that I have cataracts.”

Betty piped up, petting her hand over the stuffed turtle in her lap. “Well, I think it’s brave of Jordan to try something so different,” she said in his defense.

“Thank you, Betty,” I said, feeling a smidgen of relief. “So, you like the book?”

“Oh, hell no,” she said. The other residents laughed, but she just shrugged. “Not every book is for every reader. My husband was always a fan of those Doc Savage books, you know the ones, those cheesy sci-fi paperbacks, but I could never get through them… although, I did love the covers. That Man of Bronze was certainly bronzed…” She gave me a saucy wink.

I could feel my body caving in on itself, my shoulders hunching, as I absorbed how much everyone really despised Jordan’s new book. He’d worked so hard on it, and I personally really enjoyed it. But it was clear no one else did.

When Noelle finally called everyone for dinner, the residents seemed almost relieved to go. They didn’t want me to torture them with another chapter. Noelle eyed me suspiciously. “That was too easy. Did you finish your book or something?”

“No…” I was hit with the worst gut-wrenching feeling. It wasn’t just worry about how Jordan was taking things, although if this was what Jordan’s fans were thinking, then he was likely freaking the hell out right now. But I was also experiencing guilt. This was all my fault. If I hadn’t said anything that day at the book signing, he never would’ve felt the need to change his writing style.

“Hey, do you mind if I make a quick phone call?” I asked Noelle.

“Go for it. Tell Jordan I said hi,” she said with a wink.

“Right.”

I headed down the hall looking for somewhere quiet. I didn’t want anyone to overhear what we were talking about. On a whim, I pulled open the door to the supply closet and stepped inside, lowering myself onto the same overturned bucket. Without Jordan in here with me, it felt different. Colder. Emptier.

I quickly dialed his number and listened to it ring on the other end of the line. When it clicked over to his voicemail, I hung up without bothering to leave a message.

Staring down at my phone, I debated trying to call again. Maybe he wanted to be left alone. I knew him, though, and I knew he was probably lying in bed, crying. And I knew I could make him feel better. So, I dialed again.

And again, he didn’t answer.

Shit. This can’t be good.

17

Jordan

IknewexactlywhatSean was thinking right about now. He was thinking, “I told you so.” And he was probably thinking it while drinking a hundred-dollar glass of scotch and fanning himself with a wad of cash.

Gods, what have I done. Burned my career to the ground, that’s what.

Burying my face in my pillow, I screamed as loud as I could, kicking my feet into the mattress and tangling the blankets around my legs. Hopefully the neighbors wouldn’t call the front desk about the noise. The Scarlet Hotel was good about privacy, but even they had limits. Screaming was likely crossing the line.I should probably stick to sobbing uncontrollably, I decided, rolling over to stare at the ceiling.Much quieter.

The truth was, though, I was tired of crying. It made me feel weak, when what I really wanted was to rant and rage. While I’d always known I was taking a risk, I’d been excited to start this new part of my career. It had felt a bit like when I first started my journey as an independently published author. My first book, I nearly barfed I was so nervous. I’d been second-guessing my talent, and I was about to change my name and go into hiding. But the reviews, while mixed, were still leaning on the positive side. So, I published a second book, and a third, a fourth… Every time was a bit exciting, but nothing like that first time.

Until now.

This was the same barf-worthy sensation, but without the positive reviews. I’d even run to the bathroom twice thinking I was going to heave, but they were false alarms. I wished I would just throw up already and get it over with.

The initial sales of my new book had been decent—obviously, because everyone thought it would be like all my other books. Then the reviews started coming in… and they were not good. My sales quickly tanked after that.

And so, here I was, in hiding. Just like I had wanted to do after my first release, but this time, I could afford to do it. And in style, too.

At The Scarlet Hotel, I could pretend the outside world didn’t exist. I’d been here two days already, and I had no intention of leaving anytime soon. I turned off my phone, left my laptop closed, and had a nice deep tub to drown myself in if the mood struck. No, that was being a bit dramatic, things weren’t that bad. Probably. But without my phone or laptop to confirm it one way or the other, I had no idea how awful it was.

Not knowing was almost worse…

I rolled twice across the mattress to reach the hotel phone on the bedside table. I picked up the receiver and pressed the button for room service. “Yes, hi, I would like to order some food. I’ll get a stack of Belgian waffles, with strawberries and extra whipped cream, and a double order of bacon.”

“Certainly, sir,” the person on the other end said.

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