CHAPTER 8 (HARD EDIT)
Troy
Sweet Jesus!
Larson might have clued me in with some deets as to how these author signings go!
The doors open at eleven for the VIP ticket holders. As soon as that happens, I’m quickly on the verge of motion sickness watching hordes of females charge through the double doors, their red colored VIP lanyards swinging from side to side. They scatter like cockroaches to the various rows lined with author tables apparently in search of the ones they idolize.
“What the hell?” I growl, watching several of them sprint past our table pulling coolers on wheels behind them. “What’s with the coolers?”
Larson laughs, clearly amused by my obvious ignorance. “The coolers are to store the books they plan to buy, or ones they’ve already purchased and need to get signed by the respective authors.”
“I see.”
I busy myself straightening my pile of paperbacks displayed in front of me, and line up my brand new Sharpies in preparation for the onslaught of those readers who will undoubtedly be flocking to this table once they realize where it is.
“Don’t they provide maps with the tickets?” I ask Larson, who is now busy signing a book for his first customer. He doesn’t respond, handing the book back to the gray-haired woman with a smile, and graciously standing up while her husband takes a picture of them with his cell phone.
“Oh thank you, thank you, Mr. Blackburn,” she gushes, “I’ll post this on Facebook and tag you in it! I just loved ‘Easy to be Hard.’ I stayed up all night to finish it. Couldn’t put it down, isn’t that right, Wayne?” she says, finally glancing across the table to where Wayne, her husband I presume, looks like he wants to be anywhere but here watching his wife paw Larson.
“Um . . . yeah, that’s a fact. Edie yelled at me when I asked her to shut the light off,” he grumbled. “But, the silver lining was how damn in the mood it made her,” he finishes sheepishly. “Guess I owe you a thanks for that one.”
Oh, Christ.
Larson turns and flashes me one of his Hollywood smiles after Wayne finally pulls Edie off of my man. “What?” he asks seeing my glare, as he sits back down.
“I asked you a question earlier. You never answered me, dude.”
His forehead creases until he finally recalls my question about the maps. Sweet Jesus, there should be a line out the door by now for Bridge to Lonely. Third week on the NYT list. I’m sure the news has hit Georgia by now for fuck’s sake!"
Larson releases a sigh, and I know something snarky is about to leave his luscious lips.
“Troy, first etiquette lesson for you when participating in an event such as this: Don’t interrupt an author when he or she is with a fan. It’s faux pas behavior. Secondly, yes, maps are provided to the attendees, why do you ask?”
“No reason. And by the way, here’s a request for you. Please address me by my pen name when we’re here. Remember?”
“Got it, T.A.,” he says with a chuckle.
Just then, a group of ladies walk up to the table carrying canvas bags with the event logo printed on it. One of them slaps a business card down on the table. They’re all in matching pink tee shirts with the name “Slutsy Smutsy Book Blog” printed across the front. “Hey,” she greets, giving me a smile. “We’re bloggers. How’s it going?”
She doesn’t bother to wait for a response, before picking up a stack of bookmarks I’ve already signed, and tossing them into her canvas bag. She’s fingering some of the wristbands I’ve placed in a bowl, and tosses a few in the bag as well. “Cool coasters,” she says, picking up a few of those where they join the rest of the swag in her bag.
“Uh, excuse me,” I start, “Are you planning on buying a book?”
“Troy—” Larson interrupts, tossing me a solid glare. I throw one back.
“Who?”
“T.A,” he corrects with a growl, and then proceeds to give me a slight shake of his head back and forth, his eyes boring into mine.
A silent “no.” I get it. I keep my mouth shut, but really, I thought the purpose of swag was to give—oh fuck. Never mind what I thought.
“Ladies,” he croons, “Please help yourself. Would you like a signed paperback of ‘Easy to be Hard’ for a giveaway?”
They now relax, and move over to Larson’s side of the table, where he happily fills their canvas bags with goodies, including a signed paperback. They crowd around him for a picture, shoot me a dirty look, and then they’re off to the next table.
I think I might’ve made another fucking faux pas.
“For fuck’s sake,” Larson growls. “You never, ever treat a blogger like that! What the hell were you thinking?”
I’m not about to allow him to take me to the wood shed on this one. He should’ve clued me in on these little tidbits of information before we got here. Shit, I just presumed you gave away swag when someone purchased a damn book. And then I wonder if my soul mate wants me to look like a clueless buffoon at my very first event.
Would he do that?
Fuck me.
I’m about to accuse him of just that when another gaggle of girls crowds in front of our table, pulling copies of Easy to be Hard from their cooler, and start schmoozing over Larson. One of them asks him to sign her copy with “To Elaine, you were my muse for this book.”
Seriously dude?
But Larson complies, totally reveling in the flirtatious gush-fest.
Gimme a fuckin’ break.
Finally, one of the ladies turns her attention to me.
About fucking time.
“Would you mind taking a picture of all of us with L. Blackburn?” she asks sweetly, holding her cell phone out to me.
My head snaps over to Larson, where he gives me a solicitous grin. “Sure he will,” he answers on my behalf. “Gather round ladies.”
He stands and walks over to the group of four, where I’m instructed to take two different group pics, in order that each of the four ladies has one pic of themselves with Larson’s arms wrapped around them. And then four more with each girl alone with Larson. I grit my teeth and comply, knowing if I don’t, that’s just one more faux pas to add to my growing list.
“Say cheesy,” I instruct, giving them a smile as I snap the final picture.
“Thank you so much.” the last girl chirps, taking her phone from me. “Can’t wait until your next book, L,” she says with a giggle.
At noon, the doors open for the rest of the ticket holders. Holy shit, I can’t believe how many attendees flood into the room. There are nothing but bodies. Bodies everywhere. Wall-to-wall bodies.
I feel my space invaded. Women are lined up at our table.
Strike that.
They are lined up in front of our table waiting to see Larson, the apparent Lord of Lusty Love Literature. Because the aisles are packed, they are pressing against the table in front of me, blocking my view, sucking up all of the oxygen, and ultimately, keeping my fans from being able to access me or my stack of Bridge to Lonely paperbacks.
One of my phobias is kicking in like a motherfucker!
Shit.
Confined space. Like an elevator. All I need now is for one of these chicks to be a knife wielding psycho named Delores Friedman and all of the high end therapy I’ve received over the past several years is down the fucking drain!
My pulse quickens. My skin feels clammy. My breathing is becoming a bit labored, and the sound of my own heartbeat is ringing in my ears.
I just may pass out.
Would Larson even notice?
I close my eyes tightly, trying to recite some kind of a soothing mantra in my head that will serve to shut out the noise and the bodies closing dangerously around me, and stop the impending panic attack threatening to take over.
The thought of ducking under the table where the black tablecloth will hide and shield me from it all crosses my mind, but only for two seconds. Do I seriously want my debut book signing to be remembered for my crawling under a damn table and hiding?
I think not.
I take a couple of cleansing breaths, willing the panic attack to go get fucked when I feel Larson’s hand on my shoulder.
The firm touch has my eyes snapping up and automatically meeting the green depths of my partner in all things. At first, all I see is his mouth moving. No sounds, no smells, no taste. Just the rhythmic motion of his luscious, kissable lips. His eyes transfix me, slowly pulling me out of my funk. Little by little, the ambient noises begin to filter back in all around me until I can once again hear the soothing voice of my lover.
“...so I thought I’d tell these wonderful ladies at A Taste of Sin Book Blog about your debut novel.” Discreetly, Larson gives me a small squeeze on my shoulder trying to calm my nerves like only he knows how to do. I only hear the end of his phrase, but I now realize what he’s trying to do.
Why did I ever doubt him?
“Why, thank you, L. I’m honored that you would mention me.” I say as I slap him on the back of his shoulder blade like a football player would his teammate.
Why?
Who the fuck knows.
I turn my attention to the two ladies standing before us and give them my best panty melting smile, hoping they’ll take the bait and ignore my almost complete meltdown. Rising, I extend my hand as though to shake it. When the dark haired lady reaches for it, I bring it back to my lips and place a soft kiss, never once breaking eye contact. I repeat the act with the tall blonde gal and realize that by not being a douche, I could have these hundreds of women eating out of my palm.
Well, maybe.
When the bloggers leave, there’s a small respite, giving Larson time to assess my mental state.
“Are you okay? Maybe you should take a break? Grab some water? Take a piss?” I’m actually afraid he might go into OCD meltdown himself. Jesus Christ, we are one fucked up couple of dudes completely in love, but nonetheless up shit creek with no paddle and a lurking tsunami just waiting to gobble us up.
Yippee Hi-Ho Motherfucker. We’re gonna blow this joint right out of the water!
“I’m good, babe. Just a momentary lapse in signing etiquette. I’m back to my usual charming self.”
Larson snorts which in turn makes me scowl.
“What is that supposed to mean?” I ask, obviously annoyed.
“Charming? Really? That’s how you ‘usually’ would describe yourself?” He even does the air quotes.
“Worked my magic on you, didn’t I?”
Troy: 1
Larson: Nada. Zip. Niet.
Well, except for the whole saving-my-ass-in-the-middle-of-a-signing thing, of course.
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