Corsets and Quartets

by DeSimone, Mercy

  "First, I emailed your cover designer for the wrap. It turned out she had an opening and was able to turn it around pretty quickly. As for who paid for them, that was the guys. Heath asked me what they could do to make Quill special for you, and I told him it would be a huge boost if you had books to sell."

  "Heath bought these?"

  "Yes, although I know Mark split it with him. I got the impression that Simon might have chipped in as well. Are you surprised? I was really afraid someone would let it slip."

  "Surprised? I'm stunned! Why didn't they tell me?"

  "Because you hate surprises unless they're true surprises. Now you have something to sell and sign. It's graduation day."

  Hugging the book to my chest, I do a quick box count, realizing I have thirty books in total. Reluctantly, I put it back in the box to help Emma unroll the banner, securing it to the stand.

  Charity's eyes light up as she looks from the banner to me. "Is that you? You should totally take the shirt off!"

  Staring at her in horror, I move away from the banner, crossing my arms over my chest.

  "No! I would never put my own breasts on a banner like that," I deny.

  "Why? It's seriously sexy." Looking me up and down, I realize the trap I inadvertently created.

  I'm wearing the black leather-trimmed leggings and boots I bought several weeks ago for my date with the guys, paired with the long white shirt. Except this time, I replaced the sweater vest with the beautiful, turquoise brocade corset that Emma bought me. It never occurred to me that I was going to look like I was mimicking my banner.

  What felt sexy and chic in the mirror this morning now feels trashy and too much. I immediately begin unlacing the corset. My shirt is wrinkled underneath, but I don't care. I will not have people thinking I modeled for that banner.

  Emma starts to protest and quickly snaps her mouth shut when I give her the look. Wisely, Charity shrugs and begins rearranging her own media while I tuck the corset carefully into my tote bag to insure that nothing happens to it. I may not think it's appropriate here, but it is still one of my favorite new possessions.

  The buzz around the room begins to escalate as more and more people fill the tables, unloading materials and getting ready for the day.

  Stacking my books on my tablecloth, I turn to grab the postcards and freeze. Emma has taken off her sweatshirt, and I finally see the t-shirt she's paired with her jeans.

  The white background sports a large black and white rooster with a traditional spiky red comb atop its head. Puzzled, I stare at it in fascination because my eyes can't quite register what's off about the design, until I see the tagline in swirly black font. ‘My Cocks'll Doodle You.’

  Oh. My. God. The red spikes of the comb actually look like five small penises waving proudly from the rooster's head.

  "Emma! Where the hell did you get that shirt?"

  "I had it made," she says proudly. "Isn't it great? I knew this was the perfect occasion for it."

  I squeeze my eyes shut in pain, opening them quickly, then squeezing them shut again as Charity laughs and high-fives her. Nope, I can't unsee it, and it hasn't gone away. If the floor could open up and swallow me whole, I'd offer it a breath mint and pray for mercy.

  And I was concerned about the t-shirts with the boob design? No contest. The only saving grace is that she isn't wearing it skin tight, thank heaven.

  "Emma," I say, determined to ignore the cock in the room. "I don't see any other regular romance writers. Where is everybody?"

  "Oh they're in room one," Charity pipes up. "A lot of them don't play well with the reverse harem authors, so they keep to their own room."

  "But I don't write reverse harem! I'll never find readers here."

  "Don't worry," Charity assures me. "Most readers will visit both rooms, they're pretty liberal with their love. There's only a few who refuse to cross enemy lines."

  "Enemy? Really? I don't read a lot of reverse harem, but I never realized there was such a bias." Worry creeps into my voice. "This could be really bad."

  "Not bias so much as an imaginary turf war between the haves and the have nots. You know how it is—mainstream romance writers like HEAs and one guy at a time. They don't approve of sleeping with multiple men, but they watch reality shows and think it's romantic when a girl goes on a group date with six guys in a night. All because there are roses involved. It's kind of hypocritical. Add the fuel of a little dub-con or non-con, and they lose their minds."

  "What's dub-con?" I ask, mystified.

  "You know, dubious consent. The 'I hate you but I will fuck you to show you how much I hate you' scenes. I don't do dark, but there's a big market for it."

  "Charity, you do realize that your banner and logo have a skull dripping blood over a heart, right?"

  "Well, sure. But I'm more about the kill than the hate sex. For instance, I decapitated one hundred people in my last book. That brings my total kill tally to 100,159 across three books. We had a party in my online group to celebrate."

  The cheerful tone is so at odds with the words that I begin running what I know about sociopathic tendencies through my mental index and wonder if I've brought pepper spray.

  "Ummm…Charity. This is a romance con. Do you get much crossover with your books?"

  "Oh, sure. The killing feeds the mate bond, and there's always plenty of sex afterward. Then the nest celebrates."

  "Nest?"

  "Vampires."

  "Of course." Why did I ask?

  "Aren't vamps supposed to be able to feel their sires through the bonds of the nest?" Emma asks.

  "Usually, although it's not a hard and fast rule. Mine hear the commands when it's time to fight."

  "Shouldn't it send everyone into a frenzy when things get hot between the sire and his mates? Wouldn't that generate an all out orgy among the nest?"

  "You know, I was considering that for the next book, but…" The two of them dissect the orchestration of a full out orgy, and I tune out of the conversation to revise my own strategy.

  How did a Regency romance writer get stuck next to a horror writer in a room full of reverse harem writers? It's a total clusterfuck. No one will take me seriously. I would have done better with Nate in front of my table wearing tights.

  Okay, enough whining. I'm here because someone else isn't. I'm on the right side of the table. Lifting my book to my nose, I inhale deeply, enjoying the smell of paper and what I imagine to be fresh ink. The glossy cover is unblemished with no creases.

  If it weren't for the guys, I'd be sitting behind a table of t-shirts and postcards, without even a book to sell or, more likely, give away. Still, I think I'll tuck a few away to keep in case any of my real readers make it to this side of the floor. Taking out my cell phone, I snap a quick picture of myself with my book before texting it to Mark and Heath with a bunch of heart emojis. I want them to know how much I appreciate their gift and love their thoughtfulness.

  I immediately get a text back from Heath.

  Doolittle: You deserve it. I love you

  I love you. It's official. Where I might have disregarded the words the other night in the heat of the moment, it's clear we've broken the seal. This is a thing, and suddenly, I'm not afraid to say it.

  WWJD: I love you too.

  Sexy Chef: What about me?

  Sexy Chef changed name from What Would Jane Do to Sexy Spice.

  Sexy Spice: What about you?

  SC: Do you love me?

  Before I can answer, Heath jumps in, making me laugh.

  Doolittle: Yes, Mark, I love you too.

  SS: Hey, lay off my boyfriend.

  SC: Don't worry, he's not laying anything unless you're between us.

  SS: I love you, Mark.

  SC: I love you too, Spice.

  Just as I'm about to put my phone away, I get one last text from Heath.

  Doolittle: Don't forget to thank Simon. He wanted in.

  Biting my lip, I wonder if they know just how much he wants in.
r />   SS: Will do!

  Let's just leave it at that.

  Chapter 36

  Don't Feed the Trolls

  The crackle of a speaker disturbs the rise and fall of voices filled with greetings as old friends hail one another. Occasionally, the sound is punctuated with the occasional curse as set up failures occur somewhere down the line, but overall, the buzz is festive.

  "Doors open in five minutes. Five minute warning, folks."

  "Here we go." Charity spins in a circle, quite a feat in the cramped space behind the table. Next to her, I feel like a mom sent to watch her errant child. My white shirt and leather-trimmed leggings no longer feel as fashionable without the corset. Instead, I feel rumpled and jittery as my early morning espresso races through my bloodstream.

  "Charity, who was supposed to have this side of the table?"

  "Alexa Blue."

  "Do you know what happened to her? Why did she cancel?"

  "She went wading in a troll patch. I tried to warn her, but some people never listen."

  "Oooh… I heard about that," Emma pipes up from her position in front of the table.

  "What the hell is a troll patch? Like creatures under the bridge? Trolls don't exist."

  "Totally do," Emma says

  "Different creature, same context," Charity says, finally taking pity at my confusion. "Okay. So you know what burrs are?" Charity asks.

  "The kinda thorny things that stick to you when you walk past them in the woods?"

  "Exactly. Internet trolls are like burrs. They have thorns, and if you wander too close to them, they stick to you. Once you get one, you have to be very careful to pick it off and dispose of it properly. After that, you need to stay far away from the patch."

  "So, how do you get burrs? I mean trolls?"

  "Well, that's the tricky part. Most of the time, they're just there. There's no real way to avoid them. They pick at anything. Your book is too short. Your book is too long. You character is too much of a badass, your character is too stupid to live. My favorite is your character is too real, no one wants to read about real people and their problems. This tends to be followed closely by, no one would ever do that in real life. See what I mean?"

  "Kind of?"

  "So, basically, trolls are like a bizarro version of Goldilocks, so hyped up on coke they never find a comfortable bed because they can't sleep. So they take it out on the rest of the world."

  The rows begin to flood with the first wave of readers, squealing as they discover an author they like, snapping photos and grabbing swag.

  "So you're saying they're never happy. Got it. So Alexa got a burr, I mean a troll?"

  "No." Charity's huff is exasperated. "She waded into a patch. One attached itself to her, and instead of just trying to pick it off and move on with her life, she decided to try to destroy it publicly.

  "Never accuse a troll of being a troll. They're like mint. No matter how many times you rip a plant out, they regenerate and multiply. And like burrs, once you get them all over you, it's almost impossible to shake them."

  The wave grows closer, squeals and chatter multiplying as people consult their programs and point out tables to one another.

  "So how do you get rid of a patch of trolls?"

  "Either you burn it to the ground, which is almost impossible," Charity turns serious eyes to me, "or you set yourself on fire to get away from them. No matter how hard Alexa tried, this patch was too strong. The roots were too deep. So, flames."

  The accompanying hand gestures are disturbing enough that Emma and I stare at each other uncertainly until Charity's name is hailed by a group of women rushing toward our table.

  "You mean that figuratively, right?" I ask as Charity is swarmed and hands start to snatch her books off the table, begging for autographs in the process.

  "Of course." She smiles at the readers clamoring for her attention before turning back to me. "She burned her pen name and went on the down low for a while. Don't worry, she'll be back with a new name in a few months after she repackages her books. I hear she's contemplating the name Phoenix."

  "Well, damn," Emma says, turning big eyes to me. "And you thought getting Lady Sydney laid was traumatic."

  "Remind me to stay out of the woods and away from bridges," I joke.

  "You know it, sister!"

  * * *

  "Oh my God! Where did you get that shirt? It's epic."

  Three women stare at Emma's large breasts showcased by her ‘Cocks’ll Doodle You’ shirt.

  "It's an original," she says. "I had it made specifically for this event. I thought it would be fun."

  "It's awesome! Do you have them to sell?"

  "No, but we have some raffles for one of Josie's ‘Love Unlaced’ t-shirts. Just sign up for her newsletter, and we'll pick a winner every hour."

  Emma waves toward the corset clad breasts on my banner, before sliding the clipboard with my newsletter sign up across the table.

  "That's cute, too!" One girl grabs the pen. "But the cock shirt—"

  "All the more reason to sign up," Emma says. "We'll be making these for sale eventually to her newsletter subscribers. Now, who's buying books? Josie is here to sign. This is her only appearance this year."

  Well, she got that right.

  "And if you show us a preorder for her new book, we're doing a drawing for a signed paperback of that one when it comes out."

  "What's it about? I love historical romances. How does she meet her men? Are there any spies? Demons? Group sex? M/M?"

  "Wow, okay, well…" I'm a bit overwhelmed by the rapid-fire questions. For some reason, I expected a more leisurely and civilized discussion of the finer points of my story. This multi-generational cluster of eager readers needing instant gratification has me stumbling for words.

  Damnit, Josie, you're a writer. Use your words!

  "She's the youngest daughter of an impoverished vicar who gets put into service as a lady's maid at the closest estate. That's where she falls in love with the second son."

  "Does he take advantage of her?"

  "No, he falls in love with her, but she's below his station so they can't be together."

  "What about the other guys?"

  "Well there's a vicar from another town who asks for her hand."

  "Does he take advantage of her?"

  "The vicar? No. He's a man of the cloth. He'd never take advantage of a lady, no matter what her circumstances."

  "So it's one of the other guys?"

  "I'm sorry. What other guys?" I ask as she waits expectantly.

  "Who else is in her harem?"

  "Ohhhhhhh, this isn't a reverse harem, it's a traditional romance." My heart plummets at the disappointment on her face, until Emma pipes up.

  "This one isn't a reverse harem but her new one is."

  "No it's not," I demur, giving Emma a look. "There are just multiple men vying for her attention."

  "So this duke book, what level is the burn?" another woman asks.

  "There's no sex—" I begin before Emma jumps in.

  "It's a slow burn. But the new book has much more steam. There's a scene on a horse…" Her voice trails away provocatively.

  "Like Catherine the Great?"

  "God, no!" I exclaim before Emma tries to lead them down that path. "There is no sex with animals in my book. Besides, that was only a rumor. If you want sexy literature with animals, read Leda and the Swan."

  "I love shifters," another woman speaks up. "Especially wolves, they're so raw."

  "Sorry, ladies, no shifters. Think the grittiness of Jane Eyre meets Sense and Sensibility. With sex," I finish lamely.

  The argument over who are the sexier shifters rages on as the women drift away from the table.

  "This is never going to work," I grumble while Emma pats my shoulder consolingly.

  "Sure it will. You just need to dial into what they're looking for. Stop telling them what you don't have and tell them why Cedric is sexy. Why Roderick is an arrogant ass. Let th
em feel Major Percy's pain. In fact, maybe Major Percy should share some pain."

  "Emma! Percy is not that kind man."

  "Are you sure?"

  "Pretty sure. If anything, it seems like Cedric has control issues." Shit! I just let that one slip a little too easily.

  "Josie, do you want to talk about Cedric's control issues?" Emma asks, intrigued. "Do we have reason for concern?"

  "I don't, and no. No concerns. If anything, I've been a little turned on when his control issues have manifested thus far."

  For once, Emma is blessedly silent. Of course, the exaggerated parody of bowing at my feet doesn't go unnoticed by those around us. Charity chuckles at our antics while signing postcards and books on autopilot. She makes the multitasking look easy—the signing, the posing for pictures, all while answering the questions peppering her from all sides.

  Nudging me, Charity asks what I did to engender lavish devotion, while I shrug and roll my eyes.

  "Apparently I bring out some control issues in one of my guys."

  "Guys? I thought you said you don't write reverse harem?"

  "No, I meant my real—" My teeth click shut, and a flush steals across my cheeks. "Never mind. Don't pay attention to Emma. She's always looking for her harem."

  "Aren't we all!" Charity laughs as I paste on a fake smile and nod agreeably. I'm saved from further comment by a new wave of readers, who sidle up to the booth to ooh and ahh over Emma's cock shirt.

  After our first two t-shirt drawings, traffic begins to pick up exponentially. Honestly, who knew it was that easy? The names on my newsletter list continue to grow, although I have yet to sell any books. Apparently, the promise of an opportunity to buy a cock shirt is bribe enough, and they seem happy to settle for the chance at a corset shirt as a consolation prize.

  Still, it takes little effort to nod and smile. The fact that I find myself talking more about Lady Sydney and her men more than I do my first book doesn't escape me. I have yet to find any traditional romance readers on this side of the con, but I know they must be here.