Emma works her way toward me, pushing through the crowd flowing out the doors and giving me a self-satisfied smile.
"So, I'm finally hired?"
"Like you ever gave me a choice," I say.
"Have I steered you wrong yet?" Linking her arm in mine, we follow the crowd back out to the floor.
"Let's not forget the cropped cardigan incident of 2002, shall we?"
"Damn. Still so bitter," she remarks. "Let's go sell some books."
* * *
Groaning in relief as I open my front door, I immediately throw myself on the couch to unzip my boots before struggling to peel Emma's impossibly tight t-shirt from my body. At last, I can take a deep breath again and wiggle my toes in pleasure.
My eyes suddenly focus on the bouquet of brightly colored flowers sitting on my coffee table next to a small plastic container of shortbread cookies. A riot of color explodes from the vase with snapdragons, Gerbera daisies, tulips, baby's breath, and some other lacy-leafed things I can't identify.
Here's to happy endings, Love H & M
PS, Simon made the cookies.
Breaking open the container, the first cookie practically melts on my tongue as butter and sugar hit all the right notes. I really need a cup of tea for it to be perfect, but I'm just too damn tired to make the effort.
I made it through my first book con unscathed. It feels surreal to be walking back through my door with so little when we started out with so much this morning. I congratulate myself on my foresight at having saved a small stack of postcards and bookmarks here before taking everything else to the convention center.
Caressing the small stack of paperbacks on the coffee table, I'm proud to note that I sold twenty books today. Some to people like Christina, who had actually read the book, but most of them to total strangers who felt moved by the promise of a beautiful romance, even without sexy times.
I'm still amazed by how many people followed us back from the panel discussion. Every time we gave away a ‘Love Unlaced’ t-shirt, at least ten other people would come over to sign up for the next drawing. Emma was right, as much as it pains me to admit, t-shirts were a good call.
My biggest regret is that I never got to walk the show on my own. For all the authors I originally planned to visit and stalk as a reader, I barely made it away from my table. Still, the thrill of running into Alicia Riggs in the green room and being on the same panel as Eva, Charity, and the others more than made up for the loss.
Picking up my phone, I realize I really should text the guys, but my brain is mush. Since they left the flowers and cookies rather than their sexy bodies, I suspect that they know I need some downtime. That's one thing I really love about my guys—they don't hover. At this stage of my life, that would drive me insane.
My hands dig and discard random items as I search through my bag for my cell phone and realize that it's dead. You would think that they would find a way to boost the signal in the convention center, when so many people use remote devices for taking payments. Instead, the reception was awful. Anyone trying to make a call had to practically hang out of a window, which were few and far between. My phone probably spent all day trying to connect to a signal. In hindsight, I can't believe I forgot to turn off my wifi.
Plugging it into the charger, I wander into the bedroom to strip off my leggings and carefully fold my corset into my lingerie drawer. One day, I'll wear it the way it was intended. Maybe the next time the guys and I are together. Even now, I turn toward the closet to gaze in the mirror and try to glimpse what was reflected there a couple nights ago.
Now that my eyes aren't drugged with passion and my skin isn't flushed with the heat of lust burning me from the inside out, my skin doesn't feel as luminous. I run my hands across my breasts, cupping their fullness and wishing it were Mark's calloused palms instead. I want to feel Heath's fingers twisting my hair in his fist, demanding I finish Mark off, all while filling me with his own hard length.
What once seemed like a shameful idea is now a craving for something that seems as natural as breathing. Why wouldn't we share our passion together, if that's what we're all feeling? Why have we been conditioned to believe that it's wrong to express love to more than one person at time?
I really need to do a gut check with Heath and see if he's having some of the same philosophical questions around this as I am. Clearly, we've committed to our course, but if I'm feeling this conflict, I'm sure that deep down, he must have some questions of his own.
As someone who toyed with long bouts of near celibacy when I was done with the games of past relationships, it's amazing to realize how quickly I can crave sex like a junkie looking for their next fix. And like any junkie, I do it without regret or remorse, assuring myself that no one should have to feel the way I do when this isn't in my life.
Multiple dings from the other room sound from my cell. Messages must be catching up, now that my phone finally has some juice.
A loud crack from my jaw elicits a wince as I yawn into the emptiness of my bedroom, determined to avoid the empty mirror, and head to the living room with a sigh.
One text from Simon in response to my earlier thank you—a picture of Brutus rolled onto his back and showing his belly.
One text from Heath—a selfie of him and Tracey cooking dinner together.
Three more missed calls from Patsy, plus a message to call as soon as possible.
Two spam texts trying to sell me real estate.
One missed call reminding me of my dentist appointment next week.
Glancing at the clock, I realize that it's almost ten. Surely too late to call Patsy back, although now I'm curious as to what could be so important.
Exhaustion hits me so deeply that I can barely put thoughts together. The constant flood of adrenaline from the last few days leading up to now has finally left the building. Like the noisy neighbor who likes to blast their music at all hours has finally moved away.
It was a good day. While it would be nice to curl up next to a warm body and bask in the success of my first event, the flowers now residing on my nightstand remind me that someone is proud of my efforts. More importantly, for the first time in a long time, I'm proud of my efforts.
Achievement unlocked: author dream activated.
Chapter 38
The Fine Print
"Josie. I've been calling you for two days! The suits are totally pissed off. This is an utter shitstorm. I need the Isaacs contract now.''
"Well good morning to you, too, Patsy. What are we talking about?"
"I'm talking about Mark Isaacs pulling his class. Do you realize how much advertising we have committed to this? They already dropped the first ads. We're going to look like total idiots if we pull them now! We're completely screwed!"
A tendril of alarm tickles the base of my spine and wraps toward my stomach before I tamp it down and straighten in my office chair. Clearly, I'm still not quite awake, because Patsy's words are not making any kind of sense.
"Honest to God, Patsy, I have no clue what you're talking about, so I need you to start at the beginning. I'm sure this is all a mistake."
"We got a call from the Kitchen Network on Saturday after the first ads dropped. They said that Isaacs was currently under contract to them and that he was not available for any public events, unless they were cleared and scheduled through the network. We were told we need to pull the advertising immediately or it would be considered a breach of his contract."
"What? Where the hell did that come from?"
"I told you, it came from someone at the network."
"No, that's not what I meant. I'm saying if that was true, why wouldn't Mark tell me?"
"Because people like that don't make their own calls, they have managers and networks to do it for them." The bitterness in Patsy's voice is as pungent as the white pith of a lemon skin. It also reminds me that Patsy doesn't know the extent of my relationship with Mark. She doesn't realize how personal this is as she continues to rant.
"Goddamnit, this is why I hate working with these high profile people. They're great for advertising, but they're always more trouble than they're worth. Anyway, corporate is trying to push back at the network to honor the agreement, so I need a copy of the contract that Isaacs signed."
Nibbling on the edge of my pen, the mild bloom of alarm begins to bubble like yeast in my stomach, a sour feeling making me suddenly queasy. No, surely Mark wouldn't do that to me.
"I—" My mind is a total blank, flinching from the reality of what Patsy is trying to make me believe.
"Oh, Josie, please, please don't say what I think you're going to say."
"I never got him to sign the contract."
"Josie! What the hell is wrong with you? You know we always need the contract! Didn't advertising ask for it before they started the layouts?"
"Yes, but I told them I had it because, honestly, we've never once needed them. I gave it to Mark and he assured me he'd get to it, but somewhere along the way, it just slipped my mind. I never dreamed it would be an issue." Dream? I suddenly feel like I'm in the middle of a nightmare.
Silence stretches endlessly between us. Pulling the phone away from my ear, I check to see if I've lost the connection. My eyes begin to tear, and I convince myself it's from all the dust I disturbed earlier when I moved my computer tower, trying to plug in a flash drive. Meanwhile, my mind reels with questions.
Why wouldn't Mark say something? This has to be a mistake. Because if it's true, it's like I've been playing tic-tac-toe with someone who was playing chess.
The office door squeaks open to reveal Maria, and I just shake my head, pointing to the phone. Whatever expression she sees on my face is enough to send her back to the floor without a word.
"Josie, this is bad."
"I know. I'm sorry." More than you could ever guess. So much so, that I can barely choke the words out from a throat tightened by unshed tears.
"I don't know how this is going to go down when I tell them we don't have a leg to stand on. It would be considered an annoyance if we could make it go away and force him to fall in line, but when I tell them you didn't lock him in and we committed all that advertising without the paperwork to back it up…"
"Let me make some calls first. I really think this must be a mistake. Please give me time to at least try to make some sense of it."
"Ok, I can stall a few hours more before I tell them we don't have a contract, but you better work some serious magic. Believe me, I don't relish having to be the bearer of the bad news. This puts us both on very shaky ground."
"I know. I'm really sorry, Patsy. But honestly, I think I can fix this. Please give me the opportunity to salvage what I can."
"You've got about three hours. I won't be able to play stupid or pretend I haven't spoken to you for much longer than that."
"Got it. I'll talk to you soon."
Staring at my desk, my finger rubs absently over some ink stains on the surface. I wonder what they would reveal to someone else more discerning? Is it some cosmic Rorschach test destined to confound me in this moment? Or just accumulated failures staining the soul of the cheap laminate? How many different people have worked at this desk before me? How many regrets and disappointments are piled one upon the other from years of boredom and ineptitude? How embarrassing to have to add to them now.
The feeling of dread has crept all the way into my chest, squeezing at my heart as I try to force down the panic. Determined to get to the truth, I pick up my phone, the hard edges biting into my palm as I hold it in a death grip, before putting it back down on the desk again to take a few calming breaths.
It's amazing how long eight seconds can seem when you measure the intake of your breath second by slow second. Then there's the exhale as you slowly try to push out all of the toxic carbon dioxide built up in your body, just aching to poison you from within. My breaths become shallow pants as the possibility of Mark's betrayal slithers across the surface of my heart and begins to restrict the blood flow.
Picking up my phone again, I quickly dial his number, my foot bouncing spasmodically as I wait for him to pick up.
"Hey, Spice," his lazy voice greets me. "How are you? How was the event? Did you tempt a whole new group of helpless admirers ready to throw themselves at your feet?" he teases.
"Mark," my voice squeezes the words out, "did you back out of my event?
Silence stretches between us, until Mark sighs. "Shit. Who told you?"
"Who told me?" Even I wince at the slight screech in my voice before I quickly tamp down my control now that my fears have been confirmed, despair chilling the blood in my veins. Most people know to avoid me when my voice becomes this flatly calm. It occurs to me that perhaps my guys don't know me quite this well yet. But Mark is about to.
"You should have told me! And now I am totally screwed. So why don't you start at the beginning and tell me just exactly what is going on? And what do you mean who told me? Who else could have told me? Who else knew?"
"Fuck. It started about two or three weeks ago, during final negotiations for my contract. We were setting the schedule for development and taping, and I mentioned that I had committed to do the class for you. The PR team said they didn't want me doing any outside events until after my show launches. Apparently, they don't want any hint of what's to come. They're also creating some sort of PR boot camp over the next couple weeks, putting me through my paces to make sure that I'm fully groomed. Basically, they want me to go out of the gate looking as professional as possible."
A note of apology creeps in as he says more gently, "The guy who runs PR is a pompous asshole. He doesn't feel that an appearance in a local store will give me credibility for what's to come. I told them that you're a top store in the market, and that it's good community relations to be doing events in my town where my restaurant is. They agreed that made sense for someone on a smaller scale, but for now, they were adamant about not wanting me to have any exposure until they were ready to drop the pre-publicity for the first episodes."
"Why didn't you tell me when I still could have done something to lessen the impact?" I'm quite proud of my emotionless tone. You'd never guess my face was completely leached of color. "You do realize that all of the advertising dollars committed to this come from my store budget? If I lose that money, plus the revenue from the class, I will never make my fourth quarter goals. Christ, they're already on top of me because of Kenzie's shit show. This will just be the last nail in the coffin."
"I started to tell you a couple times. That was part of the reason I came over last week, but you know how that ended. And then I didn't want to put a damper on Quill. You were so excited with everything leading up to the show, I didn't want to burst your bubble. Besides, you said the advertising wasn't supposed to drop until next week. I thought we had time."
"Well you thought wrong."
"I was going to call you today to talk about it."
"Well, today is a little too late!" There it is. The righteous burn of anger is searing away the numb fog. "Instead, I had to hear it from my boss. And if you're really not going to do this event, then I am royally screwed because I trusted you. I never had you sign the contract, and now my corporate office doesn't have a leg to stand on to put any pressure on your side. Even if they hadn't upheld the agreement, I would have been somewhat protected. But because I trusted you, now I'm in the hot seat. And I can assure you this is not going to go down in any way that is going to leave me, or my store, unscathed. So congratulations, you have truly fucked me, and we didn't even need to be in the kitchen!"
"I'm so sorry, Jos. I really thought I would be able to convince them to change their minds. Let me make some calls and see how much damage control I can do."
Once more, I'm proud of the uncompromising resistance in my voice as I reassure him. "Please, don't do me any favors. I think I understand how important it, and I, am to you now. I'll figure it out by myself, the way I always do."
"Josie, please don't be like that! You
know it wasn't intentional. I'll fix it. I promise.”
"Guess what, Mark? I've never needed a man to fix my problems before, and I'm not going to start now. Mostly because you're always the ones fucking up my world in the first place. And your promises are pretty but empty. I'll handle it from here."
It hasn't escaped me that he never answered my question.
"Just out of curiosity, who else knew?"
"What?"
"You asked who told me? That implies that there were other people who knew."
"Oh." The hesitation confirms the disappointment I know is coming. "I mentioned it to Cliff when I was first trying to figure out what to do."
"Really?" My voice is deadly soft now. "And what did he tell you?"
"He said that I should tell you then, but I wanted to wait because I really thought I could change their minds. I still do."
"Good to know. Thanks. Gotta go."
"Josie, wait."
I click 'end' before smashing my phone facedown on the desktop. My head quickly follows, thunking against the wood surface several times, as if trying to beat the betrayal out of my brain, the resulting pain clearing the final fog of disbelief that's held me in its grip since Patsy's call. Rubbing at what must certainly be a red spot on my forehead, I relish the pain as a diversion to the small vine of thorns that has started to wind itself around my heart. And it only took three minutes instead of three hours.
Steeling myself, I pick up the phone again to relay the bad news to Patsy, wondering if there's any way to come back from this.
For any of us.
* * *
How stupid. Does that ant realize that he just completed the same path for the eighth time? Not that I'm counting, because I should be working. I should be checking on my team on the selling floor and making sure that everything is running smoothly. I'm sure someone has needed to take a break long since.
Corsets and Quartets Page 35