Let's Be Frank

by Brea Brown

  And for the first time in a long time, I feel like myself.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  My swagger is faltering up here. I can feel it fading with every passing minute. The media questions were predictable and dull, good warm-up confidence-builders. The readers’ questions, however, have been going on for nearly an hour now, and some of them are… well, they’re beyond intrusive and odd.

  Who knew hardcore chick lit/romance readers cared so much about what style and color of underwear their favorite authors wear, how they’re typically dressed while writing their books, and how they take their coffee? I’ve never given any of those things a single thought. Every time a reader asks something I deem either private or irrelevant, I have to bite back my urge to say, “None of your business.”

  It doesn’t help that I seem to be the only author up here who seems to be bothered by the questions. Is that in character? Maybe. I wish I could convincingly act a little more like Yardley, though (and trust me, I realize how wrong that is), and smirk and leer my way through each question.

  “What do you wear while you’re writing?” His answer: “Depends on the kind of scene I’m working on, if you know what I mean,” followed by wiggling, drawn-on eyebrows. My answer: “Uh… shorts and a t-shirt?” Not surprisingly, my reply received a much less enthusiastic response.

  Seriously, though… they want to picture me sitting naked in front of a laptop, stroking myself while typing out a sex scene? I can’t encourage that thinking. It’s bad enough they think I wrote the sex scenes, period. The closer we get to the end of this charade, the less tolerance I have for it.

  Betty knows it, too. Seconds ago, my phone lit up with a new text on the table in front of me. I glanced at it and had to bite the inside of my cheek not to laugh out loud. Your t-shirts are hot. Hang in there.

  Her kind support and mild flirting, at first comforting, quickly reminded me of our conversation last night, though, and my mind started to wander, imagining what would have happened if I hadn’t run from her room like a sexually repressed idiot.

  Oh, yeah… that happened. Actually, what happened was that I started to feel more and more sick due to my heartburn, and after we stood, locked in that embrace for what felt like an hour—yet at the same time, an instant—I had to step away. I didn’t have to come right out and tell her I felt like the fire-burping gross-ass in a Pepto commercial, but I did, anyway, because… well, I’m me.

  As soon as I got to my own room, though, and had chugged a bottle of antacid and a pitcher of water, my mind wandered, like it’s doing now, to what would have happened if I hadn’t ordered the mango salsa chicken breast with a side of garlic roasted potatoes for dinner. What if I’d kissed her? What if I’d let her yank off my “hot” t-shirt and run her cool hands against my warm chest? What if she’d given my lips the same treatment I’ve seen her give to countless glasses of dark red wine? What if…?

  The room is disconcertingly silent.

  Since every eye seems to be locked on me, I blurt, “What if?” then cough and correct, “I mean, what?” Blushing, I scan the room until my eyes land on a woman standing near the back, holding one of the handful of cordless mics that have been circulating the room. “I’m sorry… I… I didn’t understand what you said.”

  She smiles nervously and repeats what she asked, a semi-intelligent and interesting question, although it’s one I’ve answered a million times in multiple forums the past few months. Still, I reward her with a smile, grateful nobody here can read my mind (I hope), and she hasn’t asked about my masturbation schedule but has instead inquired, “How do you continue to write and publish so many books while also marketing the ones you’ve already published and maintaining your social media presence?”

  This is a topic on which Frank can pontificate all day, and I can, thankfully, speak about it without thinking too much. Still recovering from my R-rated fantasy, I stall by rubbing my chin as I collect my more relevant thoughts, then say, “Well, it all boils down to discipline. Ass in chair, peeps. Are there other things I’d rather be doing sometimes than writing about women who whine that there are no good single men left? Sure. Sometimes a colonoscopy would be preferable, no offense. But if you want to be successful, you have to be prolific. One-hit wonders don’t cut it anymore. None of us up here is going to be the next Harper Lee, alright? If you don’t have a back stock of titles, you’re not going to make the type of money you need to make to survive.”

  “But how do you do that,” she persists, “when you’re pulled away from the writer’s chair so often, for so many things, things like this conference, for example?”

  “Late nights,” Margot interjects from down the table. “Also, Frank has an advantage over some of us.”

  Annoyed that she butted into my answer and is presuming to know anything about Frank and his writing, I smile tightly. “Oh? And what’s that?”

  She grins. “Well, you obviously sell a lot of books because readers want to picture you naked while writing them. So you can pretty much slop anything out there at this point.”

  The rest of the panel laughs, but I grit my teeth at what’s become apparent today, based on these readers’ questions. Frankie was right all along; part of the draw to her books is her readers like the idea of a guy writing them. Clothed or not.

  Still, Frank wouldn’t let that stand, so I say, “I wouldn’t go that far. Anyway, I’d appreciate it if you’d give my writing a little more credit than that.”

  She rolls her eyes upward into her stick-straight, thick bangs. “Cut the crap. ‘I love cuddling and watching chick flicks.’ Please! Why don’t you tell us who your ghostwriter is and stop this silly, liberated-man act?”

  My heart and stomach freeze in tandem as if someone’s injected my chest and abdomen with anesthetic. An audible gasp comes from the audience. The woman who had asked me about my writing schedule is still standing, but her eyes are wide, her hand covering her mouth.

  I press the tip of my tongue to the center of my upper lip while the others watch eagerly, waiting for my reply. It’s clear from my fellow panel members’ expressions that this has been an oft-discussed topic behind my back, and they’re all just as interested in my response as Margot is.

  Suddenly it hits me that this is it. I can end it all now and extricate myself from this situation a whole day earlier than planned. But some shred of self-preservation keeps me from confessing to Margot’s supposition. I glance at Betty, and the panicked look on her face reminds me of the huge financial risk she has riding on the success of this weekend. Plus, my head screams, We’ve come so far; don’t fuck it up now!

  Before I can respond, Margot says while playing with a strand of her hair, “Lots of authors use ghostwriters. There’s nothing illegal about it. Sometimes you have the right image and… equipment…” She drops her hair and gestures toward me. “…but not the talent to back it up.”

  Maybe it’s the adrenaline. Maybe it’s the desire to eliminate the worry wrinkling Betty’s brow. But somehow, the Frank who’s been absent for most of the morning asserts himself. I lift my chin and chuckle confidently. “I can assure you, I’m well-equipped in both departments to which you’re referring.” Bonus points for using correct grammar, Bingham!

  Before I can congratulate myself too much, though, Yardley gives a snort and a sneer and drops, “Ah, well… it’s not like the writing’s that great, anyway, so if you do use a ghostwriter, you might want to get your money back, Buddy.”

  I turn my scorching attention to him. “I think it’s rich that you—Mr. Jump-on-the-Vampire-Bandwagon—would dare criticize someone else’s writing. You’re only here because the average reader is operating on an eighth-grade reading level, and as a whole, they’ve shamefully lowered their standards and can’t get enough of your genre. You’ve been riding housewife hobbyists’ coattails your entire career, writing glorified fan-fic.”

  The crowd alternately boos and cheers me, revealing the lines between the camps of vamp-lovers and
-haters, as well as reacting to my inadvertent insult to their intelligence… not to mention my slam of the entire stay-at-home mom community.

  “Fuck you, Lipton!” Yardley screeches. “Why don’t you go back to your room and giz out a love scene? You can blame your typos on your sticky keyboard.”

  My heart pounding and face flaming, I growl, “Typos?! Your books singlehandedly give indies the bad reputation they have for lax editing.”

  For a second, I worry Yardley’s going to live up to his weird reputation and bite me. He actually bares his teeth at me. Then something over my shoulder grabs his attention. I glance back and see Betty’s joined us onstage.

  “Let’s go,” she murmurs near my ear, tugging on my shoulder. “You don’t have to listen to this guy’s bullshit.”

  Instead of helping my cause, though, her appearance has given Yardley more ammunition. “Is this your real-life inspiration? How cliché… author in love with his manager… Although, in this case, I can’t say I blame you. She’s hot.”

  “Shut up,” I demand through clenched teeth.

  He continues, “We all use our sexcapades as inspiration. Don’t be so embarrassed.”

  I stand and loom over him. “That explains why the love scenes in your books are so flat. When your only experience comes from dry-humping a blow-up doll with fangs, what can you expect?”

  Apparently, insulting Yardley’s favorite sex toy is the wrong move, because he pops from his chair and launches himself at me, taking me down to the pin-dot patterned, low-pile carpeting behind our chairs. The weirdo is stronger than he appears and quickly traps me against the wall, which he uses to hold my head still while he pummels it with both fists. After the first couple of blows, I manage to raise my arms and block the other punches with my forearms. Still, every once in a while, one of Yardley’s wild swings lands against unprotected skin.

  I can tell by the noise level that pandemonium has broken out in the room, and the number of legs in my view tells me people have rushed the stage, but I have to focus mostly on protecting myself, figuring out a way to turn this fight around before I require a trip to the ER.

  Where the hell is George… or anyone else sort of in charge? Hotel security? Dog the Bounty Hunter? Anyone!

  As I’m about to use my legs as leverage for flipping over, Betty runs behind Yardley, and I know I can’t kick my legs without kicking her, so I remain limp while she pulls on his long, black duster coat.

  “Get off, you idiot!” she yells at him.

  “I’m not done kicking your boyfriend’s ass,” he answers between swings.

  “He’s not my boyfriend!”

  At that statement, Yardley stops his beating and half-turns to look at her. “Really?” He pushes his greasy black hair off his forehead and winks at her. “Because I’d be glad to stop this and take you out for a drink… in my room.”

  As she stares incredulously at the Gothic goober, I sit up, pull my lips into a straight, white line, rear back my head, and buck it forward as soon as Yardley faces me once more. The people gathered nearby give a collective gasp at the sickening thunk of our two skulls colliding. Yardley immediately falls to the side, where he slides down the nearby wall. One hand on my forehead, I use my other hand to push myself free of the passed out writer.

  A hush falls on the room as we all catch our breath.

  “Bad-ass!” one of the audience members finally hisses to the person next to her.

  Margot laughs deeply in her throat, something I’m sure she’s spent hours practicing. “Oh, my God! What a couple of morons!”

  “Are you okay?” Betty asks, kneeling next to me.

  “No,” I admit, collapsing, exhausted, onto my back, my arms flopping to my sides. I want to check on the unconscious guy, but I have no energy right now.

  “I’ll go get help,” she offers.

  Somehow, I find the strength to grab her hand. “No. Stay here with me.”

  “Why didn’t you just punch him?” she wonders. “Why the head-butt?”

  I wince and hiss as she pokes at the goose egg forming in the center of my forehead. “Arms dead,” I answer her succinctly, jerking away from her fingers. “Ow! Stop that!”

  “It looks really bad.”

  “Well, it feels worse, so stop touching it.”

  “You’re bleeding.”

  “Yeah, I know.” I can feel the blood dripping down the side of my face and pooling into my ear, but I don’t care. I’m worried more about going to prison for murder.

  Fortunately, I don’t have much time to dwell on that possibility before I see Yardley stirring and being helped into a sitting position by George, who must have arrived on the scene sometime during Betty’s ministrations.

  “Wait!” I say, my training kicking in. Despite the pain it causes, I sit up and crawl toward Yardley and George. “Don’t move him.”

  “Stay back!” George commands. “You’ve done enough.”

  “I’m not going to hurt him,” I promise, sitting next to Yardley and straightening my skewed glasses. “Help him return to a prone position, please. And Betty, grab one of the bottles of water from my cooler.” She does and hands it to me. I press it to the bump that makes Yardley my twin. To George, I say, “Can you—or someone—find me a penlight or flashlight? And it might be smart to call an ambulance, to be on the safe side.”

  Before George is even gone from the room, I turn my attention back to Yardley and ask him some of the usual questions to ascertain his awareness level. “Do you know what the date is?” “Who’s the President?” “Do you know where you are?” “Who am I?”

  To the last question, he answers, “A complete asshole.”

  I can’t help but laugh at that, mostly from relief. “I think you’re going to be okay, but I’d be more comfortable if you got a second opinion… from someone who may not also be suffering from a concussion.”

  George returns with a full-sized flashlight, something a police officer may carry and could double as a weapon.

  “This is the smallest one you could find?” I ask, exasperated. When George stutters defensively, I wiggle my fingers impatiently in his direction. “Never mind. Just… give it.”

  He slaps the flashlight into my hand. I turn it on and wrap my hand around the beam of light, trying to focus it. I sweep it in front of Yardley’s left eye, then his right.

  “It’s hard to tell with this monster, but your pupils seem to be responding equally and appropriately to light.” I turn to George and ask, “Did you call that ambulance?”

  “It’s on its way,” he confirms. “You look like you could use some medical attention, yourself.”

  Feeling dizzy, I find a chair and plop into it. “I definitely could,” I agree. “I’m gonna… sit right here… and wait for the paramedics. Nobody let either of us fall asleep.”

  Betty sits next to me and blots the blood from my face and inside my ear with a wet paper towel. I widen my eyes and blink them rapidly, rolling them in my sockets like someone trying to blink moisture into a pair of contact lenses.

  She turns my face toward her with a hooked finger against my jaw. Grinning, she says, “Oh, my gosh… Look at you, you idiot!”

  I try to focus my droopy eyes on her and reply, but the exhaustion and pain are too much. The last thing I’m aware of is her yelling, “Nate!” before the blackness engulfs me.

  *****

  Yeah, I know. It’s not very manly to pass out like that, but is anyone surprised I did? It also wasn’t masculine to wake up to a burlier-than-me female paramedic waving smelling salts under my nose. But that happened, too.

  Considering it came on the heels of nearly being beaten to a pulp by a vampire wannabe wearing penciled-on eyebrows and shoe lifts, I’d say losing consciousness after a stout blow to the head is the least of my shame.

  Several hours later, after a more thorough once-over at one of Atlanta’s fine medical establishments, Betty and I return to the hotel, both of us pretending we don’t notice everyone star
ing at us as we cross the lobby and duck into an elevator. With the exception of a few rare moments here and there, including last night in Betty’s hotel room, I’ve been pretending about one thing or another my whole life, so ignoring a few stares is nothing.

  Wow. Head trauma makes me philosophical.

  In my room, I stride straight for the bathroom, where a hot shower beckons. Considering I spent the majority of the day among the sick and wounded, it feels like I’ve been at work all day.

  As I wordlessly shut the door between us, Betty picks up the old-school phone on the bedside table and calls to me through the wall, “What do you want from room service?”

  We determined in the rental car on the way back from the hospital that we weren’t going to brave the Author’s Ball later, even though it’s included in the conference’s registration fee.

  Before answering, I turn on the taps, then strip. I’m not at all hungry, but since it’s late afternoon, and we missed lunch, I know I need to eat something. Something marginally healthy. With some protein. I’m contemplating all of this when the door swings open, cutting a swath through the steam.

  “Whoa!” I object reflexively, lifting my leg and showing her my butt and right flank, crossing my arms in front of me.

  She immediately backs through the door and pulls it closed on her way. “Sorry! I… You didn’t answer! I was worried you’d passed out on the toilet, or something!”

  “I was thinking!”

  “Well, can you think out loud, so I know you’re still conscious? It’s my responsibility to keep an eye on you.” She sounds more irritated than concerned.

  “I’ll have a chef salad!” I snap in return. “The biggest one they have.” I may not be hungry, but I’m vindictive. I can’t wait to submit the expense report to Frankie for this trip. An ER visit, room service… How else can I rack up some charges?

  Thirty minutes and three “Are-you-still-okay-in-there?” knocks later, I emerge, lightheaded.

  Betty, watching TV from the bed, closes her eyes to block out my towel-clad form.