“You’re so certain?” Meghan intentionally batted her lashes at the observation.
Chesca made a sound suspiciously resembling a halfhearted snort. She leaned in close to Meghan, whispering conspiratorially in her ear.
“You can’t pull the visually impaired shit on me, young lady, and pretend you aren’t aware of the latest books on the market. You forget I’ve known you most of your life.”
“What’s that to do with a stupid-assed romance novel?” Meghan asked innocently, batting her lashes in the process.
Chesca giggled, standing on the tips of her toes in an attempt to get a better view of the author at the head of the line. “I know your damn PC reads every deliciously sinful and wicked word to you out loud.”
“Me?” Meghan’s pink cheeks brightened more. She struggled to keep a straight face and took another long sip of coffee. “What would I do with a computer? I can’t see the keys, or read the screen.”
“Shit, Meg!” Chesca managed with a laugh. “Who are you trying to kid?”
“You know better…” Meghan tried to correct, and guessed she was failing miserably.
“Meg, you handle that keyboard like a pro, and you have a screen reader program. Besides, your voice recognition software takes care of a majority of the crap you want to hunt down.” Chesca giggled, and she could imagine the wicked gleam in her dancing eyes. “I installed a large amount of the shit on that system of yours, so I know what you’re up to before you do half the time!”
“You really believe that?” Meghan responded with saccharine sweetness. “I’m a busy woman, and I don’t have time to squeeze in an eBook whenever I want.”
She wasn’t going to let Chesca off the hook easily. It was true her friend did know her too well, and Meghan wished she’d a tad more privacy than their companionship allowed. However, she wouldn’t complain, since she’d pulled her out of more than one sticky circumstance over the past couple of years!
The event of three weeks ago was one of those situations where she was grateful for having a friend as wonderful as the vivacious redhead was. Surrounded by police officers who were lost on how to interview a visually impaired woman in regards to her attackers, Meghan was thankful when Chesca appeared, calming her frayed nerves. How she knew where to find her, or fathomed she was in trouble, amazed her.
“You wanted to come here, and you know it.” Chesca interrupted with a grumble as she leaned in close. “I know you, and you can’t lie to me.”
In reality, Meghan had wanted to squander her Saturday night in line outside Junxton’s Literary Café, the thrill of meeting her favorite writer far outweighing her normal evening activities. Furthermore, the choice was simple. It was either join a couple hundred overeager fans to have a moment with a best-selling author, or spend hours mulling over recorded notes relating to her clients.
Naturally, Junxton’s won the debate.
The pair had spent the last two hours in line, jostling for a chance to see the famous romance writer, Vivi Delaneaux. Despite the flats she wore, Meghan’s tired feet ached and she had the sneaking suspicion the coffee she held was going to make its demands on her bladder. She doubted her best friend would be pleased for having to lead her out of line and to the nearest rest room.
“Keep on chugging your latte, Meg, and I’ll tell every old woman in line how you enjoy hearing those racy scenes read aloud.” Chesca threatened.
“You wouldn’t dare!”
“Do you want to try me?” She whispered with feigned malice.
“I give up!” Meghan protested and several pairs of eyes turned in her direction. She was unaware of the unconcealed admiration directed her way, or the fact she was stunning. Tonight, she wore casual jeans and a simple dark red sweater, her black jacket accentuating the alabaster paleness of her fair skin and golden, waist length hair. Standing alongside her friend, she appeared delicate and fragile when compared with the fiery beauty.
“I always could get you to bend to my will.” Chesca giggled. “Since high school, it’s been me that’s known the truly adventurous side you keep hidden.”
“I lost my adventurous side, as you so kindly refer to it, many years ago.” She declared solemnly.
Chesca made an ugly sound.
“No, you allowed Kevin to destroy your brave streak.” She rejoined unsympathetically, her tone scathing.
“I…”
“Tell me it ain’t true.” Chesca challenged.
“It isn’t!” Meghan denied hotly.
“Do you expect me to believe that?” She asked insolently, though the question lacked any true condemnation. “I remember when you used to sing, and you didn’t give a damn who heard. You sure as hell don’t sing anymore.”
Meghan frowned. “I’m too old to be going around thinking I’ll be the next Mamie Paul or Jezebel King.”
“Hell, Meg! You make yourself sound like you’re ready to be carted to the nearest nursing home!” Chesca grumbled.
“I’m not old, Chesca, I merely grew up.” Meghan shrugged. “One doesn’t have time to sing when bills need to be paid.”
“You still got Kevin’s damn voice flitting in your head, crushing every dream you ever had.” Her friend’s statement echoed with the hatred she harbored toward Meghan’s ex-husband. “I think you need to remember who you were before him, and what you could do.”
“Chesca, there isn’t anyone who listens to the old stuff, anymore. Do you really think today’s society remembers Bessie Smith, Jezebel King, or Mamie Paul?”
“I don’t give a damn if they do or not.” Her friend retorted hotly. “You continue to let Kevin run your life, and he hasn’t been around in over five years.”
“I’ve moved on….”
“Prove it to me!” Eagerly, she grasped Meghan’s free hand, her fingers hot against her flesh. “I found the most beautiful dress last week. You could wear it to Autumn Ball and sing just one song.”
Once a year, the Grand Illusion Hotel, built during 1919, threw a spectacular event. For one night, the hotel transformed into the glorious queen of the Golden Era, and hosted a party celebrating the greats of Hollywood. Known as the Autumn Ball, many arrived dressed as their favorite movie star, and bands performed the enchanting songs that were major hits of the various decades. People reserved rooms six months in advance to attend the gala, one, which always left her breathless when she’d been able to view it on local television.
“Chesca, you can’t be serious!” Meghan scoffed, but her heart performed a betraying flip at the idea. “I couldn’t possibly go!”
“Well, Miss I’ve-moved-on-with-my-life, why not?”
“Well,” she frantically searched for a viable explanation. “I can’t sing before hundreds of people!”
“I’ve a dress for you to wear, circa mid-1920, silk, golden, pristine beadwork, every one of the things you once adored. It has the crazy fringe that was so big in the Twenties. So, you can’t use an excuse to back out on me.”
“Chesca…”
“Give me one good reason you can’t.”
“After what happened to me a few weeks ago….”
“Okay, so some dumb asses tried to mug you, or maybe do worse.” Chesca blurted out with a candor most would’ve taken as an insult.
“The police haven’t caught them yet.” Meghan countered tensely.
“No, and they probably won’t,” Chesca sighed heavily, not specifically fond of the local law enforcement. “Are you going to let that keep you locked away?”
Meghan knew her friend was right. She couldn’t become a hermit, hiding away in the safety of her home, and watching the world pass by. Her bruises had healed, the nightmares had stopped haunting her, and couldn’t succumb to a negativity she hadn’t any control over.
“I…I don’t have an invitation.” She stammered uncomfortably, though she felt her heart sink with the weak denial.
“Sebastien and I received a handful last week, since the owners of the Grand are customers at our store.”
Chesca answered with overt sweetness, and Meghan heard the smug smile lacing her words. “They want me to do readings, dressed like a gypsy from the 1920s, and play a bit of Mah-jongg in the backrooms with the guests.”
“You’re for this?”
“It’s free publicity, Meg!” Chesca managed through her teeth, nudging her. “Besides, the thought of seeing how the women react when Sebastien appears wearing a tux and tails will be well worth my time!”
Meghan couldn’t believe her ears. “Now you have poor Sebastien joining you on your hair brained escapade of yours?”
“Trust me, poor Sebastien is looking forward to the event!”
Meghan wanted to rub her fists against her eyes, wondering how the only sane friend of Chesca’s could fall so readily into her hands.
“I won’t go.”
“Yes, you will.” Chesca stated simply, appearing exceptionally confident.
Meghan felt she was losing a battle against the most cunning foe.
“Okay, let’s say I go,” she began hesitantly. “I won’t sing.”
“You won’t be able to help yourself.” Chesca countered smugly.
“I won’t…”
“You will.”
“Will you let me think it over?”
Meghan sighed with frustration. Her friend hadn’t ever lost her talent to dangle the proverbial tidbit, and had always made her do things she wouldn’t do under a normal situation.
Chesca shrugged, but her expression was one of wicked delight, understanding if Meghan was going to think it over, she’d won. She wouldn’t gloat, though, knowing her quiet friend could easily change her mind. Instead, she attempted to redirect their conversation, not wanting to pressure the blonde-haired woman too much.
“So, admit it, you do read Delaneaux’s work.”
“Yes, I do, but I don’t read in the literal sense.” Meghan corrected quietly, pleased Chesca had moved away from topic of the Autumn Ball. “You know the program you set up does the reading aloud for me.”
“I knew it!” Chesca chortled with glee, her hands flashing and setting the bells on her bracelets into a wild discord. “You’re a closet romance reader!”
“So I am.” She admitted and was painfully aware her cheeks must match the hue of her sweater.
“What are your favorite parts of Delaneaux’s novels?” Chesca quizzed. “Do you think there’s a man out there, ready to sweep a lady off her feet, offer her the world, moon, and stars, for a declaration of undying love?”
“That’s ridiculous!” Meghan scoffed and attempted to keep the bitterness out of her response. “Romance novels are fairytales, involving the perfect couple, and those books are overflowing with gratuitous sex scenes.”
“Oh, you’ve been reading erotica novels as well, haven’t you?” Chesca questioned wickedly. “You shouldn’t, if you haven’t got a man around to scratch your itch afterwards.”
Meghan realized the conversation was swiftly getting out of control and Chesca was the only one who’d candidly remark on the so-called itch. However much the crude observation bothered her, she couldn’t fault her friend. She was right, regardless of how brutal she sounded.
Meghan hadn’t dated since her divorce and all but shunned the male species. A few coworkers had asked her out for dinner, but she rejected them as politely as possible. One didn’t mix business with pleasure, she reasoned. Besides, she didn’t want to sink into the same situation she suffered through with Kevin, and decided being alone wasn’t as bad as everyone thought it was.
Furthermore, she wasn’t Chesca. Her friend managed to have a new conquest on her arm every other week, enjoying only what they provided before she grew weary and dumped them. Meghan wanted more, and there wasn’t a man alive who’d lay down his life for her, in this world or the next. Until she found someone to satisfy her mentally, and provide her with a reason to stick around, she didn’t have the time to waste.
“You still haven’t answered me.” Chesca prodded her side with a well-aimed elbow.
“You throw out a million questions at a time and expect me to return to a particular one?” She inquired sharply.
“Tell me, Meghan Stanley, what’s your favorite thing about Vivi Delaneaux’s novels?” Chesca sounded exasperated and repeated the question.
“I really can’t tell you. Though, I do love hearing how that luscious Spanish lord, Rodrigo, tears his shirt off, exposing his rippling muscles to Bethany’s hungered touch.” She shivered for effect, enjoying the gasp that echoed from her friend’s now-quiet lips. “I imagine him running his hot and calloused hands over her naked flesh, his torso glistening in the silvery rays of the moonlight…”
She quit with a sharp oomph, Chesca’s elbow digging into her waist. Meghan ground her teeth together and straightened. She scowled daggers at her friend, before flipping her hair back over her shoulders.
“I’m thrilled Rodrigo was the first man who came to mind, my dear.” An amiable voice chirped appreciatively, and Meghan groaned aloud. Trust Chesca not to tell her they had moved to the front of the line, and now stood before the illustrious romance author rivaling the great Genie Carter!
“I…am…so…”
She felt a flash of air and sensed the novelist dismissed the intended apology with the wave of her hand. “Oh, honey, don’t give it a second thought! I’m delighted Rogue at Midnight has been part of reading favorites.”
“I love your Rogues!” Chesca gushed hastily, not about to be ignored. “I’ve the entire series!”
The writer giggled enchantingly. “I imagine you’re a fan.”
“I’m more than a fan! Goodness, I adore you books!” Chesca burbled excitedly, speaking so swiftly she nearly stumbled over her words. “Miss Delaneaux, your novels keeps getting better and better!”
“Thank you!” The author uttered with absolute sincerity, turning toward the effusive redhead. “A reader’s praise is valued, and it’s something a writer never gets tired of hearing.”
“Oh, I can’t put into words to say how much I adore your writing!” Chesca exhaled blissfully.
“Are you responsible for getting your friend to listen to my work?” Vivi Delaneaux questioned soothingly.
“No, she isn’t,” Meghan rejoined. “But she does keep me notified when your latest book is released.”
“I most certainly do.” The proud smile was apparent in Chesca’s words. “But, Meg here can take absolute credit for reading your work long before I did.”
“How is that, my dear?”
Meghan felt herself coloring. “Before I lost my sight, you had just published your first in the Rogue series, Phantom Rogue.”
“Ah, yes, I remember that novel.” Obvious warmth filled the novelist's retort. “That’s the one where I introduced Neville Blankenship, the scourge of the Caribbean.”
“My favorite novel yet, I have to admit. I adored the whole pirate and Lady Cecily idea.” Meghan supplied faintly.
“You remembered Cecily?” The author sounded elated. “Often, the heroine is forgotten while the hero walks away with the heart of the reader.”
“Oh, that’s not true!” Chesca interposed swiftly. “We argued over who wanted to trade places with Cecily most!”
“What attracted you?” Vivi Delaneaux asked.
“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you,” Meghan muttered, feeling somewhat uncomfortable someone so famous would be interested in what she said.
“Why don’t you try me, then we can go from there.” The author coaxed.
“When I was young, I was a big fan of a romance writer named Genie Carter.” She disclosed huskily and blinked rapidly, memories of nearly a decade ago flooding back. “When she died in that horrible warehouse blaze out on Fourth Street, after being kidnapped, I thought the writing world had lost one of the greats.”
“Oh, yes, I do remember her death. It was so tragic.” Obvious sadness echoed in the author’s response. “It was a shame to lose someone so young, so talented, at the hands of a vi
cious gang of hoodlums.”
“Hoodlum isn’t an apt word for the scum that used to linger by the riverfront.” Chesca muttered. “Whatever Genie Carter was doing in their company, I dread to imagine.”
“Thankfully, the city made every possible effort to clear the area up.” Vivi’s commented vaguely. “It’s now become a hot entertainment district with lively little artiste shops and restaurants, as well as high-end apartments.”
“Thank goodness!” Chesca breathed. “After the bad publicity, from a serial killer, to mob murders, Bentham ranked among the cities with the highest crime rate.”
“I agree.” The author nodded and turned back to Meghan. “After Ms. Carter’s death, what made you stumble across my writing?”
“Well,” she felt a soft touch brush the back of her hand, and shuddered at the coldness of the contact. Fingers crossed over her knuckles and the strap of the cane she held wrapped around her wrist, before lifting and moving. “I never thought I’d find a new author capable of bringing the written word to life as well as Miss Carter.”
“She did have a talent,” the author responded solemnly.
“Oh, talent is an understatement.” Chesca chimed in, warmth radiating from her body, as she stood closer. “We’d sit together and read each chapter, discussing the hero, tearing apart the villains, and wishing we were in the heroine’s place.”
Meghan chuckled aloud, the sound musically light and drifting. The years slipped away and she recalled how she’d become so absorbed in the novels, lost in the pages of a tale spun in the Victorian Era, her heart catching in her throat with every well-placed word.
“My writing reminds you of Genie’s work?” Vivi Delaneaux asked unexpectedly.
“I do hope you don’t take it as an offense,” Meghan gasped, hastily realizing she might’ve insulted the author. “I meant it as a compliment!”
Tears of Blood (The Blood Chronicles) Page 7