by Ann McMan
Message from: ShawnHarris
I have NO idea what you’re talking about. Gwen hasn’t mentioned anything about that to me.
Message from: KateWinston
Really? How very singular. Barb Davis was just on the phone with my editor setting it up. But that’s a moot point. I think you should hold your criticisms of my literary insights and professional methodology for our public forum in San Diego.
This was so not happening. She was going to kill Gwen.
Message from: ShawnHarris
We’re going to be part of the opening session?
Message from: KateWinston
No . . . we ARE the opening session.
Message from: ShawnHarris
You and me?
If it were possible to hear someone sigh over the Internet, Shawn was pretty sure she just heard one.
Message from: KateWinston
Yes—and about 1,500 attendees.
Shawn felt like the porch floor was seizing up beneath her chair. She needed to end this conversation so she could talk with Gwen and find out what the fuck was going on. She glanced at Al, who was softly snoring on her Coolaroo. Inspiration struck.
Message from: ShawnHarris
I gotta go. My dog just ate a tennis ball.
She closed the chat window and logged out of Facebook.
Winston was gloating. That much was clear. Bitch. What a waste of skin that woman was. How dare Gwen put her in a place where she’d look so ridiculous?
Well.
To be fair, she really didn’t need much help to look ridiculous. But, still. Gwen knew how Shawn was, and planning something like this whole CLIT-Con gig and not telling her about it was a recipe for disaster.
Still. It would give her a chance to face Winston and hold her accountable for her rude and insidious comments about her book. And she’d get to do it in front of the audience that mattered the most. CLIT-Con was the lesbian publishing event of the year. Everyone who mattered in the field would be there.
Including representatives from the big six New York publishing houses. They were always on hand, sifting through the silt, looking for a flash in the pan.
She picked up her wine glass and smiled. Gwen knew her shit.
Yeah. This could work.
Kate was still irritated. What was with this Shawn Harris person?
It wasn’t like she was a prude or anything, but she just didn’t believe it was appropriate to approach people you didn’t really know in all these direct and deeply personal ways. For her money, this was the biggest problem with the damn Internet. Social barriers weren’t the only things that fell like Jenga blocks when Facebook went live. So did what was left of the culture’s sense of propriety. Now, everyone was fair game. If you didn’t like something someone said or did, you could tell them so. Directly—in real time. And you could automatically share your opinion with everyone they “knew.” And everyone knew everyone these days. It was like being stuck in an endless loop with Kevin Bacon. No one was safe, and nothing had integrity.
What was that old expression? Opinions were like assholes? It was true. And today, every asshole with an opinion had instant access to a binary bully pulpit.
To hell with this.
Kate walked into her small kitchen and poured herself a glass of wine from an open bottle of Shiraz. Why not? It had to be four o’clock someplace.
That damn note from Sophie was still on the counter.
“I’d like to have Patrick next weekend,” it said.
Her ex still had a key to the house, and frequently came by—unannounced—to see the dog, or to retrieve some personal item. It chapped her ass that Sophie would just breeze in and out like she still had a right to, but there wasn’t much she could do about it. When Sophie left her to move into her new girlfriend’s tiny loft apartment, Kate agreed to store some of her belongings until they could find a bigger place. That was nearly two years ago, and she was getting tired of having Sophie’s shit still strewn around all over the house.
But Sophie did still love the dog, even if she didn’t still love Kate, and Kate had a grudging respect for how attentive she remained to him. Patrick was a fuzzy, black and brown Shepherd mix with a big heart and a lopsided smile. They had adopted him from an animal rescue league not long after they bought the house in suburban Atlanta, and he quickly wormed his quiet way into both of their hearts. When their relationship fell apart, Patrick remained the one constant that led them to remain on speaking—even friendly—terms with each other. Kate often thought that he was like the Shirley Temple of dogs—a well-placed lick on the cheek and a roll of his soulful brown eyes could melt even the hardest heart—including her mother’s. Even she was not immune to Patrick’s full-frontal charm offensive. And on a good day, Kate’s mother was like Miranda Priestly without her estrogen patch.
God. Why was she surrounded by women who seemed determined to make her life miserable? Why did she keep making the same goddamn bad relationship choices over and over? Why did her mother take such delight in pointing this unhappy trend out to her—ad infinitum? Why did this glass of wine have so many little pieces of cork floating around in it?
Goddamn it.
She set her glass down and picked up the bottle. Shit.
Where was that damn strainer?
She pulled open a deep drawer in her kitchen and looked around for it. Her Nippon sushi knives were in here—safely tucked away in their ornate wooden box. That made her think about Harris’s damn book, which was set, in part, at the Zen-Nippon School for Chick Sexing in Japan.
It was a ridiculous premise, but also strangely quirky and effective. In a way, that whole Japan section of the novel worked. The prose was almost lyrical in parts, structured like intricate strands from a sequence of haiku. She’d never read anything quite like that before—certainly not in what passed for every-day, run-of-the-mill lesbian fiction.
Maybe she had been too harsh in her public assessment of the novel? It really did have some beautifully written passages.
No.
At the end of the day, it was too much like this bottle of wine—ripe with brightness and flavor, but ruined by bits and pieces of the same old crap that clogged up the entire damn genre.
Of course, she had to admit that even a compromised bottle of good wine was still drinkable, if you had the patience to strain it. Kate wasn’t normally a patient person—especially when it came to her work. But wine was another matter.
She finally saw the little mesh funnel, hiding at the back of the drawer. She pulled it out and walked to a tall wooden cabinet to get a glass decanter.
Shawn Harris was somebody else’s problem.
Thank god.
“Remind me again why I agreed to do this?”
They were riding in a Town Car en route back to the hotel from a book signing Shawn had just done at Obelisk—the famed GLBT bookstore in Hillcrest.
Gwen closed her eyes and rolled her head back against the plush seat. “Why didn’t I spring for the limo with the minibar? You’re really making me insane with this.”
Shawn and Gwen had arrived in San Diego a day early so they could hold the signing event before the start of the Con. Practically since the second they met in the lobby of the Hilton Bayfront Hotel, Shawn had been second guessing her decision to attend the Con. Mostly, she had been second guessing her decision to participate in the public faceoff with Kate Winston. Shawn’s alternating fits of pique, umbrage, and ennui were enough to drive Gwen to drink.
In fact, Gwen didn’t really need to be driven anyplace to want to drink, but dealing with Shawn was so taxing, she was even eyeing that vegan wine they served at the hotel bar with interest.
She shook her head.
Shawn stopped her tirade long enough to notice. “What is it?”
Gwen opened an eye and looked at her.
“What are you thinking about?” Shawn asked.
Gwen shrugged. “I was thinking about vegan wine.”
“Vegan wine?�
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Gwen nodded.
“Seriously?” Shawn threw up her hands. “I’m pouring my heart out to you, and you’re sitting there thinking about something ridiculous like vegan wine?”
Gwen nodded again.
Shawn stared back at her for a moment like she had just shape-shifted into some other kind of life form. Then she laughed. “What is that shit, anyway?”
“Beats the fuck outta me. I didn’t know that wine had animal product in it.”
“Well,” Shawn said, “maybe it just means that the grapes aren’t crushed by anything with cloven hooves.”
Gwen considered that. “It certainly would add a rather nice, Old Testament flair to the product.”
“I’ve always been a big fan of Levitical law.”
“Yeah, why is that?” Gwen asked. “It seems like an odd pastime for someone named Harris.”
“My mother’s birth name was Muriel Abramowitz.”
Gwen sighed. “Of course it was.”
“By the way.” Shawn nudged Gwen’s arm. “Don’t think I missed this flimsy attempt to distract me from my angst about this damn conference.”
“How am I doing?”
“Let’s see . . . that’d be someplace in the general vicinity of shitty.”
Gwen rolled her eyes. “Come on. Suck it up and deal with it. You agreed, and now it’s time to put on your big girl panties and face the music at this cakewalk.”
“Gwen. You know I hate it when you mix metaphors like that.”
“I know. That’s why you write, and I handle the business. And, Shawn?”
Shawn looked at her.
“I’m goddamn good at handling the business. So please, shut up and trust me do it.”
Shawn sighed and turned her head toward the window.
The car glided along Harbor Drive. It was a perfect day in San Diego. But then, every day was a perfect day in San Diego. Gwen didn’t really understand why anyone would choose to live in a place without seasons. She thought about Seattle. So what if it rained two hundred days a year? At least you knew you were alive.
These collagen-stuffed people walked around like extras in a Frankie Avalon movie.
“So.” Shawn was speaking again.
Gwen looked at her. “So?”
The car turned onto Park Boulevard and the hotel campus.
“Wanna go hit the bar and split a bottle of that vegan shit?”
Gwen smiled at her. “My treat.”
Later that night, Shawn had some time to kill before the Pre-Con Mixer, so she wandered down to the vendor area to skulk among the tables loaded with shiny new books. She was pretty confident that no one would recognize her—she wasn’t that well known in the community yet, and there was no photograph of her on her book cover. And, so far, she had resisted Gwen’s insistence that she have a professional author portrait taken for general PR use. She told Gwen that she didn’t want to look like a goddamn realtor.
She picked up a random book and flipped it over to view the author’s photo and bio.
On the other hand . . . maybe Gwen was right. There probably was a certain advantage in not looking like you worked for Aamco Transmissions.
She took her time, winding in and out of the tables. They were piled high with titles written by the best and the brightest of the genre. All the sub-categories were represented, too. Shawn was amazed at how apparently—specific—the tastes of readers were. This was like shopping for spices at the Egyptian Bazaar in Istanbul. Every shape, size, color, and smell was represented—each promising varying degrees of zest and heat.
Shawn drifted over to a pyramid of books piled next to a hand-lettered placard that read Paranormal.
Really?
She picked one up. The Bane of Love’s Desire.
The cover showed two well-endowed, hot women in a clinch. One of the women had very pronounced cuspids that were poised just above the carotid artery of the other.
Les-pires?
Okay . . .
She read the blurb.
On a desolate moonlit night, sultry heiress, Brianna Morgan, flees her engagement party to find some much- needed respite from the stresses of her impending arranged marriage to billionaire tycoon, Bryce Witherspoon. While driving aimlessly along a winding country lane, she notices a solitary figure standing at the roadside and gives in to a reckless impulse. Brianna soon discovers that Aiden, the dark and enigmatic hitchhiker, is more alluring and mysterious than anyone she’s ever met before.
Much more.
Caught up in the erotic spell of Aiden’s otherworldly hunger, Brianna discovers a depth of need and passion that she’s never known before. As the two women spiral closer and closer to ultimate oblivion, Brianna is left to wonder if she is simply the next victim of Aiden’s murderous bloodlust—or if together, they can overcome the curse that has held Aiden hostage for hundreds of years, and find their way to everlasting love.
Two young women approached the table, and Shawn looked up from reading the blurb. One of them exclaimed and reached around her to grab a copy of the same book off the towering display.
“Oh my god,” she cried. “Darien Black’s new book is out.”
Her companion snagged a copy, too.
The two women giggled and hurried off with their prizes.
Shawn shook her head and returned her copy of the book to the display.
I wonder how Kate Winston would classify this one?
At the next table was an impressive stack of books arrayed behind a label that read Mystery/Thriller. Shawn picked up a copy. Catalina Heat. The cover showed two well-endowed, hot women in a clinch. One of them had the barrel of a very large and shiny gun pressed against the carotid artery of the other.
She read the blurb.
On a hot and steamy afternoon during the dog days of August, tough and chewy butch-with-a-gun, “Cal” Callaghan, gets hired by the uppity Vanessa Bryson to investigate a rash of threatening emails that have been sent to her estranged daughter, the actress Miranda Somersby. There is just one condition: Cal cannot ever contact Miranda directly. But fate intervenes, and one night while Cal is driving aimlessly along a deserted coastal byway, she notices a solitary figure standing at the roadside next to a broken- down sports car. The stranded motorist turns out to be Miranda, and Cal soon discovers that there is more than one reason why Vanessa was so determined to keep the two of them apart. Cal also realizes that Miranda is more alluring and mysterious than anyone she’s ever met before.
Much more.
Caught up in the glitter and fast-paced allure of Miranda’s celluloid world, Cal discovers a depth of ardor and need that she’s never known before. As the two women spiral closer and closer to love, the threats against Miranda escalate, plunging them both into a churning vortex of violence and unleashed passion—while Cal begins to wonder if she is simply the next unwitting stone in Vanessa’s diamond-studded bracelet.
Shawn gingerly returned the book to its pile. She noticed that its author, Vivien K. O’Reilly, was scheduled to do a signing tomorrow afternoon. No wonder they had so many on hand. Shit. There had to be at least three-dozen copies of the bright orange book on the table.
She hoped that Gwen had strong-armed her boss into shipping enough copies of Bottle Rocket to the Con. They had high hopes for robust sales in advance of tomorrow’s fireworks display at the opening session.
Better not to think too much about that right now. Her stomach was already in knots from drinking half of that weird-ass bottle of vegan wine.
She moved on to the next table.
Erotica.
Hmmmm. These books certainly had . . . intriguing cover art.
She randomly selected one. The cover showed two very well-endowed, hot women in a . . . clinch? It was hard to tell from the angle. Shawn rotated the cover. Yep. It was a clinch, all right. But wow—the detail on that leatherwork was remarkable. One of the women was holding what looked like the end of a cat-o-nine-tails against the carotid artery of the other.
> She read the title. MILF Money: Erotic Tales of Vanilla Days and Chocolate Nights byTowanda.
Towanda? Seriously?
She flipped it over to take a gander at the blurb. Across the top, big as life, was a quote from Eraserhead herself.
“Move over Wisteria Lane! The only back door that sees more action than the ones belonging to these ladies is probably attached to a loading dock.”—Kate Winston, Gilded Lily
She tossed the book back to the table in disgust.
“You have got to be kidding me. And my book she hates?”
Several other shoppers standing near Shawn looked at her in surprise. Shit. She didn’t mean to say that out loud. “Sorry.”
She quickly left the booth and went to another table.
Historical Romance was printed in big letters on a white card.
Okay. This should be safe.
She browsed through a few of the titles, and then picked one up. Westward Ho by Montana Jackson. The cover showed two well-endowed, hot women in a clinch on the seat of a buckboard. One of them was wearing a cowboy hat and leather chaps, and held a knot of starched rope against the carotid artery of the other.
She read the blurb.
On a bleak and frigid day along the Santa Fe Trail, cattle boss Chase Cameron rescues a ragtag group of New England pioneers from a Comanche attack. Among the wanna-be settlers is sultry and independent young widow, Maris Cavanagh, who has fled her pampered Brahmin life to seek adventure on the frontier. Chase is moving her herd to Fort Dodge, and agrees to see the pioneers to safety. Early one morning during the long journey, she encounters a solitary figure standing aimlessly next to a winding stream . . .
She placed the book back on the table.
Yeah. Okay. Checked out on this one.
The next section of books proudly reposed under a banner that read Spec Fiction.
I wonder what the hell these are about? Shawn picked up a book with a lurid cover. It showed two well-endowed, hot women, dressed in futuristic, space garb in a clinch atop some kind of metal table. One of the women was holding what looked like a hopped-up speculum against the carotid artery of the other. She read the title. Gyno Galaxy IV: Puss and Bübs Explore Deep Spaces.