Colton: Wordsmith Chronicles Book 2 (The Wordsmith Chronicles)

by Christopher Harlan

  “Fuck, you really did.”

  “Yup.”

  “Did this book sell zero copies? ‘Cause that shit’s terrible.”

  “It’s inspired,” he defended. “You wish you could come up with Acorn Andy.”

  “Yeah, Mike, that’s what I’m feeling, jealousy. The better issue is where you came up with that dumb ass phrase.”

  “Dicktionary,” he said. “I read it on Dicktionary.” It took me a minute to process just what the fuck he said to me because I thought I misheard him. But no, that’s a thing apparently. “Look it up.”

  So I did. I looked up a website called Dicktionary on my phone, and it turns out that it really exists. Not only did someone pay God-knows-how-much for that domain name, but they make the very bold claim of being “The World’s Largest Dick Euphemism Site”, accompanied by a section that allowed you to add your own unique euphemism, if you had one.

  “Wait, hold up,” Gray said, jumping right in. “Mike you can’t be dispensing writing advice if you’re taking the words right from some website called Dicktionary, which is basically one giant dick wiki.”

  “Still,” Mike said. “At least I was creative enough to search the internet.”

  “Yeah,” I said, looking at him like he was nuts. “Creative. Not at all suspect. Next you’re going to tell me you watched all that gay porn for research for a male/male book you’re working on. Should I have a talk with Everleigh before you cancel the wedding?”

  This drive was was longer than the one from New York to Pennsylvania for the Wordsmith signing we organized, and as soon as we pull into the gigantic parking lot, I realize right away that it's a totally different animal. Our signing was relatively small, intimate, the kind of place where our readers could focus on just us. This place is gigantic! Since we took turns driving, as we arrive it happens to be Gray who's at wheel. “Holy fuck!” he says as we pull into the giant lot.

  “Yeah, I’d have to second that,” I say. This place isn’t just big, it’s really fucking big. I knew that in the abstract, but seeing it in person puts it into the correct scale. I feel like a little ant in the sea of people making their way in and out of the main doors.

  We circle a few times before finding what looks to be the last parking spot in this whole place. Thank God we’re all in good shape because we’re gonna be doing some serious walking. “We have to carry all these boxes across this giant lot?” Gray asks.

  “Don’t be a pussy,” I say in my normal, sensitive tone. But I’m still in the messing-with-the-other guys mode.

  “Maybe we should have had this stuff shipped,” Mike says.

  “There’s got to be a better way, we can’t just lug these boxes in and out, we’ll be here till fucking doomsday.”

  “Oh shit,” Mike says. “Look at what the cat dragged in.”

  We all turn in the direction Mike is referencing. I see right away what he’s talking about. I’d recognize the car any day. True North is here. North’s a huge Quentin Tarantino fan. Name any film of his, like Pulp Fiction, Jackie Brown, The Hateful Eight, or Reservoir Dogs, and the guy can not only be a human IMDB, but he can quote Tarantino’s dialogue like a preacher quoting scripture during a Sunday mass. He loves all things Tarantino, but he’s the biggest fan of the Kill Bill movies with Uma Thurman. In Kill Bill Volume 1, Uma Thurman’s character—the Bride—steals a car called the Pussy Wagon. It’s this bright yellow pick up truck with the words “Pussy Wagon” etched on the back in bright red letters just above the rear license plate. North loved that movie and that car so much that he had it recreated, and he drives it everywhere. His Instagram account is filled with all of his adventures in the Pussy Wagon as he travels the country doing signings with his wife.

  As the Pussy Wagon pulls around I wave and North honks the horn three times to tell us that he sees us. I can already see the looks from the other authors and readers in the lot. If you asked your average person, they’d have no idea who the hell North is. But in this community, the man might as well be Stephen King. He pull up next to us, engine roaring, and I get a good look at the car.

  “What’s up you ugly motherfuckers!” he yells. “What’s the matter? You all look like someone just killed your dog or something.”

  “We just realized that we’re stupid and we didn’t have any of our books shipped here. They’re all packed in the back of this SUV we rented.”

  “Throw that shit in the back and I’ll pull up. I have a hookup at the front desk, they’ll send some guys down to help bring your shit to your rooms.”

  “No shit?” I ask.

  “Do I ever shit you, Colt? Any of you?”

  “You sure don’t, North. It’s good to see you, man.”

  “You too. Hold on, I’ll help you out.” He pulls his car up so that it’s perpendicular to ours and jumps out with the engine still running.

  North stands out in a crowd. He looks like the coolest fucking dad in the world—the type who you’d say ‘aww’ to when you see pictures of him with his wife and kids, yet he’s also the kind of dude that other guys wouldn’t dare to fuck with unless they’re too stupid for their own good. He’s bald headed—by choice—covered head to toe in tattoos down to his hands, and generally has that ‘don’t fuck with me’, badass thing going on. That said, he’s the sweetest guy in the world. He’s an amazing writer, and unlike most other successful writers in this business, he’s gone out of his way to mentor us and pay his success forward. That kind of altruism is rare in this industry, and he’s been invaluable to all of us.

  “You have the anthology in there?” he asks.

  “Yeah,” Gray answers, opening up the back and digging into one of the boxes. “Check it out.”

  North looks genuinely psyched when he sees the cover. I felt great when Mike and Gray had that reaction also, but it’s even cooler to see a hardened veteran like North look excited. “Fuckin’ sick! Brody is such a good dude. I used him on book 4 of my Furious Pricks series. The women drool over this kid. Good choice, Colt.”

  “Thanks, man. That means a lot coming from you. And thanks for contributing.”

  “No problem. You know, I have about thirty of those little stories lying around here and there that I don’t know what to do with. I wanted to do a collection of shorts but they haven’t been selling as well in recent years, so I’m happy it gets to see the light of day. So, thank you.” That’s North 101. Humble, savvy, hyper aware of the business and how it works, and always cool as hell. “I guess I’ll be signing a lot of these bad boys, huh?”

  “Only if we’re lucky,” Mike says. “But something tells me you’ll need a lot of Sharpies.”

  “Oh, that’s no problem, I brought about five boxes of the fuckers. How you doing, Gray?” he asks.

  “Good, North. Good. Trying to get my next one going.”

  “Oh, shit, man, you’ve gotta finish that. I loved that last one. Shit had me on the edge of my seat.”

  Gray looks up, a little shocked. “You read it?”

  “Oh fuck, yeah, I read it. Are you shitting me? No good writer isn’t also a reader, and I only read the books from the good authors. Trust me, you’re one of the good ones. There’s a lot of shit out there. I loved that book, man, you keep writing. You close to done?”

  “It’s. . .it’s complicated.”

  “I see,” North says, sensing that Gray’s a little disheartened. “Well, let me simplify it for you.” He takes a step forward and puts his hand on Gray’s shoulder. “Finish that fucking book. I don’t give a shit about your readers, do it for me. You have an audience of one who’s dying to see what happens next, you hear me? I want that shit in less than six months. I better get a signed paperback on my doorstep before Christmas, got it?”

  “Yes, sir.” Gray finally smiles. I know North didn’t mean to hit a sore spot, but he has this way of making a sore spot less sore. He’s got this crass yet caring way of kicking people in the ass. I know he’s done it for Mike a few times, now for Gray. I could use one mysel
f. Hopefully I’ll get to talk to the guy later on before he gets too swamped with his fans. And when I say ‘fans’, I mean fans. He’s got maybe the most hardcore readers of anyone I’ve seen. Ride or die type shit. They gather around him like he’s Michael Jackson in the 80’s, and North has a way of making them all feel like they’re special.

  If the Wordsmiths were the Teenaged Mutant Ninja Turtles, then North would be our Splinter—he’s not that much older than all of us chronologically, but in terms of our careers he’s the wise old man to our tweens. He’s been doing this longer, has written more books than all of us combined, and has had a majority of them become bestsellers in their categories. I try to listen to every word the man says.

  “Well, let’s get this shit loaded in the Pussy Wagon and get it to the front. You guys have a lot, huh? That’s good. That’s real good.”

  “Yeah, our pre-orders blew up after the cover reveal,” I tell him. “And then they started pre-ordering all of our individual books like crazy. Mostly Mike’s new one.”

  “ForEver, right?” North asks. Mike nods. “You hit the jackpot with that one, dude. Clever title, great story behind it. I’m so happy. You’re on the path. Next it’s these fuckers’ turns.”

  We load all of our boxes into the back of the truck and I turn to North. “Dude, does your wife care that you drive around in a truck called the Pussy Wagon? I’ve always wanted to know.”

  “She’s cool as fuck,” he says. “She knows it’s just an image thing. It gets me attention. You see all the people looking over at us? Those are readers. Those are people intrigued by what the hell I’m about. People who may walk over to my table and see what kind of books this crazy motherfucker with all the tattoos and the loud car labeled ‘Pussy Wagon’ writes.”

  “Got it. Let’s get inside.”

  We load our pre-order boxes and the extra boxes into North’s car and squeeze in. I jump in the back with the boxes cause I have no shame, while Mike and Gray cozy up to North in the front seat. The engine roars, and I catch more people looking over at us and I just smile and wave. North’s right—they look intrigued, not horrified, so I guess there’s something to what he’s saying. I almost fall out as he takes the corner of the lot. In a few seconds we’re there. North tells us to wait and he jumps out with the motor still running. Less than a minute later he’s back with about three bellhops looking to carry our stuff.

  “I’m impressed.” I actually am. North must have a lot of clout because I feel like royalty all of a sudden. I have to tip these kids well for carrying all of our shit.

  “Alright, boys, I’ll catch up to you later. I have some people I wanna say hello to.”

  “For sure,” I tell him. “We’ll catch up later or at the signing or something.”

  “My table is right next to yours,” he says. “I made sure of it.”

  North takes off and we all check in. We made the arrangements just like the Wordsmith signing, only this time I made sure that I got my own room. It’s Mike’s turn to room with Gray. I want to get some writing done and have some time to myself. The bellhops bring all of our stuff to our rooms and I tip them like $20 bucks each because I feel bad, but once they’re gone I look at how much space the boxes are taking up and I feel really good. Even just a few months ago I had half of the amount of books pre-ordered, and now I have to pile boxes a few high just to make room for all of them. Things are looking up, for sure.

  We all take quick showers and decide to meet up for a quick dinner in one of the three restaurants in this giant place. Gray chooses sushi because, well, he’s Gray, so it’s sushi for the Wordsmiths tonight. I meet them in their room after I’m showered and dressed.

  “When are the girls coming up?” Gray asks.

  “You excited to see Rowan, are you?” He looks at me annoyed and I grin. “Come on, dude, just admit it, it’s okay, it’s just us here right now, she can’t hear us.”

  “I like her, okay. I like her.”

  “Wow,” Mike says. “I never thought I’d hear you admit that.”

  “I guess I’m full of surprises. I like her. She gets me.”

  “Look at you,” I joke. “I like honest Gray. Nothing wrong with admitting you like her, she’s great.”

  “She really is,” Mike says. “I’ve been around her a lot more because she’s one of Everleigh’s maids of honor.”

  “One?”

  “Yeah, she didn’t want to choose between Harley and Rowan so she went with both of them. I’ve been around both girls a lot. Rowan’s really great. And so is Harley for that matter.”

  “When are they getting here, Mike?”

  “Ev said she left about an hour after we did, so depending on traffic she should be here soon. They all should.”

  I get excited when I hear that. I’ve been texting Harley here and there while we’ve both been passengers in a seemingly endless drive to this place, but nothing can replace seeing her in person. When I’m not writing or talking with the guys all of my thoughts are consumed by her. She’s rented space in my head, and all of my energy goes to thinking about her. I can’t wait until she gets here. But right now it’s sushi time.

  I could do some spicy tuna!

  19

  Colton

  “I feel like we’re in a fucking movie. A bad one. A tragedy that doesn’t end well for anyone involved.”

  Gray’s dramatic statement signifies a familiar moment from a few months ago. This time, however, we should have known that it was coming. We did know, of course. But knowing something may happen and having it happen are two different things, and all the deep breathing and therapy in the world can’t quite control my anger when I turn to see the Brotherhood walk into the same dining room we’re in—again—and take seats even closer to us than they were the last time we encountered them. Mike’s right, this feels like some shitty remake of West Side Story—only instead of the Jets and the Sharks and some cool music, it’s just a sausage fest of angry male romance authors wanting to throw down with one another.

  I catch Roland’s eyes in the pack and we lock together for what seems like a long time but is probably only a few seconds. I can see the fear behind his eyes, no matter how tough he tries to act when he’s with his boys. The eyes never lie, and I can see the hesitance in his as he breaks contact first. “Let’s go somewhere else,” Mike says. “This shit can’t end well.”

  “Relax, dude, no one’s following anyone into the bathroom this time. I learned my lesson, trust me.”

  “I know,” he says. “I know you did. But, still, we came here to chill and have a good time. Even if nothing happens this is a bad scene, and a shitty way to spend our first night here. There are a million places to eat here. Shit, there are a million places to eat just in this hotel alone, why don’t we try one of them?”

  “Because that’s a retreat, Mike. That’s why. We don’t have to fight them, we don’t even have to talk to them. But I’m not getting up and running just because they walked in the room either. I’m not showing any fear or vulnerability to them, even if that sounds like some macho bullshit to you, it’s how I feel.”

  “He’s right, Mike.” Gray jumps to my defense, and I’m surprised, but getting less so each time he does it. I’m not shocked that he’s sticking up for me, or that we agree on how to handle the situation, but about the fact that the calmer I get about the situation the more angry he gets. It’s weird, but kind of cool at the same time to see him like this. “We wanted to eat here.”

  “Speak for yourself, Gray.”

  “Fine,” he answers. “I wanted to eat here, and I still do, and I’m going to. I’m not tucking tail and running like we’re scared of them because we’re not. If anything they should be scared of us.”

  “Easy there, killer,” I joke. “I’m not sure which one of us is writing the MMA book.”

  Gray smiles and I like what I see. Mike gives in because it’s two to one, but I know if it were up to him, he’d just leave. Mike’s many things but he’s not a figh
ter, and he’d rather avoid confrontation unless it’s a life or death kind of situation. That’s probably the most rational way to be, but I just can’t help myself.

  “Let’s order, then.”

  We do just that. We try to have a normal evening and ignore the tense situation that’s sitting across from us. I’m facing their table, so I can’t help but look over now and again, and every time that I do I see at least one of them looking back at me, whispering to one of the others, and then more of them looking over. If they’re trying to be inconspicuous, they’re doing a shitty job. But, then again, they’re shitty at everything else they do also. They really are hacks. I don’t know of any self-respecting author still in the game who has a majority of their reviews as 1-2 stars on Amazon. Why do they keep on writing, they can’t be selling any books!

  About a half hour passes with some rock shrimp appetizers, some warm sake, and a lot of underlying tension that none of us want to bring up. We make small talk, but I can tell that it’s just logistical bullshit to pass the time. What time are we getting up? How much swag do we put out on the table? How many copies of each book do we keep reserved for readers later in the day? All important things, but not the kind of things we talk about when we’re sitting at a nice restaurant together. Another twenty minutes pass with both Grayson and myself continuously noticing their glances and whispers, and getting more mad with each bite of our California rolls.

  “They really are a bunch of little girls,” Gray says. “Look at them over there—snickering and laughing like we’re on the playground or something. It’s ridiculous.”

  “I’m with you man, just ignore them. Let’s get the check the next time you see the waiter and maybe get a drink or something. Are the girls here yet, Mike? Maybe we could meet up with them.”