Colton: Wordsmith Chronicles Book 2 (The Wordsmith Chronicles)

by Christopher Harlan

  Gray looks like he just lost all of the blood in his body. He’s literally white. Harley’s grinning at him like she knows some secret between the two of them, and Gray looks like he doesn’t know what to say. “Oh,” he stammers. “Okay, cool. I’ll catch up with her later I guess.”

  Greg and North have tables here also, but G is across the room, hell and gone from where we’re set up. I texted him earlier to see where he was and to say hi, thanking him for the photo shoot again. He texted back that he’d stop by our table at some point and bring Brody. Models coming to major signings is pretty common, and in this case Brody is more well known—dare I say, famous—than some of the authors here. Brody’s on some of G’s covers also, so he’s mostly staying over at that table, but hopefully he can migrate over to us to take some pictures with readers and sign some books, I know they’d love that.

  North, on the other hand, is right next to us, which is great for us. Geography is everything at these events, and being next to him is a big deal. Not only will our readers want his signature on the Anthology since he has an unpublished story in it, but we’ll also get some of the traffic from his table for anyone looking to discover some new authors. It’s a win-win. We’re like the show that used to follow Seinfeld when it was on TV, but that works just fine. We’ll take all the help that we can get.

  I see him turn the corner with his wife, Sarah, who also designs his covers and helps with his career. It’s just the two of them, but that’s all they need. Even with the mob of women who will soon be lining up in front of his table he’s got everything organized. Or, should I say, Sarah has everything organized. Even though he’s the primary writer, she’s well known in the community, and the two of them do a hilarious Friday night live feed every single week that gets thousands of views in North’s reader’s group.

  It’s almost noon, and readers are already lined up like the organizers of this event are handing out the new iPhone. This is the real deal—velvet ropes, lines around the block, hundreds of authors and even more readers. Intimidation isn’t the right word. I’m not intimidated, I’m just taking the whole experience in. At the Wordsmith signing I was the man. I was the one who was always working the crowd, taking selfies, hanging out at the bar, and generally being the face of the group while Gray sat with his small group of readers and Mike was off gallivanting with Everleigh behind the scenes. This scene is a little different, but I’m ready for the experience.

  Before the guys pull back the ropes and let the readers flood the length of the floor with their backpacks full of paperbacks, I turn and look down the table at the guys. “Do you fucking believe this? Who would’ve thought we’d be here a few months ago?”

  “Not me,” Gray says.

  “Not me,” Mike seconds. “I was too drunk to notice much.”

  I laugh at that one, and it lightens the mood a little. I turn and see the guys pull the ropes back and the readers start marching in line like an invading army. There are some really popular romance authors here, and within minutes I see their tables flooded with readers.

  Not even five minutes pass before North’s table is swamped with readers. He’s a lollipop dropped on the ground on a hot day, and his readers are like ants—more than I can quickly count by looking up, and all of them with their cell phones out ready to take a picture with him. As for us? We’re doing alright, but it’s not like the Wordsmith signing was. We aren’t the rock stars in the room. But in a weird way I’m kind of enjoying that. Don’t get me wrong, I loved the attention back at our signing, but now I feel like I have to earn it—that I have to grab people’s attention and sell myself a little. It’s the opposite of guaranteed, it’s a real challenge. And if there’s one thing I love more than anything else it’s challenging myself.

  For the next fifteen minutes we get all of the hardcores—the ride-or-die readers who are the backbone of our careers. Those are the ones who’d buy our grocery list if we published it, the ones who make our careers possible. I’ve always been a loyal person myself, and I appreciate that kind of loyalty in readers. The hardcores are the ones who like all the posts, comment on all the pictures, and share your stuff even without being asked to do so. They’re the foundation of what we’re all about, and even though I can’t wait to have my career blow up and meet new readers, I think this might be my favorite part.

  First there’s June. She’s a single mom of two boys, one of whom has autism. She’s always posting pics of her and her boys. She’s a great mother from the pictures I see, and I always try to take the time to like those photos and comment when I can. She was one of the first people to join my reader group when Gray made me make one, and she left one of my first five star reviews on Goodreads for the first book I published. When I’m worried that my books suck—which is often—I go back and read that review. I must have read it thirty times over this crazy ride of a career. I’m sure the last time won’t be the last. I’ve never told her this, but her words gave me the confidence to write my own. Ironic. I see her first, and I wave once she makes eye contact.

  “Hey June, what’s up?”

  “Colton!”

  I give her a big hug. “You don’t need to waste all of your money coming to see us, you know that?”

  She laughs, and tells me how she loves coming to see me and all the other guys. She tells me that it makes her year when she can get away from the stresses of real life to come hang out. I sign the anthology for her and take a few pictures. The other guys do the same as she makes her way down the row.

  Then there’s Monica. She’s married with a daughter. Every time I had a takeover to do—which is when an author makes posts and does giveaways in another author’s group—she was there. She was there before I was anyone worth coming to a takeover for. Even when it was one of those with almost no engagement on the posts, she was always there to make sure I had at least one like or at least one comment. If I asked for a newsletter sign up, she’d do it. If I asked for someone to join my own group, I’d get a notification five minutes later that she’d joined. Ride or die. Monica is awesome. We don’t deserve such great readers.

  “All of our heavy hitters showed up!”

  “I know,” Gray says back. “They’re all here. I feel honored.”

  “Me, too.”

  “Makes three of us,” Mike says. “Every author says this, but we have the best readers.”

  A half hour passes. All of our hardcore fans and readers have come and gone, some of them even made a second round to take one more picture, or to see if Brody was at our table yet. But after the last of them left there was a drop off. There are the awkward moments when readers will come to your table, look at your books and your swag, then walk away. It’s a polite, non-verbal ‘no thank you’ to everything you’re trying to sell as an author. It’s a hard lesson to learn in person, but it’s one every author should learn—not everyone’s buying what we’re selling.

  Of the three of us, Knight is doing the best. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised by that. The kid’s career is exploding. It started with an Amazon bestseller tag, then he hustled to get local distribution of his paperbacks in some important bookstores in our area, he increased his social media presence noticeably, and now he’s working on getting traditionally published. He’s living the dream, and taking all of the right steps. I’m trying to get there myself, and so is Gray, but right now we’re the 2nd and 3rd most popular Wordsmiths.

  “It’s okay,” Harley says when she catches me looking over at Mike’s section of the table. “You’re still my favorite.”

  I smile at her and it’s a real smile. I don’t like the feeling of being mad at her, and in truth I don’t really know what I have to be mad about. Maybe it’s nothing. Maybe it’s just some dumb thing I’m misinterpreting. Or, then again, the insecure part of me thinks it might be something that deserves my anger. We need to talk about all this, but not now.

  “Thanks,” I say. “I’m my favorite also, but don’t tell Gray, he might be jealous. He thinks
that I like him the best.”

  Another half hour passes and we start to get more and more traffic as waves of readers pour in. The anthology is starting to fly off of the table as we all sign our names to it and take selfies with the readers. Harley and Everleigh have to go into the extra boxes we stashed under our table to get more every few minutes, and before too long it starts to compound. Everyone is wondering why we have so many readers at our table, so we end up having even more just out of curiosity. Then when they see the book and the three of us they start grabbing it and asking for signatures. I don’t recognize most of these women from social media, which means our reach is growing.

  “All of your hardcores are using the hashtag #wordsmithanthology and uploading pics from a little while ago on Facebook and Instagram. It’s catching fast!”

  Harley shows me her phone and I see how many tags I’m getting and how many women are using that hashtag. “Show the other guys.” Harley passes her phone down and everyone takes a look at the screen and smiles.

  “Fuck,” Gray says, “Our readers are awesome. They’re our best source of promotion!”

  He’s absolutely right on that. There are a million authors and so-called ‘marketing experts’ who’ll try to sell you on the best way to market your books. The secret that really successful people understand—the ones who’ve actually had the success that you want to have in your own career—is that the best marketing comes from having a product that people can’t stop telling other people about. It’s not about a certain social media post, or about the perfect cover—although that helps a lot—or anything else. It’s about having a book that readers have to tell their friends to read because it’s so damn good.

  I can’t see much past the foot or two in front of me because there are so many readers surrounding our table, but I start to see the women turn around and tap one another. I stand up to see over them and realize what all the fuss is about. Brody is a tall motherfucker—taller than any of us, and we’re big dudes. His head hovers over the crowd like a giraffe, and he’s dressed the part of a cover model. He’s got a tight fitting yellow tee on that emphasizes all the muscles in his chest, along with pants that are tight enough to have women guessing what he’s working with underneath. Besides his good looks, he’s an overall great guy every time I’ve met him.

  “Yo, Brody, what’s up?”

  I say it loud enough that even women who don’t notice him right away turn around to see who I’m waving at. He waves back as he approaches the table and the women pounce on him.

  “Colton, what’s going on, bro? You guys are doing really well over here, aren’t you? I couldn’t even see the table past all of these lovely readers.” I don’t even have the chance to properly respond before everyone and their grandmothers—literally in some cases—start taking their Wordsmith anthology and shoving it in Brody’s face for a signature.

  “Here.” Harley takes a black Sharpie marker out of the box next to my books and hands it to Brody so he can start getting his name down on all the books. As he starts to sign, I get a little reprieve and hop over to North’s table for a second.

  “How’s it going, man?”

  “Fucking amazing, as always, brother. These anthologies are selling like hot cakes, huh? I think I’ve signed as many of those as my own books. Brilliant fuckin’ idea you all had.”

  “Wouldn’t be flying off the shelves without your story included, so thank you, from all of us.”

  “Ah, bullshit, man. When are you guys going to accept that you’re good at this, and that you make books that readers want? Sure, I’m icing on the cake, I get it, but the success is yours and yours alone. The three of you have something special when you’re together, and the readers understand that.”

  I think about what he says a second and even though I don’t totally believe it yet, I’m happy to hear him say that. He’s a humble guy even when he has the right to be an arrogant prick. He’s always trying to help—to teach—and I think I’m just going to shut up and listen to him. “Thanks. I really appreciate that.”

  “You’re welcome,” he says. “Now get the fuck away from this table and go sign some books for your adoring fans. Brody looks like he needs some relief over there, anyhow. Fuck, he looks like the Beatles when they first arrived in America.”

  North’s not wrong. Brody is getting mobbed, so I run over there to try and pull some of the crowd away. I pass Knight, who’s still selling and signing books like he’s Stephen King, and Gray isn’t doing bad himself. From where I am right now I can see down the room a little bit and I catch a glimpse of the Brotherhood banner. The design is appropriately shitty, but it’s clearly their table. There are a few readers over there, but not many. And what I notice even more than their lack of volume is the fact that only one of them is sitting at the table when there should be three.

  The only people at the table are Johnathan Logan and a few women who look like the same ones who were at the restaurant where me and KL had our little altercation. Jenny, Knight’s ex, doesn’t seem to be there, but two other women are. I pretend to wonder where they might be, but the truth is I know what probably happened to the other two. I can’t confirm it right now, but I have a good idea. I’ll have to check back in later.

  Time flies when you’re signing books! The afternoon comes and goes, and my hand is cramped by the time the signing is winding down. It’s close to dinner time, so we all agree to hit the town and grab some food. All of us are going—the Wordsmiths, Harley, Rowan, and Everleigh, along with North, Sarah, Greg, and even Brody. North knows the area pretty well and he recommended this pub place that he says ‘has the best fuckin burgers I’ve ever tasted’, and who are we to say otherwise?

  We agree to meet at 6:00pm, which is about two hours from now. There are still a few stragglers moving around the room, but we all start to pack up what’s left of our books. “How’d we all do?” I ask the other guys. “Outside of the anthology, I mean.”

  “I sold out,” Knight says. “I actually had to take a few orders that I’m going to ship out when we get back home. I never thought I’d sell all of my books like that.”

  “That’s awesome,” I tell him. “I’m almost sold out. I have like 5 copies left of each of my old books, but I still did really well.”

  “Same,” Gray says. “That’s about where I am. Do we have any anthologies left, Mike?”

  “I think we might have a few in the boxes, but we brought way more of those than we did our own books, so to me we basically sold out of those also.”

  I look at our inventory and he’s right. Those things were leaping off of the table, and I see looking at social media that the readers took pics with all of the authors—us, G, and North. I haven’t had time to process much in the haze of pics and putting my name all over hundreds of books, but by all measures this seems to be success. We have money in our pockets, happy fans using our name as a trending hashtag, and everyone seems to have left happy with a lot of books to take home and read.

  We don’t have much of our swag or books left, so it doesn’t take much time to clean. I figure it’s a perfect time to go check out the rest of the room. “Where are you going?” Harley asks when I get up to wander.

  “Just going to say hi.”

  “Colt, don’t.”

  “Don’t what?” I ask. I’m being aloof on purpose. I need to go over and see what’s up at the Brotherhood table. “Don’t worry, I’m going to be friendly.”

  I’m being Defiant Colton right now, heading over to the sad-ass Brotherhood table to do nothing but gloat and rub my success in their faces. When I get there Johnathan is taking a selfie with one of the five readers who actually took the time to go over to their table. He looks like he’d rather be anywhere other than where he is. The forced smile, the way he’s rushing the picture, everything screams unhappy. I look at their table while he’s taking the world’s worst selfie and I see all the indications of a signing gone wrong. There are stacks and stacks of books adorning their tabl
e. Where ours looks like it was hit by a hurricane, the Brotherhood’s table looks like they just set it up.

  When the reader walks away I make eye contact with Johnathan. “Well, hey there, John.”

  “It’s Johnathan.”

  “Right. Well, JOHN, it looks like you have a few extra books left over, huh? That sucks.”

  “KL and Roland haven’t shown up. I have no idea where they are. I’ve been texting them all afternoon but no response.”

  “Huh, weird. I mean, why would they miss the biggest signing of the year and not even say anything to their. . .actually, what the hell do you guys refer to each other as? Brothers? Bros? Brotherhood members? How does that work?”

  “Colt, just get the fuck out of here, I don’t need your shit right now, I need to figure out what happened to the other guys.”

  “Sorry,” I say, throwing my hands up like I’m worried I offended him, which I’m not. “Before I go, though, let me help you out. I haven’t talked to them myself because, well, I don’t like any of you. No surprise there. But if I were you I might start my search at the 103.”

  “What’s the 103?” he asks.

  “The local police precinct. About six miles away from here. Easy to find, you can just use Google Maps or Waze. Either should get you there pretty easily.”

  “Wait, what the fu—"

  I turn and walk away. I’ve made my point, and even though I have no confirmation of what I suspect happened, I’m pretty sure that there’s no other explanation. I turn back one more time just to see the baffled expression on Johnathan’s face, which in some ways is as satisfying as anything that happened today. I turn again, walking away, a devious grin on my face.

  23

  Colton

  “What did I tell you?” North shouts at the table. “Best. Fuckin. Burgers. Ever.”

  “You definitely nailed it. These are fucking delicious.”