Topped (13 page)

I’m on fire. Sexy fire.

I go back to the beginning and incorporate some foreshadowing to the bedroom play, tears pouring down my face. Okay, so this is my method. Whatcha gonna do.

I entertain a brief vision of JoeM reading it and rating it favorably, a three-star, even. God, here we are, back to him. Thankfully, there are only a few days left of the conference. Then everything can go back to normal, minus the new, thrilling sex scenes incorporated in all my books, and I won’t have to worry about him ever again.

That is, if anything could be normal again after I got banged from behind whilst wearing a Trump outfit.

Good thing that was our last time. It has to be. God only knows what he’d ask me to dress up as next time, that sicko. Let’s also overlook the fact that he said he only wanted me, and I forced him to do me like that anyway. I have decided I’m revising my memories, like any good editor.

I wonder what else deserves a good rewrite.

I could also pretend that I was not the one to message him on Facebook. He messaged me, desperate. He was so desperate for me that he couldn’t stay away, staring at me all day in the conference and practically stalking me through the halls. He’s intoxicated by me, unable to keep his hands to himself.

I use the clot of emotions swirling within my chest to push forward through revising my actual book, working until my clock blinks an ungodly hour and a crick in my neck develops. Before I stand to stretch, I push through the last few paragraphs and nearly fall out of my chair in euphoria.

This…is perfect.

This is the best thing I have ever done.

This is something so shiny and wonderful that I want to hug it and kiss it and frame it and put it on my shelf for everyone to see. That never happens! Normally post-edits is when I am filled with the most self-loathing, convinced I should have stuck to a career in insurance sales.

There’s magic to this book I haven’t felt before, and that’s how I know this one is going to be different.

Sure, I have new marketing methods (will I ever set up that street team? I decide no.) And connections made here at the conference that will help push this little book further than I could push before…but there is a sparkle around it too, that hasn’t been around any of my others.

Is this what finding your calling feels like? I grab the bottle of wine and drain the rest of it straight from the source (I already had my final glass so this makes it okay) and beam like an idiot. I made something incredible. Something sexy and wild and passionate and
fun
. It smells like success. Better than that, it smells like the best thing I’ve ever written.

I’m super antsy to see what people think.

I send the full book out to Jane, Evelyn, and Vanessa for critiques and stare at it some more. My computer desktop beams the cover image at me, and I get the overwhelming urge to do something crazy. Why not? This whole week has been a week of firsts, so why not keep it going?

Without waiting for critique notes to come back, I click over to Amazon, upload the book, and hit publish.

I smile at the listing. “Go, little book.
Go
.”

T
hursday
. Conference week is fuh-lying by. On one hand, cool, I’m ready to be done. It’s tiring and I miss Gus. On the other, when the week ends, so will my torrid affair.

I strut into the hotel lobby and grab a muffin, whistling to myself. I don’t even know what I’m whistling, but it doesn’t matter. Whistle, whistle, whistle. I’m on
fire
, despite my inner turmoil. I’ve gotten laid three out of the last four days in a row, I’ve signed like a million copies of my books, and I’ve had multiple offers from agents looking to handle foreign and audio sales for me.

Much as I love America, money from other countries sounds
hella
enticing. Shivers in German! I bet the Germans could really get behind some of the weird shit I write about. I daydream about buying Gus a diamond-studded collar. Maybe buying Miranda a diamond—um, where did that come from? Buying season tickets to my Royals, that’s more like it. First base line. Or maybe club level seats, with all the free food and booze. That’d be pretty sweet.

Come to papa, Deutschland. Come. To. Papa.

I keep an eye out for Miranda, hoping to catch her before the first sessions start, but she’s nowhere to be seen. That’s cool, though. There’s no way she’d miss
Future Trends in Romance
, so I’m sure I’ll see her there.

I can’t even actually tell you what was talked about in the first session, because I kept daydreaming about that little minx. I finally put my finger on what it is about her that attracts me, even though I have every reason to wish an untimely death on her.

She challenges me.

In bed, in life, and if I’m being honest, professionally. Some of the remarks she’s made about me not having any skill have needled. It makes me wonder if she’s right. Am I a one-trick pony? Will my schtick eventually get boring, leaving me broke and my fans moving on to the next thing?

Miranda is far from boring. Miranda is energizing. Miranda is…

Okay. She’s still my enemy. And maybe I one-starred her entire collection on Goodreads, but that’s business between Charlie and Randi. Miranda and Joe are a different story. We are more like frenemies. Sexy frenemies.

Last night was incredible. She looked so sexy in a suit, even with the unfortunate hair, and she was so surprisingly stubborn. That’s another thing I like: she’s always surprising me. She’s got a killer sense of humor (her Trump suit was
Versace
. Now
that
is committing to a role.) And she is just…really soft and nice-smelling. And honestly, she probably brings me down a peg or two that I need.

But she’s not in
Future Trends in Romance
or any of the bestseller panels. She’s nowhere the entire day. I can’t see her anywhere. Maybe she’s sick. She didn’t seem sick last night, but maybe all that hot sexing caused her sinuses to flare up. That’s a Thing, right?

Joe McCoy, Sex So Good You Need A Sick Day.

Wait. No. Not that.

But whatever. I sign more books, chitchat with a few more suits about potentially putting the Shivers line in bookstores, which I think is effing hilarious. Have you seen my covers? They don’t belong in brick-and-mortar stores. But, I like the idea. And I guess if they put me in the Novelty section, it might even work. My books would be great stocking stuffers.

I whip out my notepad and jot down “My Stocking Was Stuffed by Space Santa” as a potential holiday book idea.

What if she’s avoiding me? What if she’s so ashamed of dressing up like Trump that she can’t bear to face me? That’s a shame, because if anything, it made her more awesome in my book. Unless she’s avoiding me because she’s ashamed she slept with me again…

But that can’t happen. It was so good.

But what if she meant it when she said we should never see each other again, and she hated my face? I’m getting nervous. Last night I was biting back the L word, could I really have fallen that hard for someone who was going to write me off afterwards?

And then I realize how little I know about her. When she shows,
if
she shows, I’m going to insist on taking her out. Even if it’s just for coffee in the kiosk outside the conference center. We should talk like normal people. I don’t even know her middle name.

Unless she’s embarrassed to be seen with me because she spends so much time publically talking about how I’m a hack.

I swiftly check Twitter to make sure she hasn’t tweeted anything untoward about my manhood. She hasn’t. Then I’m a little disappointed, cause my manhood is definitely worth a tweet.

I go ahead and send my own out about it, just to reassure myself.

This headspace I’m in is throwing off my game. I blow off the last panel of the day to sit in the bar and try to make sense of this shit. Does she hate me? Does she love me and can’t handle that she loves her enemy? Why am I acting like a such a baby girl about this?

Joe McCoy, Inquiring Mind.

Whiskey isn’t helping me make any sense of this, either.

“No ladyfriend tonight?” Bartender asks. “I thought you two were hitting it off.”

Me too, bud. Me too.

“Oh, she’s um…sick.” I’m too embarrassed to say we aren’t an item. Or that I have no idea where she is.

“Can I have a Tank 7, please,” I say, because the healthy thing to do is order beer instead of hard liquor. And I am not going to drown my sorrows in whiskey. I’ll simply froth them in a nice farmhouse ale. Raptors, I’m a mess.

I end up on Facebook, trolling through all of Miranda’s photos, now that I know her name and can find her real personal profile. I need to find something else to make fun of her for, to get out of this stupid funk I’ve somehow found myself in. What to mock, though?

Of effing course, every picture is super adorable. She’s incredibly photogenic, which is strangely unfair. Even I have been known to take a weird photo or two. And I’m Joe McCoy, God’s Gift to Women.

Then again, it’s Facebook, right? You only put up the good stuff?

No one should look this good and funny and adorable all the time. No one. Like this photo of her with a giant margarita the size of her head? She should look red and sweaty like I do with tequila, not sultry. This picture of her with her nephew should make her look old and fat, not warm and loving.

It dawns on me how hard I’m falling, and I start to get pissed. She clearly doesn’t feel the same. Not only did she not show today, but she hasn’t even Facebook-messaged me.

I am not sending a friend request so I can “like” her pics. I don’t even like them anyway. I just have something in my eye is all. Are there onions around here? The conference is over tomorrow, meaning I will likely never see her again. Hell, if she is ignoring me, I won’t see her again starting today. It’s over.

It’s over. My chest hurts.

I pack up my shit, pay my tab, and amble back to my hotel room, mildly drunk and missing my dog. And my own bed. And cuddling with my dog in my bed because that’s my real life. I Skype Nick so I can see the old fatty.

“Any more sweet news?” Nick asks while Gus licks his screen. I miss my dog so much it hurts a little. He just gets me, you know? I love the shit out of him. Maybe that’s the feeling in my chest. Because I was all wrong about Miranda. But I’m not about to let Nick Bro see me sentimental.

“Shivers is going to Germany!” We pretend to fist bump over the phone. “I’m being sexed up by a couple agents and a publisher, and they are all talking about foreign rights.”

“Those kinky German bastards will love you, broseph.” I realize now how much I’ve missed Nick during this week, too. We’re practically neighbors, which means I see his mug all the dang time. All the bros, really. They come over for all the games, and we each race to see who can eat an entire pizza during commercial breaks. I’ve had none of that this week, and it’s created a cavernous hole in my insides.

It may have improved my blood pressure, but it hasn’t improved my mood.

I’ve been letting myself get too carried away this week, and I realize all I want is to just go home and get back to normal. This week was supposed to be amazing, and I let Randi Rose ruin it. It’s time to take my career out and show her how much I care about
her
.

“You all right, bro?” Nick asks. I check myself and shake off the wrinkles forming on my forehead. Goddamn Randi. Now she’s giving me wrinkles. The only thing worse than trapped farts are premature wrinkles. Premature anything, now that I think about it.

“I’m effing tired, man. This conference has kept me going nonstop all week. I’ve been signing books, talking up suits, jumping from panel to panel. And all the drinking. It never ends. Who knew being an author was so exhausting? I’m ready to come home to my boy.”

Gus licks the phone again and whines.

“He shit in your bedroom last night,” Nick laughs. “I guess he’s pissed you’re gone all week.”

“Oh, goddammit Gus-Gus,” I sigh. He’s prone to do this when I’m gone for a long time. That dog, he’s high maintenance. That’s why Nick’s had to stay at my place and watch him. He gets even more tummy issues when he isn’t in his own space. “Thanks for cleaning it up, man.”

Nick just laughs. “Yeah. Right. I’m leaving that shit for you to deal with. I’m already cleaning up his shit on his walks. You can handle your own fucking bedroom, bro.”

“Nick, you asshole.”

“Your favorite asshole. Who is watching your dog. You’re fucking welcome.”

“I’m going to shit in
your
bed at the next opportunity, you know,” I tell him.

“You take that back. Bros don’t shit in each other’s beds.” This conversation is disgusting. My stomach growls. I’m hungry.

Is it extra weird that I kind of want chocolate soft-serve?

Regardless of what I eat, it’ll sober me up and distract me from all the angst building over Miranda-who-is-maybe-just-Randi-on-the-inside-too and the homesickness crawling through my veins. We say goodbye and I coo over Gus one more time. He really is the best dog ever.

I order up a burger from room service and pull out my laptop for the first time all week. I just need to get in the Shivers zone, you know? I need to get back to what I’m good at, what I know. I scan my notebook for ideas and settle on being banged in the butt by some bourbon. This sounds like a fan-fucking-tastic idea.

Raiding the minibar also sounds like a fan-fucking-tastic idea.

Joe McCoy, Fan-Fucking-Genius.

I open up a new Word document…and stare.

It’s okay. This has happened before, I just need to get my shit together. Writer’s block isn’t a real thing. My room service arrives, and I eat the mediocre burger (seriously, is all room service always shit?) while pacing the room, brainstorming.

Maybe the bourbon bottle is a female and has an ass obsession. Maybe the bourbon bottle calls him a fake and they hate-fuck all over the bar. Maybe the bourbon bottle dresses up in a suit and they bang…

Goddammit. Everything keeps going back to her. I polish off two mini bottles and settle down at the desk, utterly determined to make this work. This is my livelihood, this is what I’m not just good, but gifted, at.

Sorry, Mom, but I am
gifted
at writing creature butt sex. I can’t help what the gods have blessed me with.

This gift. This face. This dick. This dick that was all up in Miranda in this very bed only a mere day ago.

Focus. Focus. Focus.

Yet all I can see, when I put my fingers on the keyboard, is visions of Miranda, not a bottle of bourbon. Welp, she’s officially ruined
everything
. #trappedfart

I slam the laptop shut. What is life without weird sex? What is life without writing these books that basically feed my soul full of awesome and hilarity every time? Forget all this. I heave myself down on the bed. A good night’s sleep will fix me.

And still,
still
, when I close my eyes, I see her in a button-down, hair falling over her shoulders, smiling at me seductively. Finally, I give in and jerk off to memories of making love to her. I mean fucking her. There’s clearly no love there. Sleep comes quickly.

The next day flies by. More suits, more books, more panels. Still no Miranda. I try to keep everything in perspective. It’s been an enormously successful week, and I’ve learned a lot of new marketing strategies, met new bloggers. There’s a million new ways to ensure that anyone in the market for a good dino-bang can find me with a mere few clicks of the mouse.

The conference is hosting a masquerade ball tonight to send everyone off after a week of intense conferencing. There’s no way Miranda will miss it, and if she’s here, which she totally has to be, I can tell her off and get some closure about the whole thing. Tell her I one-star her butt. Get back to my career being my girlfriend instead of entertaining fantasies about a girl who clearly never intended this to be anything more than a fluke. I’ll get the upper hand back.

I was originally planning on a unicorn mask, because I like to stay on-brand, but I have better ideas now. Smarter ideas. I blow off the closing ceremony to head into town and hunt down the perfect mask. I know I’ll find it. I raid a few party stores, and it takes longer than I expect, but I still find it. Success for Joe.

In my room, I suit up. In a sweet fitted suit, because I need to show off my banging body in the midst of all those damn cover models. Red tie. Trump mask. Okay, so it’s an homage to our last time, and I’m about to tell her off, but I need her to be able to
find
me in the midst of all the other costumes.

I want her to
know
I’m looking for her. I want her hopes to skyrocket, her heart to race, her pits to sweat, and then I want to destroy all those warm, fuzzy feelings. Like she destroyed mine. Not that I will ever admit it to her.

Another set of feelings creeps up the back of my throat, excitement at the idea of seeing her again, but I smash it down. Tonight is about getting back up on my own two feet, about taking charge of my career, about letting her know that Randi Rose is dead to me.

I head down to Ballroom A, stomach churning. Why am I so nervous? It’s like being back in junior high. Raptors, I need booze. First stop is the bar, where the line is relatively short because everyone else is making last minute pulls at the poor agents scattered around the room. The agents are easy to spot, since they’re all wearing bright pink badges. I wouldn’t want one of those badges if you paid me. It’s a promise that you’ll be hounded everywhere you walk, including the bathroom.