Total pages in book: 130
Estimated words: 126425 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 632(@200wpm)___ 506(@250wpm)___ 421(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 126425 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 632(@200wpm)___ 506(@250wpm)___ 421(@300wpm)
Audrey Saint taught school and, when budget cuts hit, shot her shot.
Winter Page was working at a tire repair shop and got an idea to write a story about a mechanic in a small town and a snotty rich girl whose car breaks down on her way through, and that book blew up huge and spawned fifteen subsequent novels.
Raven Lark is almost seventy and took it up when her husband died.
Mercy Rose was a physicist. Like, an actual PhD-having physicist who “figured that exploring why people are drawn to each other is more fun than why photons…” something, something, something. I couldn’t really follow all the science stuff.
And Eden Le Fay… well, honestly, Eden just seems like the kind of person who likes to get freaky. Britney says that her books get dark. But she’s nice too. Sort of. Maybe ‘nice’ is a bit of an oversell. You get the distinct impression that she will pummel the shit out of you with a riding crop. Possibly whether you want her to or not.
But, on the whole, they’re all super-cool, really pragmatic, and totally chilled out.
Well. Almost all. The one exception seems to be…
“And then I said, ‘I don’t give a fuck if it is an ambulance, it’s blocking my fucking driveway!’”
Raylen Star is over by the bar, but the punchline of whatever story she’s telling cuts through the room. Her laugh is more of a cackle. Which, in and of itself, isn’t a bad thing. I’m not gonna make fun of someone’s laugh. But there’s this underlying cruelty in it. It’s kinda scary, I gotta be honest.
Steve and SS share a look, but then SS just shakes her head and turns back to me. “So. You were saying?”
“Huh? Oh, right. I was just wondering how, exactly, you came to decide that romance was the thing you wanted to write. How did you start?”
SS and Steve share another look. Then she says, “Y’know, like everybody, just… thought I’d give it a go and it’s worked out.”
“Uh, yeah, I’d say it’s worked out pretty well,” Britney chimes in, only slightly slurring her words. “Did you ever think you’d be this successful?” She gestures around at all the banners and accoutrements that declare to the world that, for at least the next few days, the Sin With Us romance con runs the show.
“Not really,” SS says.
Steve finishes off the lone drink he’s been nursing and crunches some ice between his teeth. And, looking at him chewing on his ice and then at the banners all around, a thought occurs to me. “Why ‘us?’”
“What’s that?” SS asks, taking a sip of her own drink.
“Why ‘Sin With Us?’ Who’s the ‘us?’ It’s a cool name for a con. But it’s your con, right? You sponsor it and everything, so why not ‘Sin With Me?’”
Once again Steve and SS look at each other. They have that twin thing where they just seem to instinctively pattern one another, I think.
Mike, SS’s husband, is the one to answer. “Y’know,” he says, “I think it’s more like Sin With Us. All of us. Like, ‘Hey, if you’re into this romance thing, you’re welcome. There are no prohibitions on who’s allowed to join in. No judgments. Come on down. Let your freak flag fly.’ Y’know. That kind of thing.”
SS looks at him, runs her hand through his (impressively silky) hair, and gives him a kiss on the cheek. “What Mike said.”
“Oh. Yeah. That makes sense. That’s nice,” I say, feeling unusually comfortable in my skin in a way that I don’t always feel. Apart from the residual bedbug bites, I mean.
It’s the ‘no judgments; all are welcome’ bit that lands for me. What he’s talking about is a community. A sister-(and one brother)-hood in which no one who comes with a sincere desire and purity of intention is left out. Or, at least, that’s the energy I’ve picked up so far. (With one notable exception. One who shall remain nameless, because I just got here and don’t want to be a dick.)
All around me is a kind of heady, vertiginous bonhomie that attends the gossamer haze of unqualified acceptance.
Or maybe it’s just that I’m on my third Tom Collins. Could go either way.
Whatever it is, I feel myself relaxing. Truly relaxing. At ease. Peace. Utter and total—
“I read your book,” Steve leans over to whisper into my ear, and bonhomie is replaced by good, old-fashioned pedestrian angst as I start scratching at my arm again. (Did I leave the cortisone upstairs?)
“Say again?” I cough out.
“I read your book.”
“You finished it?”
“Mm-hm.”
“Already?”
“Mm-hm.”
I wait what I believe is an appropriate amount of time before prompting, “And…?”
“It’s incredible,” he whispers. Again.
I flush. I feel hot. My arm itches. I stand up suddenly and without warning, bumping the table in front of us and knocking the drinks over.