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)
Cordelia observes her carefully, then writes the name in equally carefully. She hands it back and it’s obvious she wants to ask questions, but she doesn't get the chance because suddenly there are others there, all crowding in. Trying to get a free signed ARC.
And yeah, they’re here for free books and not really looking to buy the ones for sale. But that’s the whole point of free books. To get people interested.
I know this feeling. I remember it from that first year when Choke and Sugar went crazy. It was weird being with Essie at the Romance Round-Up table, but when people started coming up—and then there was a crowd of them?
It was… magic. It was more than I could’ve ever dreamed of. It was like being at Comic-Con, only without the cosplay. The energy was crazy and our table was a mess of swag as people eagerly tried to grab it from any and all directions. The signing coordinators had to interfere and assign us wristbands so the tables around us weren’t too crowded. We sold every book and they still came to see us. People wanted Essie to sign bookplates, and handmade posters, and self-printed autograph books with Master Choke and Sugar on a two-page spread. Someone gave her fan art of Choke and Sugar. In oil paint, no less. I still have that painting. It’s hanging in my office.
And now this is happening for Cordelia. And I get to be here, witnessing the magic as she experiences her very first signing in real time.
Britney and I exchange a glance. Did they come to Cordelia’s table because of me?
We both shrug. Does it matter?
They’re not here for me now.
They want free books and we are more than happy to give them out.
The signing is in full swing now and every few minutes the PA system announces the numbers for the authors who are so popular, the fans need wristbands just to stand in their line.
Leslie does not need wristbands. Only those bitches like Eden Le Fay, and Audrey Saint, and Raven Lark need wristbands.
And, of course, SS herself.
Steve Smith. SS.
Essie Smith. Not quite SS, is it? It’s close, but not close enough.
Leslie Munch watches Cynthia Lear’s table from across the signing hall with a severe scowl on her face, despite the fact that she’s in the middle of signing her name inside her most famous book—Daddy, Yes, Daddy, No. A real collector’s item, it even has the terrible original cover. The owner of said book is watching her watch them.
Steve and that woman. Whom Leslie had never heard of until she saw Steve talking to her on Wednesday.
“Oh, my God!” the reader exclaims. “You spelled my name wrong!”
Leslie looks up at the reader in front of her table, then looks down at the book. “You said Kristen with a K. I wrote Kristen with a K.”
“It’s Kirsten!” The reader turns to her friend, mouth open. “She ruined my book! My collector’s item!”
Leslie lets out a long sigh. Her books are being sold on the used book sites, she knows this. And this cover is indeed in low stock as far as number of copies are concerned, but it’s a forty-dollar paperback, not some special-edition double-sided-dustjacket-hardcover with foil embossing on the case and digitally-sprayed edges that’s going for three-fifty unsigned.
Still, it is a reader and she has precious few these days. “How about I just order you up a new copy and send it to you?”
The reader looks at her, frowning, eyebrows deeply furrowed. “You can’t just order one of these. They’re out of print.”
“Honey, nothing is out of print these days. I upload the files, add one to the cart, press the purchase button and it’s printed and shipped. It can be shipped right to you. In fact, I can insert a digital signature onto the title page, Kirsten, and all will be well. How about that?”
Kirsten grabs her book from Leslie’s outstretched hand, whirls on her heel, and walks away without a second glance.
There is no one behind Kirsten in line, and Leslie’s troublemakers are off getting her a double shot of tequila. She needs that drink badly. So Leslie is alone. In the giant signing hall. With thousands of happy and excited people all around her. With no readers in her line.
And this is making her angrier by the second.
Just as she’s thinking this, the catering room door—which is on double-action spring door hinges so it swings both in and out and which is less than two feet away from her at this very moment—comes crashing into the corner of her table. For like the ten thousandth time.
“Watch it!” Leslie barks.
“Sorry!” the fresh-faced catering girl says, pulling a cart with a coffee machine behind her. “Sorry, sorry, sorry!”
If Leslie has to hear one more person apologize for hitting her table with that door, she’s going to murder someone. It was bad enough that she’d been assigned to the shittiest panel—which had been canceled—but she’s definitely been given the worst table space in the entire room.