Dangerous Curves Ahead (Watchers Crew) (2 page)

My following wasn’t small. Had she not read the latest author report? I wasn’t exactly one in a million, but 10,000 wasn’t half bad.

“I think it could be bigger,” Moira said. “We want to take you in a new direction.”

Perfect. I opened my mouth to pitch my
Tender Kisses
and
Love’s Calling
series.
Before I could, Moira continued. “We want you to add steam.”

Steam? As in steam punk? I had no clue about that genre. It also had no place in inspirational and sweet romance. It was more in the realm of science fiction and fantasy romance.

When Moira came onboard, Hera introduced a few new lines. The Athena line, for paranormal, science fiction and fantasy romance. The Dione line, for contemporary. And the Aphrodite line, for erotica. With my current sales, I felt fairly secure that my career would continue at the Demeter line, for the sweeter side of romance. Was she asking me to write for the Athena line?

“Many Christian authors, inspirational authors, and sweet authors are opening the doors during their love scenes,” Moira said. “There’s even Amish erotica.”

So, I’d heard. I wasn’t Amish. I’d been raised in a traditional Christian household. The kind where the parents stop going to church after the kids outgrow their fancy Easter clothes.

“Your readers are buying it,” Moira said.

I frowned, having lost the train of conversation. “It?”

Moira paused and blinked at me as though she remembered I was there while she gave her monologue. “Sex. Your readers are buying books with sex in them.”

I wanted to disagree. I wanted to insist that my readers were girls just like me. Good girls, who sat with their legs crossed, and went to church every Sunday.

Well, I didn’t go to church every Sunday. In fact, I hadn’t been since… last Easter? I think?

“If you want to keep writing for us, Mary Kate, you’re going to have to pop your heroines’ cherries.”

This time it was me who paused and blinked. I shook my head like I used to shake the bunny ear antennas on my grandparents’ old television. There had to be something wrong with the reception.

“You can keep the story lines in your wheel house,” Moira said. “I’d love to see a good girl go on a sexual journey of discovery with a bad boy in need of redemption. I’ll need to see an outline and the first three chapters by the end of the month.”

An outline? I hadn’t been required to submit an outline since my first book. Not only was I being asked to write something completely out of my depth, I was being treated like a new author.

“And what if I don’t want to add steam or open doors in my stories?” I asked.

Moira frowned as though she hadn’t considered the query. “You can always buy out your existing contract. But you still owe us two more books.”

I didn’t have the money lying around to buy out of two books. I was budgeted down to the penny. I opened my mouth to bargain, but Moira’s phone rang. She picked up the receiver. I was effectively dismissed.

I rose, preparing to leave the office. I cast a glance out the window. On the bright side, the sky had cleared, taking the rain away. Off in the distance, I spied the multicolored stripes of a rainbow. I was just on the wrong end of the arch.

Chapter Two

By the time I stepped out Hera Publishing’s office, the rainbow showed bright across the sky. Unfortunately, it did not brighten my mood. I walked over to my car; a Chevy Buick. Not one of the newer models in the young hipster commercials. It was a 1970’s model. I’d gotten it from my grandfather. He’d named the car Lucille because she had the devil in her.

I sat back in Lucille’s plush seat and closed my eyes. What was I going to do? It’s not like I was a literary author out for awards for my craft.

I wrote romance novels.

A lot of people looked down on the genre. In my four years of writing in the industry, I’d met so many women who were feeding their families with the money they garnered from writing what the general public called bodice rippers, chick lit, and mommy porn. I didn’t turn my nose up at steamy romance. It just wasn’t my thing. But it would have to become my thing if I wanted to keep making a living.

So, what were my options?

I could quit. Take my work to another publisher. Hope that my audience followed me. But I could be sued for breach because I owed the publisher more books.

Or, I could give them what they wanted. Sex.

I turned the ignition over. Lucille groaned, shuddered, and stalled.

Two race cars sped down the street, engines roaring, exhaust polluting the air. It was an increasing problem in the city, just like teenage pregnancy in high schools, the spread of STDs in elder communities, and the rate of divorce in mature communities. People were all moving too fast.

Twenty minutes later, I pulled up to my parents’ pristine house. The lawn was recently manicured. The shutters had a fresh coat of paint. There were bright flowers blooming in the window box.
 

Inside, my sister’s kids were wreaking havoc in the family room. Louisa Mae had four children under the age of six. She greeted me belly first with number five. Her thick brown tresses were coiled in an elaborate knot on top her head, not a hair out of place. Eye shadow highlighted her green eyes, and a thin sheen of lip-gloss accented her full lips.

We had the exact same facial features, but that’s where it ended. Even though she was five months pregnant, she carried her baby weight well. Her figure still held its hourglass. Any weight she’d gained belonged to the baby in her belly and didn’t dare touch anywhere else on her body.

“You’re late,” Louisa Mae said. “I’ve been playing referee with the parents for the last hour.”

“Mommy,” said one of her boys. Honestly, I couldn’t tell if he was Walter or Brandon. They looked exactly alike except for an inch or two. “He hit me!”

“Go give him a hug and show him that in this family we love,” was my sister’s response.

The kid pouted off, unsatisfied. I doubted a hug was on the horizon.

“Are they fighting?” I said, indicating my head towards the kitchen where I saw my mom moving about.

“You know they never fight. They barely talk,” said my sister. “It’s a cold front.”

I looked around the living room. “Where’s your husband?”

“Business trip.” She struggled with a diaper bag. There were bags under her eyes that would never blend into her eye shadow. “He just got a new account and has to be available to his clients at all times.”

Charles, Louisa Mae’s husband, was some corporate bigwig. I wasn’t sure exactly what he did? Mainly because I had never had a full conversation with the man in the seven years, he’d been my brother-in-law. He wasn’t around the family much, but he was always available to his clients.

My two-year-old niece, who was dressed as a pink fairy with wings, was throwing a tantrum over her cartoon program ending. Louisa Mae tried to explain that mommies couldn’t make the television network play the episode again. The two eldest boys weren’t hugging; they were shoving at each other behind their mother’s back. The one-year-old sat quietly on the sofa watching it all go down. I couldn’t tell if he was taking notes or wishing he were somewhere else.

My sister found another program for the fairy princess and then separated the two eldest boys. “What took you so long to get here?” she said to me.

“Meeting at my publisher’s,” I said from my post in the doorway. “My editor wanted to discuss some upcoming projects.”

My sister frowned. “You’re still writing those smutty stories?”

I felt like throwing a tantrum myself. Maybe that would get my sister to change the channel away from this repeated argument. “They want to take my books in a new direction. They really believe in my talent.”

It wasn’t exactly a lie. Moira said she believed in my talent. She just wanted me to take my talent in an area where I was uncomfortable treading.

“I don’t know how you’ll ever find a husband with a hobby like that,” Louisa Mae said as she arched her back with a grimace. “Aren’t most romance writers women? Plus you’re going to keep packing it on if you sit around all day typing on keyboards. You might as well become a secretary. At least that way you could try to snag your boss or a junior executive.”

Louisa Mae walked into the fray of her children, who were now bickering over the remote control, before I could mount a counteroffensive. The only reason my sister went to college was to get her MRS degree. When that didn’t work, she got a job as an Executive Assistant and that’s where she met Charles Rasmussen. There was already a Mrs. Rasmussen, but Charles had insisted they were separated. Luckily, he was divorced before Walter, or was it Brandon, had been born. But it wasn’t something we talked about.

I left my sister to her family and turned to the matriarch of our own.
 

“Ah, there you are, Mary Katherine.”

Pricilla Elizabeth Wallace straightened, pulling a roast out of the oven. She was dressed in a tailored skirt and blouse, looking every bit the Economics Professor she was. My mother was in her early fifties, but she could easily be mistaken for her late thirties. When we were out together, which wasn’t often, we were mistaken for sisters.

“How was your writing club meeting?”

“It was fine, mom. Thanks for asking.” I didn’t bother to correct her. It was fruitless.

Because our mother was a professor, we always had the expectation of getting higher education degrees. My sister studied Art History, so she could be witty at company parties. I’d minored in Literature and majored in Secondary Education my first year in college.

The Education degree wasn’t my idea. It was the only way my mother would pay for such a frivolous minor. She wanted to be sure I had an actual career opportunity on the horizon if my first intention wasn’t to find a husband to support me. That career opportunity was teaching. I’d submitted my sweet romance stories in my sophomore year. By my junior year, I had enough money from my first advance to pay for the extra credits for a double major.

My mother placed the roast on the stovetop. She turned and frowned. “Oh Mary Katherine, I wish you’d dressed for dinner.”

I looked down at myself. My floral sundress was fine for a business meeting. I thought it was all right for a family dinner. That is, if this was just a family dinner.

“Why?” I looked down the hallway to the front door. “It’s just us right?”

Mom didn’t meet my eyes “Where’s your father? I asked him to bring in an extra chair. I swear the man is useless. I even wrote it down for him.”

“Mom? Why would we need an extra chair if it’s just us four at the adult table?”

“And I’m sure you’ll only want one helping of the roast.” My mother glanced at my Spanx-addled midsection, pretending not to hear me.

I knew she was pretending because she had the same crinkle in her eye she got when my father spoke to her.

“Kurt,” she called.

“You don’t have to yell, Priscilla.” My dad entered the kitchen. Unlike my mother, my father looked his age. The years hadn’t been kind to him and he had developed a bit of a beer belly along with a streak of gray in his brown hair. But he was still very handsome.

“I’m right here,” he said.

“You weren’t right here,” insisted my mother. “That’s why I had to yell. You didn’t bring the extra chair.”

“Extra chair for who?” My dad turned and saw me. His face lit up as though he saw a small spot of shade in the glaring sun. “Hello, Mary Katherine.”

Dad leaned in and bussed me on the cheek. Mixed in with his cologne was a floral scent I knew wasn’t my mother’s brand of perfume. Pulling away, I caught a shade of lipstick on his collar that didn’t match my mother’s skin tone.

“Hey, daddy.” I smiled and kept my mouth shut. It wasn’t something we talked about.

My father had been out of work for two years now. Before that my mom had quickly surpassed him as breadwinner. Before I went to college, I’d noticed that the extra set of guest sheets were often missing from the linen closet. I once found them in my sister’s old room. I don’t know the last time my parents slept in the same bedroom. Or the last time they’d shown any affection towards each other. My writing got me out of the house and out from under my mom’s thumb. Dad wasn’t so lucky.

“Kurt, will you please get an extra chair?” My mother’s tone was a pitch perfect match to my sister’s who I could hear scolding one of the boys in the other room.

My father scowled, but turned and did as he was told.

“Who’s coming to dinner, mom?”

“Did I not tell you? The local high school is looking for an English teacher?”
 

“I met the principal at the school board meeting,” said my sister coming into the kitchen. “He’s young and handsome.”

“And single,” said my mom.

Dad came back into the kitchen with the extra chair.

My mother pointed to indicate where my father should set the chair; right next to my usual spot at the dinner table. “So when he gets here, Mary Katherine, don’t talk about those little romance stories you write. We wouldn’t want him to think you’d be teaching the kids trashy writing.”

I stared at the chair that my father unfolded and placed next to my spot. I looked over at my mother, who was carving a thin slice of roast that had my name on it. I glanced at my sister who rubbed her belly absentmindedly with her left hand until her wedding band snagged the fabric of her dress. I looked back at my father who glared at my mother behind her back as he shoved the guest chair up to the table.

I saw the bars at the back of the chair; the unbendable, cold, steel bars. My feet moved towards the front door of their own accord. “I can’t stay.”

“But it’s family night,” said my dad. His hand reached out toward me as though I were a puffy cloud taking away his moment in the shade.

“I have a deadline for one of those trashy stories,” I said. “It’s on my brain and since Mom doesn’t want me to talk about it in front of your guest…”

I didn’t bother to finish the sentence. I made a beeline for the front door. Then I ran until I got to Lucille. She started on the first try. We tore out of there -speed limit be damned. When I got home, I knew my only choice would be to open up some doors and let out some steam.