Topped (10 page)

“I’m sorry, sir. We aren’t allowed to give out personal information for our guests.”

“I know. I’ve watched all the TV shows.” I sigh. “Can you help a brother out? We’re supposed to be on a panel together soon for the conference, and I need to compare notes. It’s purely business related. Plus, I can leave a stack of signed books for you.”

There’s a long, drawn-out sigh on the other end of the phone. “What did you say the name was?”

“Randi Rose.”

I can hear her rapid-fire fingers typing away. “We don’t have anyone staying here by that name.”

“Okay, what about Miranda…Rose.” Because fuck if I even know her last name. Goddammit. I’m terrible at this shit.

“No one here by that name either.”

I hang up on the poor girl without another word and scrub my face with my hands. She said she lives in KC. Could I get her address out of someone who knows her? I’ve seen her running around with two other girls from the conference. Maybe one of them would be susceptible to a bit of the old McCoy charm.

But wait a tic! How could I have forgotten? I
also
have a friend. A friend on the force. A friend who will do anything I ask for a sixer and some nice cigars. A friend named Spence. I pull out my cell phone and hit his number.

“Broba Fett!” Spence answers the phone. See? He’s my people. Love the shit out of him. He used to do Buddy Lunch, but work and the new lady have kept him sidelined lately. “What’s up?”

“Rice-o-Broni!” I wish he were here so we could high-five. “I need a favor.”

“Shoot.”

“I need you to find someone for me. I think she lives here in the city, and I need an address.”

“I’m getting serious stalker vibes.”

I give him a brief rundown of what happened. “Come on, help a bro out.”

“LOL!” Spence literally says el-oh-el. He’s such an ass. “You want me to play private detective and track down your bangable?”

“I mean, when you put it that way…”

“I could get fired! Clearly, I’ll do it.”

We hang up and I somehow finish the whole damn book. It’s really, really good. I feel weird aches in my heart, too, which is not cool. What is this feeling? Maybe she’s on to something with this whole “cry while you write” shit. Just as I finish, Spence calls back.

“Good news, Tim Te-bro! Miranda’s last name
is
Rose, and I have an address. She lives like right next door to my fiancée’s best friend Jane. I may stalk her a little on your behalf.”

“Get a life, Spence.”

“I’m not the one hitting up the PD for dirt on a one-nighter, but cool.”

“You’re the man. I owe you.”

“I accept payment in my usual form. Now I have to go play big boy policeman. Enjoy your pussy conference or whatever.”

I shower up and try to figure out if I want to TP her house or fork the lawn. Maybe I’ll read another one of her books and think it over. I’m like a third-grader pulling the hair of a girl he thinks is pretty.

By the time I’m out of the shower, I’ve decided I really shouldn’t do anything to her house. That’d be entirely too creepy if I got caught. Still, I want to see her. For research! Maybe she’ll be down at the bar! I get dressed in my nicest shirt and hang out with my ol’ buddy Chad the Bartender. He hooks me up with whiskey after whiskey, but there’s no Miranda.

There’s not even a Queen of Heart around to make fun of. Was there some sort of party I missed? I pull up the conference schedule on my phone and don’t see anything. I want to kick myself for leaving the conference early, because I clearly missed something. Besides my entire day, holed up reading like that.

I close the bar out, hoping to catch her before someone else in here does, but there’s not one inch of Miranda to be seen. I mope back up to my hotel room, weirdly disappointed, and entirely too drunk. I barely make it to my bed before passing out, stopping only to pet the pillow and call it a good dog.

Maybe, just maybe, I had too much to drink.

I
’m barely awake
the next morning when Jane knocks. All night was spent tossing and turning, lamenting over the fact that I slept with the enemy—for a second time. If you looked up the word
regrets
, my bleary-eyed picture would be next to it, with mussed hair and a coffee cup clenched between my fists. #regrets

I couldn’t even write last night. I tried to roll my way into my office and at least make use of the time I was awake, but nothing came. Awake, tormented, and unable to write. That’s what sleeping with Charlie Shivers has done to me. I am ruined. This is beyond unacceptable. #regrets

The worst part is, I totally loved it. I thought the sex was incredible the first time around? Like, write-home-and-embarrass-the-fuck-out-of-your-oversharing-mother incredible? Even better the second time, in public against a wall while spewing vitriol at one another. God help me, I’m a lost cause. There’s only one thing left to do: confess my sins and drown myself in some holy water. And by holy water, I mean vodka. #noregrets

Jane comes in, looking far more refreshed than I am, and she just got off work. She has no donuts to cheer me and she drinks the last of my coffee, so I hate her. I tell her as much, and all she does is laugh at me.

“You look like you had a rough night. What happened to the hottie? Nice hickeys, by the way! Looks like the plan worked after all.”

“It worked too well,” I groan and lay my head down on the counter. I can feel Jane staring at me. “That whole ‘don’t get his name’ business was a terrible idea, because he was Charlie Shivers all along.”

“Charlie Shivers?” Jane’s face twists a moment. “Wait, my favorite writer that I can’t admit to you Charlie Shivers? Butts and dinosaurs Charlie Shivers?”

“Yes!” I beat my fist on the counter. “The very one! I hate him, Jane. I hate him. And he hates me. Worst of all, we had to be on a panel together, and we spent the entire time talking shit about each other. He actually said I looked like the kind of girl who cries over my wineglass while I write.”

“Damn, he pegged you straight away.” I glare at her, and she holds her hands up in surrender. “Sorry. Just saying. So what happened?”

“He acted like he was hot shit and knew what he was doing, and I set about proving that he was a hack. I wish you could have seen the panel, because I served him hard and good. And not in the sexy way, just in the vindication kind of way. It trended on Twitter. Afterwards, well—we yelled at each other and he called me a failure and then…we sort of had hate sex along the wall of a conference room, but then we got walked in on.”

“
What
?” Jane nearly spits out her coffee. “You’re kidding.”

“I wish.” Kind of. I wish it had been anyone but him. I wish I hadn’t gotten myself off thinking about it afterwards. I wish I hadn’t done it twice.

“I want to write fan fiction about your life right now. He sure sounds like something.”

“If by ‘something,’ you mean the sexiest asshole I wish I’d never laid eyes on, then yes.”

“Funny you said laid…don’t smack me! How was it? The hate sex against a wall, I mean?”

I groan and take a long sip of coffee to try and quell the pinkness flaring up in my cheeks. “Really good. Like, really, really good.”

“Ha!” Jane claps her hands. “That’s my girl! I bet it was. They say there is no sex better than hate sex. I wouldn’t know. Bobby won’t even fight with me for fun.”

“I hate you so much. Almost as much as I hate him.”

“Impossible. You love me. Unless that was a proposition, cause I know what you do with people you hate now.” I choose to ignore her. She thinks she’s funny.

“I’m totally screwed, Jane. I can’t get him out of my head, and I hate him with a burning, fiery passion. I’m going to name a character Joe and then kill him in every book from now on. He deserves it.”

“Damn.”

“Don’t judge me. You didn’t consort with the enemy. Regrets!”

“Enemy seems really…dramatic.”

“Oh yeah?” I pull out my phone and log on to Goodreads. “Just yesterday, some asshole named JoeM one-starred every book I have. Every. Single. Book.
And then
, they one-starred every book on Amazon. And then upvoted all my negative reviews.”

“How do you know it was him?”

“Because of course it was.”

“But if you don’t know his last name, how can you be sure he is JoeM?”

“Because I know!” I beat the countertop again, angry. “Because there can’t be that many Joes out to get me. There are no coincidences, just nasty people named JoeM who one-star your entire body of work that you sweated and cried over. And by you, I obviously mean me.”

“Okay.” I don’t like the way she is looking at me over her blush brush. “Isn’t he the same one
you
one-star all the time? Pot? Kettle? Both black?”

“That is hardly the point.” I wave her off loftily, along with the suspicion that she is correct. “He has more reviews than I do, so one review won’t tank him. But one of my older books just dropped down to three stars because of him, and if I see him today, I’ll kill him.”

“Just remember.” Jane forces me to sit up so she can color-correct the hickeys on my neck. “You don’t look good in orange.”

“Whatever.” I roll my eyes at her like a child because this has reduced me to that. I am now the immature person I accused
him
of being.

Why am I letting him get under my skin so much? And into my pants so much?

He’s scum. He’s an upstart quack not worth my time. But all I can think about, while Jane is dusting on makeup, is his dumb face. How hot he is, how hot the sex is, how much I want to ram my fist into his stupid hot face for calling me terrible names and messing up my review average. How dare he! Whether or not I do it is irrelevant.

At least I
read
his books, but I know good and well he’s never touched one of mine. And he one-starred them anyway.

Hate isn’t even strong enough a word.

After I form my street team, I’m sending them all after him. Every last one of them will one-star him and upvote all his terrible reviews. It’ll be a full-blown attack on that scumbag, and he’ll deserve every last bit of it. I have
got
to work on forming a street team.

“You two sound completely juvenile.” Jane actually laughs at me while I’m fuming. “This is like the kind of stuff people pull in elementary school, where they are mean to the boy or girl they like. Grown-ups aren’t supposed to act like this.”

“Believe me, none of this was my idea. He started it.” I cringe at the childish tone in my own voice, but I would still stomp my foot if I could.

“So I’m sure it’s all his fault you two had sex.”

“One hundred percent.” It
is
, too. If he hadn’t been so handsome and charming, I never would have slept with him.

“You offering him shots had nothing to do with it.”

“Whose side are you on, anyway?” I scowl at her, and she smacks the brush against my face. I even out my features so she can continue working but let out a long, frustrated sigh. “You’re supposed to side with me.”

“I am. He’s a bad, bad man. And if you don’t want to hate yourself anymore, I strongly suggest you stop having sex with him at once.”

“I would never do it with him again. Never.” Probably never. Maybe never.

“Liar.”

“He’s my—”

“Arch-nemesis. Got it.” Jane shakes her head and gently dusts something off my face. She stares at me with her head cocked for a minute and finally gives me a thumbs-up. “You’re ready to go.”

“Good. I need to get to the conference early and settle into Work Mode. I can hardly concentrate with him all up in my head.”

“Kick him out of your thoughts. You’re here to glad-hand all the big shots and sell some books to a pretty publisher. Focus, girlfriend.”

I throw back the rest of my coffee. “Focusing.”

The whole drive to the Marriott, I’m chanting, “
Focus, focus, focus
.” Time to get back into the swing of the conference and ignore the torrential fuckery I’m causing in my life. This week is supposed to be
fun
. And I’ve had great sex and picked up some great marketing tips, so it’s not all a loss.

All I can think about, despite chanting for focus, is how Jane said I needed more romance in my life. She couldn’t have been more wrong. Just look at me. A taste of romance, even bad romance, and I’ve lost my way completely. A lack of focus is bad for business, and now I’m cheating on my real boyfriend—my career. How could I do this to myself?

“We’ve been looking for you!” Evelyn runs up to me as I walk into the hotel conference center, making a beeline for the coffee machine.

“I can’t take any more bad news,” I warn her, pouring a heavy cup and ignoring my usual cream and sugar additions. Today I need black and bitter, just like my sad, pathetic little heart. “So if you’re about to drop another bomb on me…”

“Nothing like that,” Vanessa promises. “Have you looked at the schedule for today? We’re debating between a bestseller panel and a voice workshop.”

“I don’t think I need any help with voice.” I chew on a straw. “So I might pass on that.”

“You really don’t,” Evelyn sighs dreamily. I love her. She’s the best cheerleading critique partner a girl could ask for. “Your voice is immaculate. There are a few other marketing seminars after the bestseller panel that I want to check out, one run by a small press.”

“I’m so tired of small presses,” I sigh. “Don’t get me wrong, they’ve done marvelous things for people and having that symbol on my book would be amazing. I just…I want Big Five, you know? I want one of the big leaguers to come knocking down my door for a book. I need validation.”

“We all do,” Vanessa commiserates. “But small press could be a great start. Plus, they could provide a better marketing budget than any of us can swing individually. Any press is good press, right?”

“I just want Entwined to call me.” I sip the bitter coffee and wince, but chug along anyway. What would I do if they did? Shriek inwardly but try and stay cool. What would I do if Joe called me? Probably the same. Wait.

What was I saying earlier about focus? Shit.

“Let’s do the panel,” Vanessa decides for us, looking over the schedule. “I’m dying to hear what Vicki St. James has to say, anyway. That woman is amazing.”

The three of us bow our heads in reverence at the name. Vicki St. James is beyond even Bethany the interrupting cow Bonafont. She’s industry legend. She’s everything I want to be and more.

“You’ve got me sold.” I toast them with my cup and toss it, now thoroughly prepared to have a great and informative day.

We take our seats and spend the next hour being wowed and charmed by Vicki, while Bethany Bonafont tries to compete for talking time. How can you compete with
the
St. James? And is it just me, or is Bethany a notorious one-upper? I text Vanessa and Evelyn this, and they both just nod.

Maybe Bonafont isn’t everything I want to be. She’s proven to be a real bitch this conference. Well, okay,
every
conference. But putting her next to Vicki really highlights her shortcomings. I feel the desperation to be loved by her slowly shrinking.

I have amazing friends, after all. I just wanted to bleed out her secrets.

Okay, I still want to bleed out her secrets. Except now, instead of secretly infiltrating her core group and forcing her to love me, I just want to strap her down and force her to talk. Just…not in any kinky sort of way. My original plan of getting her drunk at the bar still works for this. The bar is where all the best stuff happens with writers. Wait.

Let’s all pretend I never slept with Charlie Shivers, okay?

I take a million notes in the panel, and we leave on a total writer-high. Women like Vicki St. James are incredibly inspirational. If someone as down to earth as her can write amazing books and be loved by all, maybe I can do it, too. I don’t have to be a Queen B. I have a small but mighty fan base. I just need to learn how expand it, is all.

We’re making our way to the next panel when I spot
him
from across the room, signing more books. Why is he so magnetic, that wherever I am, I immediately also know where he is? I swear to god, he’s signing something every time I turn around.

Oh, look, he’s signing a girl’s tits.

Well, that’s just classless. He’s a freaking hack, and he’s putting his name on some poor writer’s breasts. Doesn’t this girl know that there are a million other authors here that she can fangirl over, ones more worthy of her time?

I wonder how many fans he sleeps with. This is a terrible road to travel down, I’m fully aware, but that doesn’t stop me from loading up and diving in. He must be mobbed like this often, given how he handles it with ease, like he’s used to this. Must be nice having people flock to you everywhere you go. Not that I’m bitterly jealous or anything.

I’m just saying I wouldn’t sleep with my fans. As evidenced by my sleeping with a dickwad who one-starred my entire collection.

Bitter, thy name is…me.

How many girls does he charm at signings? How many times has he gone into a bar and laid on thick the patent-pending Shivers charm that sends girls swooning, all so he can take them back up to his hotel room? What number am I on that horrific list? Oh god!

This is all I can think about for the rest of the day. Every marketing tip goes in one ear and out the other, because I can’t shake this nasty thought from my brain. I wonder if he does the things he suggests in his books, if that’s why his numbers are so high. I wonder how many girls follow him around bookstores, giggling behind pens and books, ready for an autograph and praying for the chance at something more.

Like butt sex. Does he wear a dinosaur mask when he does it? Am I weirdly disappointed he didn’t do it with me? Am I not good enough?

What if I wasn’t the only one this week? What if he picked up more than one girl and took her to his makeshift lair? Jealousy pumps into my veins and takes over my brain. I can’t shake it, can’t break it, can’t get away from the fact that this may be who he is, and I’ve been used to sate some disgusting caveman-like drive to sow wild oats.