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The embarrassment is painful and unbearable. The knowledge that I was so close to success hurts almost as much. But my broken heart? #nowords

If I’d managed to keep my wits about me, I would have seen this coming a mile away.
Of course
Charlie Shivers would use me for sex and then toss me aside as casually as a condom. Why would he care? We’re enemies and he’s made that clear from day one. He mocked me in a conference panel. He demanded I dress up for him for sex. He dragged my name through the mud, laughing, mocking me, while lying to my face.

I’m such a fool. And he was such a good actor. I actually thought he was starting to care. I actually thought…oh, it’s so embarrassing!

But fuck him, right? He’s a bad person. He’s not a real author. He’s barely a real human. Someone who would do what he did is obviously broken inside. Just look at his books! If those titles don’t scream “childhood trauma,” I don’t know what does.

I sit at a light, feeling slightly vindicated, remembering that I also used him for sex. I just got caught up in the moment is all, between all the booze and the music and the magic of writers’ conferences. He didn’t own any part of my heart. He didn’t even own my vagina. He was just an easy lay to pass the time.

Except he wasn’t. And I wasn’t. And it all wasn’t that neat.

As the light turns green, I cry even harder. Because I’m a goddamn fool. I have to swerve to stay in my lane because the tears are so thick.

And then, of course, blue and red police lights go off behind me. Because I hadn’t reached worst-day-of-my-life status yet. Wait, I hadn’t? I signal to pull over and slide to a rough stop. I frantically try to wipe the tears and snot away, but the more I wipe, the more comes.

“Um.” The cute officer (of course he’s cute) looks my rubber-suited self up and down, and visibly decides not to ask. “License and proof of insurance, please, miss.”

I dig through my purse, sniffing and sobbing, and hand it over. I wipe my nose on my rubber sleeve (do not do this, it is an abject and disgusting failure) and wonder if he’ll take pity on me because I’m crying. That works in the movies, right? He walks away without saying a word. Great. Now I’m going to walk—waddle—away with a ticket. Everything is ruined and everything is Charlie Shivers’ fault.

The cop appears back in my window, and I take a look at him. Through my tear-filled eyes, he looks familiar. I sniff again and try to bat my thick eyelashes. “Has anyone ever told you that you look like Eric Hosmer?”

He smiles at me, and for some godawful reason, it makes me cry harder. When I finally settle down, he hands me a tissue from his magical tool belt. “I realize now you are Miranda Rose, so you won’t be getting a ticket tonight. If you weren’t you, though, the Hosmer reference would have definitely downgraded you to a non-moving violation.”

“You’re not…?” Words fail me. My brain can barely comprehend what’s going on, thick with sorrow and tears and utter devastation. Is he a fan?

“Are you a fan? I could maybe sign something, or…?”

“LOL! Nope!” He smiles and it’s devilishly handsome. The handsomeness just reminds me of Joe, and I start to cry all over again, quietly. “But hey, tell my buddy Joe to call Spence, okay?” He flashes a wicked smile and disappears into the night.

I freeze. He knows Joe? There can only be one Joe that this refers to. And the Hosmer look-alike
knows
of me? Oh god, this means he told all his friends about me.

He told his friends about me? Like, I meant enough to him, or…

Wait. No.
Ugh!
This means he probably told them everything, including how I dressed up like Trump for sex. Oh my god, this is so embarrassing. This is so awful. Just when I didn’t think it could get worse, it did. It does.

But it’s over, right? I take a deep breath and tell myself it is. Tonight is the end. No one at the conference will see each other again for another year. And after this, I probably won’t go back next year. Or ever again. I won’t ever show my face in front of these people ever, ever again.

Stuck on the side of the road, coated in tears, a blooper highlight reel rolls through my head: getting jilted, again, by the Queens of Hearts; accidentally banging my own worst enemy; losing my shit in public at the writing panel because he got under my skin; getting busted having sex at said panel; wearing a Trump suit to another sexual assignation; wearing a dinosaur costume to the dance; Bethany humiliating me, again, in public, like it was some sort of sick pleasure…

I can never go to RTW again. Never again. Ever. I may even have to change my pen name.

But then right behind it follows a highlight reel of the week. Granted, it’s ninety-nine percent sex, but that other one percent is full of Joe. Joe challenging me. Joe teaching me. Joe confessing his affection for me. He even told me he wanted the
real
me. More than once.

And then it hits me hard. Out of nowhere. I know what I have to do.

W
elp
. That’s going to be real hard to come back from. I’m now pretty certain—make that one hundred percent certain—Miranda will never, ever, ever talk to me again. And the night started off so well! We were bonded, connected, made whole together. I’ve never had so much fun dancing with a big sparkling dinosaur in my entire life! She even admitted to liking one of my books. #breakthrough

We were a match made in romance heaven. You could have written a book about
us
. Everything was perfect. Perfect. And then…

You know the things nightmares are made of? They infected the masquerade ball and stuck themselves to me like fucking leeches. Bethany Snatchface Bonafont is the queen leech, too. Queen of Hearts, my ass. That evil bitch is Queen of the Goddamn Underworld.

I hunt her down in her uglyass Betty Boop costume, surrounded by all her admirers and hangers-on. She is the one destroying romance, not me. I grab her shoulder, spin her around, and shove my finger in her face. “You.”

She has the nerve to bat her eyelashes at me. “Why, hello there, Charlie. Where’s your girlfriend?”

“You are the biggest, most fossilized spaceshit I’ve ever met in my life.” I stay as smooth as silk, but underneath, I’m running so hot I could melt her face off. “Do you get off being such a cuntnugget? Do you jerk off in the middle of the night, dreaming up ways to crush sweet people?”

Her dainty little jaw of death drops, like she’s offended. “Oh my goodness, Charlie. I’m so sorry. Did I upset your girlfriend?”

“You know exactly what you did.” My voice is dangerous. “And you’re a total douchecanoe for doing it.”

“I mean, she had a right to know, didn’t she?” Bethany bats her eyelashes again. “If I were in her shoes, I’d want to know the guy I’m cozying up to totally torpedoed me in a competition.”

“You bitch,” I hiss.

“Name-calling is so unattractive.” She flashes her teeth, more menacing than a smile. “It’s such a shame, really. You two looked like you were having such a good time. But I couldn’t, in my good conscience, let it pass knowing what I know. I owed it to her. Girl-code. Surely you understand.”

“I understand you’re a snake in the grass. How are you a romance writer again?”

“Author,” she corrects. “And a damn good one. Listen, maybe if you hadn’t decided to discredit our amazing conference by
fornicating
in a conference room…”

“Is that what this is about?” I stare at her hard, and I notice she falters just a touch. “Because I turned you down?”

She feigns shock, but I can see right through it. “I am
married
, thank you very much. How dare you accuse me of such a thing?”

“Right. You didn’t seem so concerned about your husband when you tried to grab my crotch at the beginning of the conference, now did you?”

“I am so offended!” She clutches her heart, but I see her friends start to titter around her like idiots. Oh,
ho
. They didn’t know their queen would stoop to this? How did they think I ever got on that panel? I’m wildly unqualified.

She tries to recover. “How dare you! If I ever came close to your unmentionables, it was because I stumbled and fell. I’m not the one whipping out my goods in a public place.”

“Oh, you know as well as I do how intentional it was. There was nothing accidental about the way you fell all over me at the opening mixer. Can’t stand competition, can you?”

“I’m not going to honor this conversation,” she sniffs and holds her head high. “I’m not going to be insulted like this. You are in the wrong here, Charlie, not myself. How dare you try to drag me down into your filth.”

“I hope your husband eventually discovers the rat you are and leaves your ass in the trash. I hope you find yourself living in a matchbook-sized apartment, drowning your sorrows in boxed wine, when you finally realize how pathetic your life is.”

Bethany blinks at my words but shoves on a bright smile and takes a sip of her wine. Joke’s on her, the bar is super already using boxed wine. I feel slightly vindicated already. Maybe I can see the future! I hope so. I would love for her to be as ruined as poor Miranda’s heart is right now.

“Enjoy the rest of your night, Charlie. Good luck selling those silly little pieces of filth you call novels.”

Bethany leaves in a flurry of her friends, all fawning over her and shooting me nasty looks. I stand there, frozen and unclear what my next move is. Where do I go from here?

That awful, awful woman. She ruined everything. Didn’t she? It wasn’t me. Was it?

I collapse in a nearby chair, analyzing the evening and how it took such an abrupt turn towards hell. Maybe, maybe this was all for the best anyway. Maybe this was how things were meant to be. I go down the same list I’ve gone down a thousand times this week.

Randi Rose is the biggest troll under my bridge. She one-stars and shit talks all my releases. She tried to make me look like a chump on a panel. She only used me for hate-sex, which was admittedly hot, but didn’t carry much substance.

If I’m being totally honest, I’m terrible for her. I’m a tumbling dickweed. I write bizarre-porn and I forced the poor girl to dress up like a douche for sex. She clearly hated herself every time we were together. What kind of relationship is that? It’s terrible. It’s no good for anyone.

Besides, I have a career to attend to. A satirical career I can’t ever tell my grandma about, but a career nonetheless. A career she’s trying to torpedo. A career that pays my bills and keeps my sainted dog full of kibble and treats. A career that funds my buddy lunches and keeps my belly full of beer and burnt ends.

Priorities, Joe. Your priorities are writing, not the girl who tickles your pickle. You didn’t even know her when you submitted your vote.

I meander back to the bar, mask over my face, staunchly ignoring everyone around me. I feel like such an asshole. Why did I even do it? Why did I block her award? Because I was jealous? Because I wanted to get her back for throwing up one negative review in the midst of hundreds of good ones? That was petty of me. She doesn’t deserve that.

But then, I don’t deserve someone who hates my work. She clearly doesn’t get it. She doesn’t
get
me. Everything happens for a reason, right? Maybe this was Life dropping the guillotine once and for all. We’re better off without each other. I seesaw again with my feelings.

Still, it didn’t need to end this way. I didn’t need to see her try to keep her shit together as she ran off. I didn’t need to see the effect of my actions. That carries a heavy sort of guilt that just eats at me.

Fuck, I’m a dick. I pride myself on being a lot of things, but A Dick is not one of them.

A gong sounds and everyone scrambles for the tables. The awards ceremony is about to begin. I sip my Jameson, but it doesn’t even taste good anymore as I stare at all these happy people, all these thriving and aspiring authors who are none the wiser that I just ruined someone’s night. Maybe her life.

All these people who think everything in publishing is fair and nothing is rigged.

It feels like the curtain has been pulled back. Like the Wizard has been exposed. Everything is bullshit. This conference is bullshit. These awards are bullshit.

Bethany Snatchface takes the podium to announce best romantic comedy. I don’t hear the words coming out of her mouth, only see a split tongue flickering against slitted eyes. And then the creature opens her devil mouth and calls out, “Charlie Shivers!”

#nope

The ballroom erupts in applause, but my legs remain still. Of course I won. The competition was pathetic, and I’m king of what I do, and the same panel of judges I was on only vote for their friends, I know this for a fact. So I don’t effing deserve it. I stand and blow through the ballroom doors, leaving the applause behind.

I can’t accept this award. If I did, I’d be the biggest asshole on the planet. I ruined this night for someone who really wanted the award, the accolades, the recognition. I ruined it for someone who really
deserved
it. I write dick jokes for a living, and she pours her soul into her work. She earned the award I blocked her from, and I don’t deserve anything.

The thing I keep coming back to is how petty my reasons were. So she one-starred me. It means nothing in the long term, not with my backlist and street team and followers. Not with my countless other five-stars and devoted fans. Not with my success and fame. Not with editors courting me in foreign countries.

She can’t even get an agent. I’ve had four offers this week.

Miranda deserved this award. She deserved the sales that would have come from it. And I, the selfish fucking asshole, blocked her from the recognition and sales that should rightfully be hers. Recognition and sales that I already have. She took literally nothing from me by one-starring me, but I took everything from her by blocking her chance at success.

I have never felt lower in my life.

I throw the mask away in a nearby trash can and stalk to the elevator, overwhelmed with…I can’t even pin a name on it. I’m guilty, I’m angry, I’m devastated, I’m sad. I ruined everything. I’m not supposed to be the guy who ruins everything.

Part of me knew I was being a King Kong sized dickface, but I assumed she had just as much hatred towards me. That was our Thing! That we do! The difference is her hatred cost me nothing, but mine cost her everything in this business. Everyone here knew Miranda was trying to get in with Bethany Bonafont, and everyone knew Bethany was treating her like trash. I made her smell more desperate, more pathetic. She’s none of those things. She’s amazing, and I ruined it.

In the elevator, a pair of teens get handsy in a corner. All I can see is me pinning Miranda down in the elevator our first night together. I have to look away and bite my lip, because otherwise I’ll start crying like a baby girl.

Instead, I wait until I get to my hotel room. I throw everything not nailed down. I scream. I curse. I punch a pillow until it splits at the seams. And then, when all the anger has burned out, I take out my notebook and make a new plan. Step one: leave ASAFP.

I throw a one hundred dollar bill down on the desk for the cleaning crew (#baller) and throw all my shit in my suitcase. I can’t be here anymore. I don’t deserve to be here, surrounded by people who want to get my autograph and inflate my ego.

I’ve probably ruined two suits and a handful of nice shirts by jamming them in my bag, but I ran out of fucks to give about an hour ago. I just need out of here. I need to go home, to the safety of my turf, to my sweet dog who will still love the shit out of me even if I’m mean.

The Uber home is quick, disappears before I know it because I’m so in my head. As soon as I open the door, I’m mauled by Gus. For one fleeting minute, I feel like everything will be okay.

“Bromplestiltskin!” Nick is lounging in my recliner, watching the Royals kick some ass. At least some things are still right in this world. #champions

“I didn’t expect you until later,” he says, and I scramble to find an ego-saving answer.

Ted and Ben are snuggling on the couch, beers in hand. It’s like someone put my life on pause for the last week and just pressed play. I throw my suitcase in my bedroom, which smells distinctly of shit (balls, part of me hoped he was joking about not cleaning,) and grab a beer from the fridge. Gus, my ever loyal companion, follows me around, his little tail stump wagging so hard his ass is thrown off balance.

“Eh, dances are stupid.” I drop onto the couch next to my boys and drain half the bottle. I should have grabbed two. “I was over the conference scene.”

“How did the awards ceremony go?” Ben asks. He knows how much I’ve been looking forward to this. It’s like a dagger in my side.

I shrug and try to look nonplussed. It’s time to get my bro face on. “Eh, I didn’t care about the awards ceremony in the end. It’s so full of politics that it was hard to give a shit.”

“How were the ladies?” Ted winks at me.

I swallow down the rest of my beer and get up for another. Nick gives me a funny look, but I ignore it and lean against the kitchen counter, fresh beer in hand. “Groupies everywhere. Kind of pathetic. I did sign my fair share of tits, though.”

“I never understood that.” Ben furrows his brow. “That washes off. What’s the point?”

I shrug. “Who cares? I got to touch them while I signed.” Except I only enjoyed one pair. Miranda’s perfect C’s. “Hard to compete against all the male models there, though. Some of those guys were fucking ripped. Google Shane Rice for fun later.”

Ben flexes and kisses his bicep. “I could be a book model. Sign me up.”

“So girls could throw their panties at you?” Ted visibly shivers. “Nasty.”

“I could do it.” Nick pats his beer belly. “The dad bod is totally a thing now.”

“I could do gay covers with Ted,” Ben says. “Oh my god, we could be cover models for bigshot over there! Why haven’t we done this before?”

“Because I want actual attractive people on my covers.”

“Fuck you.” Ben throws a couch pillow at me, and it falls near Nick’s feet. “Shit.”

I laugh, but it feels forced. I swallow down another mouthful of beer.

“Anyway, I think I’m on to something here,” Ben continues. “Let me and Ted be your next cover models. We’ll wear any sort of sparkly dinosaur costumes you want.” Twist that knife, buddy. He leans over and nuzzles Ted.

Watching the two of them together is another stab in the gut. All I can see is bringing Miranda over to my place, letting her meet the guys, getting into a PDA-off with Ben and Ted. I grab another beer and slap myself behind the open refrigerator door. I need to get my shit together.

“By my math, it would only take a dozen covers to send us on a week-long vacation to the islands. Six would give us two weeks in Mexico.”

The game ends with a win for my boys in blue and a half-assed promise to take strange photos of Ben and Ted, which would normally make me happy, but instead remind me even more of the shit I ruined. Nick walks them out and then turns to study me.

“What happened?”

“Nothing.” I shake my head and let out a belch. “What’s up?”