Strider’s Misstep (Mayhem Makers: Wretched Soulz MC)

Chapter 12

CHAPTER TWELVE

JASMINE

TODAY’S THE DAY…

I wake up feeling a bit fuzzy and regretting that last night I slightly overindulged at the meet-and-greet party. It had been an amazing time, getting to see and talk to other authors and some of the readers who are staying at the resort. While Sheri had backed out early due to her pregnancy, StoryTeller had stayed with me.

I’d gotten plenty of comments about the handsome biker who stayed glued to my side and, more than once, had to hastily correct the misassumption. I do think he was a bit of a draw for some of the readers. It is Motorcycles, Mobsters and Mayhem, after all. With his long hair, his cut and aquiline features, he’s the epitome of a bad boy. I’m hoping he’ll be a similar draw to my table today.

I meant to take advantage of setting up my table last night, which would have been the sensible thing to do, but time and drink had gotten away from me. So now, I’ve woken up with a myriad of things to do and, as I come to myself, anxious that I won’t get it all done on time.

Leaping out of bed, then having to sit down again as the fast movement makes my head swim, I move more gingerly and slowly, shower, and dress myself ready for the day. I’ve just completed my makeup when a knock sounds at the door.

Having identified StoryTeller and Sheri, I open it.

“You’re freaking out.” Sheri greets me with a laugh after just one look at my face.

Gesturing at the boxes behind me and the bags of preorders Sheri and I had packed up yesterday, I explain, “I’ve got to get this lot downstairs and set up…”

“Plenty of time,” Sheri interrupts. “We’ve got a plan for your table, remember? Now you need some food inside you, so come down to breakfast.”

My stomach churns at the idea of having anything to eat, but I suppose I need to try.

The gratefulness that I’ve Sheri and her man to lean on doesn’t subside after they’ve topped me up with coffee, and made me eat some bacon and eggs. It even grows when StoryTeller commandeers a trolley to take all my boxes to the signing room in one go. I’m almost a spare part as Sheri directs StoryTeller on how everything should be placed. Ineffectually, I hand books and swag to her as she sets it all out and then directs StoryTeller to erect my banner and stand it behind the table. Her prior knowledge of signings and organisational skills have really come to my aid.

When I protest I should be doing more, she laughs and tells me I’ll be busy enough when the doors open and the readers arrive.

She’s even got the preorder bags lined up alphabetically before an announcement comes.

“All authors are to report to the foyer for the group photo.”

I feel like I’m in another universe when I go out alongside people whose books I’ve read and admired for years. Somehow, I end up alongside Winter Travers who has such an amazing way with words. And who I quickly discover is an amazingly kind woman as well, as she helps me position myself so I won’t be hidden among the taller authors. Even so, I keep my face slightly averted.

I smile, laugh at the professional photographer’s quips designed to get the best pictures, and then return to my table to find my second assistant has arrived.

Helo. Wow, she’s striking—tall with short hair. I’m tongue-tied when I go to greet her, but surprisingly, she seems a little nervous as well.

“I’ve read your books,” she tells me, shaking her head and admitting, “I don’t normally read fiction, but I loved yours. While you’ve successfully steered clear of identifying the Soulz, you’ve really captured their spirit. When’s the next one out?”

My cheeks burn at her compliment. Nice comments about my writing are for some reason difficult to take, so I turn the tables on her. “I know your background. I’d love to pick your brains so I can include a Night Stalker in one of my stories.”

Her eyes widen. “Really? I’d love that. We’ll talk, yeah?”

Oh, so yeah. I’m so caught up in ideas about the type of information I can get from her that I almost miss the announcement that the VIP ticket holders are starting to come in. Sheri’s already sitting at the table. I sit in the middle, with Helo on my other side. StoryTeller stands, arms folded behind us like some sexy bodyguard. I rummage in my rucksack for my journal to start picking the Night Stalker’s brain and make some notes, when my name, well, J Frobisher, is asked in a nervous, inquisitive voice.

I glance up. “That’s me,” I confirm, realising any of the three of us could be her. I haven’t included my real imagery in any of the publicity. It’s still ingrained in me to avoid revealing my face.

“I love your books,” the bubbly young woman in front of me says. “I’ve got a preorder.” As she tells us her name, Sheri confidently starts looking through the bags. “Can I take a photo with you?”

I’ve already noticed it’s common practice for the authors to stand posed with their fans and take selfies with them. While the idea of having my face plastered anywhere fills me with concern, I’d look like a bitch if I refused to comply. So, swallowing my worries down, persuading myself that even in the unlikely event Barclay was still looking for me, he’s unlikely to search in the social media pages of romance readers.

When I allow her to move me in front of my banner so she gets the full effect, I feel like a rock star as I beam into her phone’s camera.

While I’d convinced myself a few photographs probably wouldn’t put me in any danger, as I sit down, I come up with a contingency plan. This event will be long over by the time Barclay could come across any photos, and I’ll be back living in anonymity by then. But maybe it will be safer to move out of state. That wouldn’t be a problem. I can write anywhere.

I don’t have long to worry about what might happen after the signing as during it I’m much busier than I ever expected. As well as those who’ve placed preorders, other readers stop when they pass by my table. As expected, StoryTeller is proving a draw. After a worried glance at Sheri, I relax, seeing she’s more amused than concerned about the women who are openly flirting with her man. As for him? He’s polite but dismissive and rests his hand on her shoulder as if to reassure her he’s not going anywhere. I bank little things about their strong relationship in my mental book as it’s good background for another novel.

VIP entry over, general admission starts. Now the room really begins to get busy. Lunch comes and goes, and, at last, all my preorders have been collected. There seems to be a lull and my bladder is killing me.

Standing, I tell them, “I need to take a break.”

“Going to the heads?” Helo queries. When I nod, she grins. “I’ll come along.”

I just nod, wondering whether she’s got a weak bladder herself, as she’s been accompanying Sheri on her hourly breaks.

“You’re doing brilliantly,” she confides as we exit the room. “You must be so pleased with the amount you’ve sold.”

I’m nearly out of books and there’s still an hour or so to go. My stocks of swag have been seriously depleted. “I’m overwhelmed,” I reply. “I thought I’d be sitting twiddling my thumbs all day.” I grin at her. “And picking your brains about being a Night Stalker.”

She snorts. “Hell, you can do that anytime, girl.” Her hand touches mine, pausing our forward movement. “Honestly? I really have read your books and you’ve got talent. I’m more than happy to share what I can of my past if you’re truly interested. I know you’d make an amazing story out of it.”

I feel the blood rush to my face as I blush. But as I’ve been trying to ignore my body’s urges for the last couple of hours, the need to pee is really becoming urgent. We’ve started walking again, but I stop short when I see the closed for maintenance signs in front of the lady’s bathroom. Shit.

I feel like I’m in one of my dreams when I’m desperate to go and can never find a facility. I’m looking around for a member of the resort staff to ask where the nearest ones are, when, thank God, a man appears and starts removing the signs.

“All yours,” he says, grinning. Once more I go red, thinking he can read the desperation on my face.

“Jasmine,” Helo says sharply.

I’m literally about to wet myself. Ignoring whatever she’s about to say to me, I race inside, go straight into the nearest cubicle, lower my pants and panties and get down to business. Oh, what a relief. I giggle, knowing I mean that literally.

Finishing up, I flush and step outside to wash my hands. I come to a halt when I see Helo held by two men. Her eyes don’t need to flash the warning. I immediately know I’ve fucked up.

There’s a third man who’s concentrating on me. His lips curve as he smirks. “Your husband awaits you, Katrina.”

For some reason, I believe holding my hands, palms forward, and retreating back into the stall is going to save me. Intellectually, I know it won’t, but my body’s on autopilot. It wouldn’t have been safe, but he grabs me before I can reach it in any event.

“You’re coming with us.” He jerks at my arm.

I’m scared. Terrified. But somehow, I find my voice. I haven’t survived three years away from Barclay without growing a spine. “No, I’m not.” I say firmly, fighting as hard as I can.

All I do is make him snigger. “Oh, yes, you are.”

“What are we going to do about this bitch?” one of the men holding Helo asks. “Shall we kill her?” To demonstrate that they can, another holds a gun pointing straight at her forehead.

I catch my breath. No, no and no. Helo didn’t get decorated as a hero fighting on foreign soil just to die in a woman’s stall on her home turf. I open my mouth to scream she’s got nothing to do with me when Thug One, as I’ve named him, the one holding me, responds, “It will make too much mess if we leave a body. Best disappear as we planned it. Anyway, she could be a bonus. Boss might make some money off her.”

“Doubt it,” Thug Two answers. “She’s got really small tits.” He still holds that gun pointed unwaveringly at her.

“But a nice ass,” the other states firmly. “That might compensate.”

Oh, Helo, what have I gotten you into?

“Let her go,” I cry out. “She’s nothing to do with me. She was just someone coming into the restroom at the same time.”

“Nice try.” Thug One smirks. “She’s been seated at your table all day. We’ve been watching you.” He inclines his head toward the third thug. “Boris’s brother has been working as a janitor which gets him access to all areas.” He moves his gaze from me and considers Helo. “Sorry, not sorry, bitch. But you’ve been inconvenienced just because women have to pee in pairs. Always thought there was something perverted about that. But hey, what do I care? And if the two of you want to make out in front of us, well, you won’t hear any complaints.” He cackles as though he’s made a good joke.

I’m watching Helo carefully, wondering what she’s going to do. If it wasn’t for the gun, I reckon she’d be showing us how she can handle herself. But even a ninja isn’t faster than a bullet. Unlike me, she isn’t shaking like a bag of nerves. She’s still composed, able to ignore the remarks about her physical appearance, which would make me bristle. Her eyes meet mine briefly, but it’s hard to read what she’s thinking.

The door to the restroom bursts open, and my heart leaps for a moment until I see it’s another man. This one is pushing a large laundry basket. From the familial resemblance, I take it that this is Boris’s aforementioned brother.

Before I can take another moment to even think if there’s anything I can do to prevent what’s coming next, there’s a sting in my neck. Slapping my hand on the offending object, I’ve only time to process a syringe before my vision blurs, I lose control of my muscles, and my world turns black.