Chapter Six
August 5, age 24
Why did they make stage lights so goddamn hot? Sweat stains threatened to tip my hand and tell the Good Morning America hosts that I was an imposter. I took a few nervous steps backstage and my sweat-slicked feet slipped within my heels. The book I’d written in college should have been unreadable drivel lost to the slush pile. My compulsion to write it had nothing to do with expectations for the future. The unprecedented fame was debilitating.
“Shit!” My involuntary curse preempted an impact that never came.
Cool hands steadied me, one on my back, the other bracing my elbow before I could fall. I looked reflectively into the empty space, but for all the world, I was utterly alone. He helped me onto the blue-gray sofa perched in front of a giant marquee scene meant for photo ops.
Caliban’s voice was a low, comforting balm. “You’re going to do great.”
“I feel like I’m breaking the law by being here. Like, things like this are not for people like me. Any moment now, the police are going to burst through the door and say, Marlow Thorson, you’re under arrest for being Merit Finnegan. You weren’t allowed to write books or make something of yourself or be invited to a talk show And I’m going to have to say, Of course, officer, I totally get it, take me away in cuffs .”
“That’s not very ACAB of you,” he said. My heart warmed when invisible smiles curved his words like they did every time he told a joke.
My answering smile was short-lived. Anxiety reignited as I emphasized, “I really, really, don’t want to do this.”
“All magic comes at a price,” he said. “Sometimes that price is having to be perceived by the public in order to sell your book.”
“Whatever you say, Confucius.” I shot a worried glance to the door to ensure no one would burst into the green room and catch me speaking to a ghost. “Public speaking is the number one greatest fear across the globe. Eight billion people can’t be wrong.”
He chuckled. “It’s just a conversation between you and the hosts. No one else is there.”
“Like I’m going to take your advice on who is and isn’t present.” I wiped my hands on the high-waisted trousers I’d paired with a black bandeau. Black on black on black was an authorly cliché, and I suspected it had its reasons. We were a breed of introverts, and the color helped to conceal the evidence of our panic.
“I’m tired of talking about the Nordic pantheon,” I said. “Like, I know the book just dropped today, but publishing moves so slow. The sequel is already written and in the final stages of edits, but I can’t say a word about Greek mythology out there.”
Another chuckle. “Maybe those should be inside thoughts. You don’t want to tell your audience you’re tired of the book before they’ve even touched it. And we probably don’t want to piss off Odin.”
“I’ve been knee-deep in the All Father and his lore since I first started writing the damn thing in college. I’m so relieved it’s out so I can be done talking about it. Let me loose on Bacchus and Aphrodite and Hades. Let me talk about A Sea of Fates. ”
He ran a hand over my back in comforting circles. “Bad news, Love. I don’t think you understand how marketing works.”
I used the cuff of my blazer to dab at the beads of perspiration collecting near my brow. “I don’t understand how any of this works. I was the least popular trailer trash church kid in the history of existence. I didn’t exactly shine in college, either. Mediocre grades at a mediocre school. Then I was a preschool teacher in Colombia to thirty sticky, unruly toddlers just to justify all those years studying Spanish. I sang for my supper as an escort. Being an author was just a dream, you know? Dreams aren’t supposed to come true. How the hell did I end up here?”
A genuine laugh this time.
“It’s nothing, nothing,” he said in response to the pucker of my brow as I awaited an explanation, but the amusement in his tone suggested otherwise. His words softened as he asked, “Do you want me to go out there with you?”
My mouth dried. “Is that…? Can you do that?”
The pressure of his hands disappeared, and a moment later, a bottle of water rested on the sofa beside me. If he’d carried it over, I hadn’t seen it happen. I drank too quickly, water dribbling down my chin and smudging the makeup they’d painstakingly applied before sending me to the green room.
“I’ll hold your hand. You can give it a squeeze any time you feel nervous.”
“So, the entire time?”
The door cracked open and a busy-looking man with a black headset peered in. “Five minutes, Merit.”
“You got it.” I flashed him the thumbs up.
Both he and I looked at it, confused as to why I’d chosen that particular gesture. A polite PA would have closed the door, but he watched as I nervously lowered my thumb, cleared my throat, and nodded.
“Yeah,” I said to the blank space where Caliban sat, “maybe I could use the moral support.”
***
I wished I could explain what happened, but I thought I’d blacked out.
I delivered what I was told was a very compelling, articulate pitch on A Night of Runes, the first book in the Pantheon series. The horrifying studio lights were neither too hot, nor too bright once I was beneath them. I was told I was very witty, and that the audience seemed immensely charmed. I was told the host promised she’d rush to buy a copy as soon as the show was over, and ended the segment by saying, “I have a feeling your debut novel will be cleaned off every shelf in America by the end of the day, Merit Finnegan! Congratulations, and we can’t wait to see how you take the world by storm.”
I had foggy memories of posing woodenly in front of the marquee with the GMA logo, holding a hardcover copy of my book. The fugue state didn’t truly dissipate until I was in the car on the way back to the airport. Survival adrenaline dwindled, leaving the fog of sleep in its wake.
I didn’t check my phone until I made it through security and found my gate.
(Kirby) Holy shit! Please remember the little people when you’re famous! Proud of you, Mar.
(EG) You killed it out there. I knew you would.
I opened the most addictive of photo-sharing apps and frowned at the screen. The numbers couldn’t be right. I closed out of the app entirely and reopened it, only to see larger numbers than before. I was gaining new followers by the thousands. I posted the photo and watched the likes roll in. I was sure it would have been an absolute rush if I had been able to remember any of it.
The daze carried me forward into a three-hour flight and one long cab ride that I’d be charging to Inkhouse’s expense account. I remained on autopilot as I rode the elevator, opened the door, kicked off my shoes, and collapsed on the living room couch. I hadn’t intended to nap, but by the time I opened my eyes, the house was pitch-black.
“You’re awake,” came a voice from the darkness. A smile colored its edges.
“Do I smell coffee?”
“I didn’t want to wake you by using the oven, but you hadn’t eaten. I put a few jars of coconut milk chia pudding with berries and granola in the fridge. I’d love it if you put something in your stomach before you started in on the coffee.”
“Too bad, phantom,” I said. I rubbed the sleep from my eyes and wiggled my fingers for a cup of coffee. “I had no idea I could cook in a fugue state. If I’m going to black out, it’s a pretty neat trick.”
He sighed. Moments later, a mug of black coffee warmed one hand, while a jar of honey filled the other. Caliban said, “Not fighting my existence today, then?”
“I’ll work on being sane again in the morning. For now, I’m just so glad the interview was over. And I love being crazy if it means I make myself coffee while getting to pretend I have a boyfriend.”
I leaned into his gravity as the cushion beside me dipped. He settled into the space at my side and wrapped his arm around my back. “You’re impossible. But I’ll take what I can get. For now.”
“Oh, ominous.” I giggled into my coffee. Then to the darkness, I asked, “Did it really go well? The interview, I mean?”
“You were sensational,” he promised. “I wouldn’t be surprised if everyone in the nation went out and bought a copy.”
I released a satisfied sigh after the first scalding sip. “Wouldn’t that be a dream,” I murmured. “That would put me on a list for sure.”
“Is that what you want?” asked the shadows.
“It’s what every author wants. A Night of Runes came out today, so I have to wait a week to find out if I made any lists. Publishers Weekly is the most transparent. It uses raw sales data from Bookscan. USA Today uses independent bookstores, big chain store sales, all that jazz. Indiebound is, well, independent books. That one’s well-named. But then there’s the New York Times .”
“And that’s what you want?”
I shrugged, if only to myself. “No one really knows how that list works. You can be number one in sales by tens of thousands of copies on some of the other lists and still not be on New York Times . Maybe it’s so coveted specifically because it’s so shrouded in secrecy.”
“Ah, yes,” he agreed. “Glad to hear you agree that the best things are the ones cloaked in darkness.”
“I don’t think that’s what I said.”
He plucked the cup from my palm, and I listened to it settle onto the coffee table. A large hand worked its way from my knee up my thigh. “And is there anything I can do to help the time pass while we wait a week?”
“It’s always sex with you,” I said, but there was no conviction in my statement. A steady heartbeat had already begun to thump between my legs.
“No,” he chided gently, “it’s always sex with you . I worship your body. I love making you happy. I live to make you come. But I am utterly fulfilled as your friend, or protector, or confidant. Fuck, I’d die happy just for the chance to sit in silence with you, knowing you understand how I feel for you. One day, you’ll want me for more than what I can do in the bedroom.”
I’d never beat the psychosis allegations if I sat there arguing with myself—or, the man I’d projected as an extension of myself. I just wanted to feel good. I reached into the darkness for him. He caught my hand and pressed it to his face. Within an instant, my fingers knotted in his hair, pulling him to me. I swung a leg over his lap until I straddled him, renewed adrenaline filling me. Maybe I was an absolute nutcase, but my vivid imagination had helped me write not one but two books. My detachment from reality had also spared me from the nervousness of hypervigilance during a horrible interview. What’s more, apparently I’d just unlocked the fantastic new ability to make coffee and chia pudding while napping.
Thanks, insanity.
He slipped my shirt over my head in a fluid motion. My bra was on the floor with a single pinch of his fingers. I gasped the moment his lips wrapped around my nipple, cool tongue sucking it into a luxurious peak. My hips moved against him as I threw my hair back to savor the sensation.
The room remained utterly black as he flipped me onto the couch with ease. He began to kiss and lick his way southward, one hand kneading my breast while another undid the button to my trousers. The hot air of his breath warmed the space between my legs over my panties before his mouth made sinfully glorious contact.
I moaned like he and I were the only two people in the world to hear our sounds. The vibrations of his answering moan felt so fucking good against my clit. I lifted my hips as he removed the soaked piece of fabric.
Most importantly, perhaps I was alone with my vivid imagination, but this was so, so much better than watching porn on my phone with one hand while holding my Hitachi in the other. When it came to masturbatory indulgences, I’d created the best one around.