Read It and Weep

Prologue

TWO YEARS EARLIER

“There’s a lot of people here.” I looked around the convention center of the riverside New Orleans hotel and tried to tamp down my anxiety. I was many things, but calm in a crowd was not one of them.

Nathan Cooper—N. D. Cooper to horror readers—cast me a sidelong look. “What did you expect? This is the second biggest reader convention in the country.” His tone was flat and dry.

I shrugged. “I don’t know. I didn’t expect this, though.”

There were people everywhere. Authors setting up tables. Assistants frantically searching for the stuff that had been shipped to the hotel and was supposed to be trucked into the convention room by event personnel. Random people who clearly had a function, though I had no idea what it was.

Nathan smirked. “This is your first big convention. You’re nervous. But you shouldn’t be. You’re Brody Bates, the world-famous fantasy writer. You own this venue.”

He extended his fist to bump. I just stared at it. That was a ridiculous thing to say.

“Technically, as far as these people are concerned, I’m B. B. Bates.”

“Yeah. What does the second B stand for?” Nathan looked curious. “Like… is your name Brody Bart Bates?”

I shook my head. That was a stupid name.

“Brody Brian Bates?”

I shook my head again.

“Brody Batman Bates?”

That made me crack a smile, although it was weak. “My middle name is Mark.”

Nathan blinked. Then he blinked again. “Mark? How is that a B name?”

“It’s not. When I was picking my penname, I liked the alliteration. B. B. Bates.” I stretched out my hand in front of me. “It has a nice ring to it, right?”

Nathan didn’t look as impressed as I was hoping. “B. M. Bates sounds better to me.”

“That’s like Boston Market Bates. It’s weird.”

“Boston Market.” Nathan snorted. “I totally forgot that was a thing.”

“I like their creamed spinach.”

Why did I volunteer that information? Geez, I was bad at making small talk.

Had Nathan figured that out yet? We’d only met a year before.

We were both new authors for Hyperion Way, a start-up publisher out of Los Angeles at the time.

It had since been absorbed by one of the big three, which meant we’d been catapulted into the stratosphere.

Back then, we were both on our first books and nervous about the process.

We shared an editor and had met at a mixer and glommed onto one another within the first hour.

We were going through the same thing, so bonding made sense.

Fortunately, the friendship stuck even as he was trotted out to horror conventions left and right and I was slanted into dragon and elf cons from one end of the country to the other.

This was the first time we’d been at the same convention, and it was definitely the biggest event I’d been to as an author.

“Creamed spinach, huh?” Nathan cocked his head, his shaggy brown hair falling to one side. “Well, that’s a conversation starter.”

When he laughed, my insides unclenched. He was easygoing by nature, and I fed off his energy. I was not easygoing. In fact, I was as high-strung as they came. My best quality was that I could acknowledge that.

“Now you see what I’m up against.” I held out my hands and shrugged. “How am I supposed to talk to all these readers when all I can think to bring up is creamed spinach?”

Nathan considered it but not for long. “Perhaps you should come up with talking points.”

I was a big fan of preparation. “Sure.” I bobbed my head. “What sort of talking points should I be focused on?”

He made an exasperated sound deep in his throat. “How should I know? What do you like talking about?”

“Creamed spinach.”

Nathan smirked. “You’re a high fantasy writer. Talk about high fantasy stuff.”

“So… talk about swords?”

“Just don’t talk about your sword. That’s the quickest way to get a Pervert label slapped on you. Once you have a Pervert label, it’s impossible to shake it.”

“You sound as if you’re talking from experience.”

“Not my experience.” Nathan vehemently shook his head. “Ever hear of T. L. Carter?”

I racked my brain. “No,” I said finally.

“He wrote adventure thrillers.”

“Wrote? As in past tense?”

“I heard he writes poetry now. Stuff twelve-year-old girls would feel a kinship with. Six years ago, he accidentally put his hand on a reader’s ass without realizing it.

He thought he was touching his suitcase.

Another reader filmed it. The clip went viral.

A bunch of people came out of the woodwork and said he looked like he wanted to touch their asses, too, when they met him. It was all over.”

“Did he apologize and explain what happened?” That seemed like the obvious—though embarrassing—remedy.

“Yup.” Nathan nodded. “It was too late. There were memes all over the internet. Tender Loving Cupping—that’s what they called him because of the initials.”

I internally shuddered. “So basically, you’re saying to keep sword talk on the down-low.”

“Sword talk will bring in a different sort of reader, but if that’s your thing…” Nathan held up his hands as if to say, “You do you.”

I rolled my eyes. He was one of my best friends, but he could be an absolute pain.

Unlike me, he had no problem chatting with readers.

They loved him. They called him the Hunk of Horror.

I was just a guy who wrote fantasy. I’d had one big release—for which I was beyond grateful—and was gearing up for my second release.

This conference was a way for me to soft launch the second book.

I got sweaty palms just thinking about it. What if I’m a one-book wonder? What if my second book is a failure? What if my career as an author is over before it even begins? I swallowed hard. What if my future consists of working at a bookstore and never being featured in one again?

Oh, geez, I could not work retail for the rest of my life. My personality strictly prohibited retail work. But it would never come to that, fortunately, because I had a trust fund.

Nathan snapped his fingers in front of my face. “Where the hell did your head just go?”

“Nowhere good,” I replied. Lying to him was a waste of time. He knew I was riddled with anxiety.

“That’s what I thought.” He placed his hands on my shoulders and squeezed. “You’re okay. Remember, these readers are here because they want to see you.”

That was all well and good in theory, but in practice … well, it was another matter entirely. “What if nobody comes to my table?” I blurted.

“People will come. You’re the highest-ranking new high fantasy author in a decade.”

“But what if high fantasy readers don’t come to these sorts of conferences?”

He laughed. “High fantasy readers live for conferences like this.”

“But … they live for fantasy conferences.” I thought I had a winning argument.

Nathan’s snort told me otherwise. “Dude, here’s a little-known fact.” He leaned close as if imparting some great wisdom. “The fantasy readers—especially the male ones—love coming to conferences like this because there are romance readers here.”

That was … a really weird thing to say. “Come again?”

He bobbed his head sagely. “It’s true. Romance readers are looking for love. Sure, some of them are married, but there are a lot who aren’t. They’ve been primed for these books.”

“Okay, but romance readers want a specific type of hero,” I argued, convinced I definitely had him now.

“Nope.” Nathan solemnly shook his head. “Nerds are in. There are a bunch of romances now with nerds as heroes.” He gave me a sidelong look. “Actually, they look like you. They’re handsome but don’t know they’re handsome.”

Had he just called me handsome? “Um…”

“I’m not saying it in a creepy way,” he assured me. “I love you, bro, but I don’t love you like that.”

“I guess that’s good. Not that there’s anything wrong with it if you did roll that way,” I added quickly.

He laughed. “Your readers are going to be here. Even if they’re only mildly interested in seeing you, they’re going to want to see the romance readers.”

I considered it. What he said made sense.

“You’re going to be fine,” Nathan insisted. “Just … breathe.”

I heard his words but didn’t follow the order.

“Breathe!” he barked, forcing me to inhale deeply. “There we go.” His smile was easy. “Plus, keep in mind that every other author here is plagued with the same doubts as you.”

That was a load of crap. “There’s no way.”

“It’s true. Even the biggest authors worry that nobody will show up to see them.”

“I don’t believe you.”

Nathan sighed. “You’re only on one panel, right?”

“Yes. It’s a fantasy panel. Not just high fantasy, though. It’s paranormal fantasy too.”

He made a face, which had my anxiety tripling.

“What’s wrong with that?” I demanded.

“I didn’t realize you were going to be paired off with the paranormal fantasy writers.”

“Is there something wrong with them?”

“They’re … a peculiar breed.”

I waited for him to expand. When he didn’t, I pinned him with the darkest look in my repertoire. “What does that mean?”

“I don’t want to cloud your judgment. I’m going to let you see it for yourself.”

“I don’t want to see it for myself. Tell me what to look out for.”

“Just … be prepared for the type of woman who will shrink your ball sack.”

That was a terrifying—and curious—statement. “What does that mean?”

He broke into a wide smile. “You’ll see.”

“No, you’re going to tell me.”

He shook his head. “You’ll see.” He clapped his hand on my shoulder, hard. “Now, come on. Your table is finished, right?”

“Yeah. It’s done.”

“Let’s get dinner and drinks.”

“I was just going to order room service.”

Horror rolled across his features. “It’s New Orleans. It’s against the law to eat dinner in your room. We’re eating somewhere authentic and then hitting up a bar.”

“I’m not much of a bar person.”

“You are in New Orleans.”

And just like that, all choice was taken from me. Nathan was in control. I was just along for the ride.