CHAPTER SIXTEEN – THE BOOK READING
Talon
You’d think after a decade of being an author, I’d be immune to nerves at a book reading.
But right now my hands are shaking so bad I can barely hold my drink, and every time I shift in this designer blazer my ribs creak like floorboards in a haunted house.
My entire body is on high alert, every sense raw, every muscle wired.
I’m at the front of Century Pages, a small indie bookstore, about to do a public reading of my first romance novel—a sentence that would have made past-me puke.
It’s a little past seven, and the place is fucking packed.
I count six rows of folding chairs, filled with mostly women.
Some are attractive co-eds, all of them clutching copies of Angel’s Share like it’s the new Fifty Shades.
The crowd is loud, caffeinated, and chattering with eagerness.
I see maybe two men in the audience: a balding dad in a Star Wars tee and a grad student who looks like he’s been dragged here under protest. The rest are young women—some giggly, some serious, all with that same look of expectation.
It’s a full house, standing room only. There’s a line snaking between the poetry section and the check-out, people holding hardbacks and phones, some recording, some posing for selfies with the cardboard cutout of my “author photo.” Where did they even get that?
Nonetheless, I look handsome in cardboard and in person, judging from the appreciative glances of the ladies in the audience.
They’re here for man meat tonight, definitely.
I spot Jeremy, the owner of Century Pages, darting through the aisles, wielding a tablet and talking fast to a college kid in a “Team Edward” tee.
Isn’t it a little late for Twilight fandom?
I suppose it never dies. There’s a barista at the back steaming oat milk like it’s the apocalypse.
A woman in a peasant dress is putting out a tray of “virgin” Shirley Temples and a single bottle of whiskey for me.
I swallow a laugh, then swallow the urge to run.
I scan the crowd for her. For Kat.
I don’t see her. Not yet.
I keep scanning. Every blonde girl with her hair down, every round bottom in a skirt, every nervous flicker of a hand. Not her. Not her. Not—wait.
No. False alarm. Just some undergrad with similarly lush blonde locks.
But this woman’s figure is stick straight, with none of the curves that I adore on my woman.
Heart sinking, I look back to my notes, force myself to go over the opening line again.
But it’s useless. All I can think about is the last time I saw Kat: the way her face looked, frozen with tears on her cheeks, when she realized what a bastard I really am.
The way her ass looked when she walked out the cabin door, duffel bag over her shoulder, back ramrod straight even as she was breaking inside.
It’s been six months. She never replied to my emails, never responded to my texts. Just vanished, like a ghost. Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night with her name on my tongue, like a goddamn curse, and I have to get up and write until my hand cramps to make the need go away.
The MC—some bookish undergrad with a voice like a dying dove—gets up to introduce me.
I barely listen. She calls me “the king of the modern thriller, now making a shocking pivot to the world of contemporary romance.” There’s a low wave of laughter, the kind that says “We know this is weird, but we’re here for it.
” I flex my hand around the hardcover, feel the stiffness in my thumb where I dislocated it in college.
The applause is sudden, loud, unexpected. For a second I forget why I’m even here. Then I remember: this was supposed to be for Kat. A love letter she’d actually read.
I take the stage. The lights aren’t stage lights, just warm bulbs in metal cages, but it’s enough to make my vision swim. I blink into the crowd, force a smile, and say, “Thanks for coming out. I’m Talon McKnight, and I’ll try not to bore you.”
A smattering of laughs, a few wolf whistles from the far corner. I start to read.
It’s the chapter where “Kit”—yeah, real fucking subtle—first meets the professor.
I know that most book readings don’t include X-rated content, but I don’t care because these are some of my most vivid memories of Kat.
The lines are sharp, merciless, every word lifted straight from the memory of Kat’s lips on my cock, the way her eyes went big and soft the first time I spanked her.
I read the first paragraph, voice steady, then the second.
And just as I start the line, “She felt the heat from his stare long before she realized she’d stopped breathing,” the door to the store opens.
And there she is.
Six months, and she still floors me. Kat walks in like she owns the place—hair down, wild and golden, her body poured into a dress that’s technically modest but does nothing to hide her tits or the curve of her hips.
She stands at the back for a second, scanning for a seat, then melts into the shadow by the windows, arms folded over her chest. She doesn’t look at me, not directly, but the heat from her gaze hits me harder than any spotlight.
I lose the line. Fuck. I cover by flipping to the next page and reading the next sentence, but my voice is suddenly rough, throat gone dry as a bone.
I can feel myself flushing under my deep tan, which is fucking humiliating, but I don’t care.
I want her to see it. I want her to know that I’m still a mess for her, that none of this—none of these people, this book, this whole “redemption arc” the publisher begged for—means jack shit if she won’t even look at me.
My heart is pounding. Blood is rushing south. I’m half-hard, and I’m pretty sure the front row can see it through my pants, because one of the girls in the second row is giggling behind her hand. I want to laugh. I want to scream.
But mostly I just want Kat.
I keep reading. The words blur together.
My hands are steady, but my brain is a fucking mess.
Every paragraph is an homage: the way Kat moaned when I tied her up, the way she bit her lip when I called her “Kitten,” the way she sobbed when I broke her heart.
I get to the part where the professor tells “Angel” that she’s his, that he’ll ruin her for anyone else.
I don’t need the text. I know it by heart.
I lift my eyes from the page. Look straight at her.
The golden girl’s standing now, at the back of the room, arms still crossed, hair a wild halo around her face. There’s a smile, barely, at the corner of her mouth. She’s not moving, not leaving. I realize she’s waiting for me to finish.
So I finish. I read the line: “She wanted him to ruin her, to make her into something only he could recognize.”
The room is dead silent. For a second, I forget the crowd, the store, even the air in my lungs. It’s just me and Kat, two people staring each other down, emotion thundering between us.
Then the applause starts. It’s polite, then gets louder. I force a grin, say, “Thanks. I’ll be signing books up here. If anyone wants to talk, come say hi.”
The host hustles up, thanks me, and people start lining up, books in hand. I keep my eyes on Kat, but she’s turned away, talking to a another girl with blonde hair and glasses. For a moment I think she’ll leave, but she stays by the window, just far enough to be out of reach.
The first fan slides her copy across the table, eyes big with fake lashes that look like fans. “Can you make it out to ‘Angel’?” she coos flirtatiously.
I want to say no. But I nod, write the name, sign with a flourish.
The line moves fast, all women, all smiling, some with cleavage on display, some biting their lips like they’re about to offer a blowjob under the table.
I don’t give a shit. I don’t want any of them.
I just want Kat to look at me, to say anything, even if it’s to tell me to fuck myself.
Twenty minutes later, the crowd starts to thin. The host is collecting folding chairs, the barista is sweeping up, and Kat is still standing by the window, arms now at her sides, fingers drumming on the shelf. I sign the last book, force a smile, and stand up.
It’s now or never.
I walk over. She doesn’t move, but I can tell that she knows I’m there. It’s in the subtle rise of her big bust, the awareness that we always have around each other. I stop, three feet away, hands in my pockets.
“Hi, Kitten,” I say, voice so low only she can hear.
She looks at me, finally, and for a second I see everything I ever wanted in her eyes.
Then it’s gone.
She gives a small laugh. “You never change, do you?”
I shake my head. “I don’t want to.”
She looks down at the floor, then back up. “You wrote a romance novel. I didn’t think it was in the books, pardon my pun.”
I don’t smile, my blue eyes piercing.
“I wrote it for you.”
She doesn’t answer, just stands there, breathing.
For the first time in my life, I don’t know what the next line is supposed to be.
I swallow, hard. “Do you want to talk?”
She shrugs, the movement making her tits bounce in a way that kills me. “Is there anything left to say?”
I nod. “Yeah. Everything.”
She bites her lip, then gives the smallest of nods.
I let out the breath I’ve been holding since she walked in.
“Then let’s talk, Kat. Please.”
I’m not a man who generally begs, but at this point, the golden goddess has me writhing in her hand. She looks at me, blue eyes so clear it hurts.
“Five minutes,” she says. “That’s all.”
I nod, pulse thundering, as the crowd fades and it’s just the two of us.
And for the first time since I let her go, I feel something close to hope.
We retreat to a small area behind a towering shelf. It’s relatively quiet, and I suppose this is as good of a place as any.
“You look tired,” Kat murmurs, her hands folded demurely.
I grin. “You should see the other guy.”