10. Casey
CASEY
“So, you’re a big-time hotshot now.” Ashton smirks into his beer.
“Bullshit,” I protest, but I can’t help smiling back. “It’s all the same shit I had been doing for Anastasios, and I’m not even fully on my own.”
“Eh.” He tilts his head back and forth. “Your name is the one in lights. You can downplay it all you want, but this is a big fucking deal.”
As I take another sip of my drink, I try to suppress the pride blooming in my chest. He’s right—this is a big fucking deal.
Not only am I going to be in charge of a new imprint, but I’m a Black man chosen for the job.
All night, once I returned to my room after sharing grilled cheese and fries with Trina, I thought over what Imani had said to me earlier in the day.
I’m not trying to make a huge statement, but I want to be sure my list of authors is diverse.
So today, during my pitch session, I made sure to flag a number of diverse authors who showed promise.
And I still have Imani’s folder to comb through, which I had been hoping to do between the pitch sessions and keynote speaker, but Ashton cornered me and asked if I wanted to get a drink.
“You know,” he starts slowly, and I have a feeling I’m about to find out his invitation wasn’t only about catching up with an old friend. “I’ve been thinking of making some moves myself.”
“Oh yeah? What did you have in mind?” I set my beer down on the table and clasp my hands together.
“Not sure exactly,” he says, though from his tone, I can tell he’s collecting the right words. “Lit fic is kind of dead, you know what I mean?”
It’s not, I don’t think. I’ve been editing some wonderful literary fiction even through the past few years.
Scarlett’s recent books have topped the bestseller lists for months.
The problem is that, when you’re not thinking outside the box and stuck accepting the same old rehashed stories by authors who aren’t bringing any new perspectives to the table, readers aren’t interested.
They want something new and unique. And if Ashton had been considering something from Charles Hall like he said the other night, my guess is he’s trapped in the white male-dominated publishing cycle with a ton of submissions that are all starting to look alike.
But I don’t think he’s after that kind of advice, so instead of saying any of that, I nod slowly. “I think I know what you mean.”
“YA seems exciting right now.” He bounces his eyebrows up and down his forehead. “There are a lot of middle grade and young adult authors really pushing the envelope.”
“Are you looking for a job, Ashton?” It’s my turn to smirk into my beer. I eye him over the glass as I take a slow pull of the amber liquid.
“Work for you? No way, man.” He laughs, though the sound is tinged with a little discomfort. “I’m not trading the East Coast for cornfields.”
“A lot of Starlight’s editors who are staying on are already remote,” I tell him. “You could stay in New York.”
He shakes his head as he traces a line in the condensation of his beer glass. “Working from home would be a definite perk, but I’m not talking about making a lateral move. I want what you’ve got, C. I want my own imprint.”
I keep my face carefully neutral as I take another sip.
In college, Ashton was never the most driven or organized.
He did just enough to pull Bs in his classes and graduate with a decent GPA and spent the rest of his time partying and sleeping around.
On more than a few occasions, he’d come back to the dorms wasted at one or two in the morning with a girl on his arm to find me in the common area, studying.
“I know what you’re thinking.” He all but rolls his eyes. “I’m not the same guy I was in undergrad.”
“I’m sure you’re not,” I reassure him, though I can see there are some similarities. “So what’s holding you back, then?”
“Honestly, I don’t know.” He shrugs, then laughs. “I guess if you can do it, anyone can, huh?”
He’s clearly joking, but it stings nonetheless. Of course I can run this imprint. I’m confident I can do great things for Starlight and their authors—mine now, I suppose. That’s a sobering realization, though…that I have authors who are depending on me to work hard for their books.
And I have to wonder, if I'm so confident I can do this, why did I avoid talking about it with Trina the entire time we were together last night? Even through grilled cheese and a few episodes of a home renovation show, any time she’d broach the topic of work, I’d change course.
I had told myself it was because work had no place between us, or at the very least that we would have to learn to compartmentalize if we were going to pick up where we left off a year ago.
But I have to acknowledge that a tiny part of me learned pretty quickly she had no idea about my promotion, and I wanted to keep it that way.
Because what if it doesn’t work out for me?
What if I fail spectacularly? What if I’m just a giant disappointment to everyone I care about?
I can’t let that get to me. Regardless, I’ve taken the job so it’s too late now. But it was nice for one night to blow off some steam with her and then forget I had all this pressure waiting for me.
So nice, I’d like to do it again.
“True enough.” I force my tone to sound good natured, and judging by Ashton’s grin, he seems to buy it.
There’s a lull in the conversation then, and I use it to check my phone.
I’d really better be going if I’m going to pack up before the keynote presentation so I can catch my flight home.
I do some quick mental calculations, trying to move some things around to see Trina again, but I don’t think there’s time.
“Mark my words, Endersen.” He points at me, eyebrows raised. “Within the year, you and I are going to be competing for the best authors out there.”
“I look forward to it,” I say, more than a little distracted by the prospect of burying myself in Trina’s fresh strawberry scent and forgetting this entire meeting ever took place, even though I know there’s no possible way I can make it happen today.
“I’m sure you do,” Ashton says sardonically as he drains the last of his drink and stands. “I won’t keep you from your important messages any longer, hotshot. But, uh…let’s catch up again soon.”
I put my phone down and start to protest or apologize, but I ultimately hold it back. Ashton’s seemingly innocuous comments almost sent me into a tailspin of imposter syndrome, and I don’t really want that to happen again. Better to let him leave.
We shake hands and say our goodbyes, and I return to my room to quickly pack so I can get down to the keynote presentation early in hopes of catching Trina.
Only, she’s not there. I mean, there are a lot of people sardine-ing themselves into the room so it’s possible I’ve missed her, but she’s not the type to blend into a crowd.
I check my phone for at least the fifteenth time since I left the bar, but there are no messages from her.
There’s only one notification from my dad wishing me luck and letting me know he can’t wait to hear all about my trip when I get back.
I take a seat near the door before sending him my flight information and telling him I’ll be at the restaurant where Robert works at noon on Sunday—my usual time—if he wants to join us.
I doubt he will. He hardly ever does. It’s not a malicious or neglectful thing, per se, but it seems that since Mom died, he doesn’t quite know how to hang out with us.
She was always the one who smoothed over his hard edges, who glued us together.
As an electrician, he worked long hours.
He was around when he could be, but Mom was the one at every conference, every game, every milestone.
She was the one we talked to late into the night about our problems, the one who made sure our special events were on Dad’s calendar.
Now that she’s gone and Robert and I are adults, Dad has a hard time managing family life on his own.
He cares deeply. His message is evidence enough of that. But he doesn’t always know how to show it, even when I tell him just showing up is enough.
I rub at my chest as if it could ease the ache there.
I wish there was something I could do to make my family closer—something my mom would have done, maybe.
But the best I’ve come up with is making sure to eat lunch at the restaurant at noon every Sunday and walk with Robert back to his apartment to watch whatever game is playing.
That, and inviting Dad every time, whether he comes or not.
When my phone screen goes black without a response from him or a message from Trina, I sigh.
Before I lift my gaze to do another half-hearted sweep of the room, I decide not to get my hopes up.
It’s not like her to blow things off…or at least, it wasn’t.
But I realize with a pang that I don’t really know her all that well anymore either.
It only takes half a scan of the room before my eyes land on hers.
She’s standing near the doorway, only about thirty feet away from me, a small frown pinching her brows as she studies me.
I don’t know how long she’s been standing there, but from the way she’s looking at me, every single emotion I had over the past few minutes must have been playing out over my face.
She starts to walk toward me, the fabric of her dark orange skirt swaying with the motion of her hips.
The din of chatter throughout the room as people take their seats seems to fade with each step she takes.
Watching her move is like one of those scenes in the movies where she’s the only thing in focus.
Everything else is hustling and bustling around her, but her features are in sharp relief.
The scent of strawberries reaches me before she does.
Fresh, juicy, and supple. Red. Something I want to bite into and let the juice slide down my chin.
She stops only a few steps in front of me, her hips in line with my face.
I have to clench my hands against the urge to run my palms up her thighs and burrow into the rest of her, letting her warmth envelop me for a little while.
“Is this seat taken?” she asks softly.
I shake my head, and she lowers herself gracefully into the chair, tucking her skirt around her legs and crossing them at the ankles.
“Second time in three days you’ve had an open seat next to you.” She raises her eyebrows pointedly. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were looking for excuses to sit near me.”
That’s exactly what I’m doing, but I’m not about to admit it. “I’m just unapproachable,” I joke instead.
She squints at me, her gaze roaming my face as if she’s looking for something. “Hmm,” she hums thoughtfully. “Yeah, you do have whatever the male equivalent of a resting bitch face is.”
The laugh that tumbles out of me is one of surprise. “I do not.”
Trina’s hazel eyes dip to my lips, then back to meet mine as a smile stretches across her face. “You absolutely do. It’s a job hazard. You need that poker face for negotiations, and if you use it enough, your face just kind of stays that way.”
I blink at her, confused but delighted…which seems to be the effect Trina always has on me. “How did you get from resting bitch face to poker face?”
She scoffs as if the answer should be obvious. “When you don’t give anything away, you look kind of bitchy. They’re the same thing. And you’ve got the second best one in the business.”
Reeling back, I chuckle again. “Second best?”
Trina circles a finger around her face. “Next to this one.”
It’s a joke. Judging by her smile, she wants me to laugh. But I can’t. There’s not one single thing about Trina that could look bitchy. But I can’t say that without sounding like a man who has lost his senses, so I just shake my head again.
She shrugs. “It’s true. It’s what makes negotiations with you so fun. We’re evenly matched.”
A middle-aged woman starts walking up to the podium, probably to introduce the keynote speaker. Trina leans into my space, her shoulder brushing mine in a move that should be casual but lights up my nerve endings.
“It’s kind of a turn-on, actually,” she says so quietly, I almost wonder if I heard her right.
The woman at the podium taps on the mic a few times, then clears her throat. I chance a look at Trina as the lights in the room dim. Her plump, red lips are tilted up in a knowing smirk, her eyes glimmering with mischief.
“Only you would get turned on by negotiating,” I whisper, my pants growing tighter as my dick hardens.
“Don’t yuck my yum,” she whispers back. “When’s your flight home?”
“Right after this. You?”
“Tomorrow.” She screws her face up in disappointment. “But, um… Maybe I could call you sometime? Now that we’re…you know.”
“I’d like that,” I say almost too quickly.
Her smirk widens into a full smile as she turns her attention to the stage and mutters, “I’ll bet you would.”
The first speaker begins her introduction of the author who will be delivering the keynote address, but I can hardly pay attention to any of it as someone slides into the seat next to Trina and immediately starts manspreading.
Trina grimaces and shifts slightly in her seat so her leg presses up against mine.
“Sorry,” she whispers. “I’m squished.”
But I’m not sorry. I almost want to lean over and thank the guy because I get to spend the entire speech with Trina resting against me, catching a whiff of her strawberry shampoo every once in a while.