Two Truths and A Lie

Chapter 1

Chapter One

Two Truths and a Lie :

One shouldn’t date their neighbor just to gain internet access.

John Kater’s books are the epitome of white male privilege.

Pumpkin spice is a crime against humanity.

“What in Bowie's name have you done to my store?”

I gasped, avoiding a near collision with a customer and clutching my chest, cursing at just how out of shape I was. Three faces turned my way. One of them smiled.

“Surprise?”

My best friend’s bleach-blonde head stuck out like a lightbulb. Otis’s smile was so bright it nearly blinded me. His customer service smile. “I didn’t think you’d come in early today.”

I held a finger up high, trying to regain the breath that I’d lost cursing at my neighbor Dan (through the wall), cycling like a maniac past every red light and nearly getting hit by a car, twice, on my way here.

The other faces belonged to two young women who looked surprised at being interrupted mid-book-purchase by a yelling stranger. Otis, meanwhile, gave them a placid look, like he was saying, Oh this person? That’s just Nora. Our village crazy.

I’d do anything for Otis—steal a horse, give a speech—but when I looked around Skye’s Books, my heart and soul, I wanted to strangle him until his fake lashes popped off.

Normally, just unlocking the stiff door to my shop melted tension from my shoulders. I’d breathe in deep, smile at the crooked wooden shelves, the cozy worn sofa, the display of glorious 1970–1985 pulp covers in the corner.

Not today. Today, I felt like someone had kicked me in my nonexistent balls. Because everywhere I looked, there he was: smug grin, raven hair, and that I could shave, but I need the edge stubble. Otis had decorated my church with none other than New York Times bestselling author John Kater.

Posters plastered the walls—conveniently covering the peeling paint—and flyers littered the tables.

Smack in the middle stood a life-sized cardboard cutout of the man himself, grinning condescendingly down at me.

Taunting me to look at him, to melt into a puddle, and liquidate my monthly savings into mediocre airport reads.

Beneath the posters, every surface of Skye’s was stacked with his latest bestselling adventure romp, Earth's Core. An acid-green cover featuring a fireball in space. A toddler could have made it. Not that I knew many toddlers.

It was a terrible waste of perfectly good bookstore space. At least my pride and joy, the Lew Elliot shelf, had been untouched.

“I am going to kill you,” I muttered, tossing my bag behind the counter and booting up the ancient computer.

“Nah. You’re gonna kiss me.” Otis pointed toward the door. A line. An actual line of customers had formed. My jaw dropped. We never had a line. We should make this a national holiday.

“People are going bananas for him,” Otis said. “You can’t deny he’s the hottest thing on the market right now. The phone wouldn’t stop ringing for preorders. I barely had time to flirt.”

I scowled some more, tapping my fingers impatiently on the counter. “You know what I think of his books,” I said under my breath. He rolled his eyes dramatically.

“You gotta get over yourself.” He handed a bag to a smiling teen. “So, why were you sprinting through Middleton like Mia Wallace on speed?”

I took a sharp breath in as the screen finally lit up, then opened my manuscript and checked the time. I had wasted precious moments being distracted by John Fucking Kater.

“You remember Dan, my neighbor?”

Otis grinned.“The hot guy with the neck tattoo?”

“Yes. He changed his Wi-Fi password, my data’s empty, and I am” —I checked the clock— “eight minutes from the deadline.”

The connection popped up. Haller & Mark’s website loaded on the submission site. At the bottom of the page was a green button. I selected my file then let out an exhausted rush of air while I skimmed the website I knew by heart.

The publisher was searching nationwide for the one writer who’d pick up where Lew Elliot had left off.

The internet said he was ready to retire, but rumor was, even though Captain Caruso and the Sky Pirates were a national treasure, the publisher was pushing for a fresh perspective. Which was my cue.

Even though millions had read his books, following the band of misfits on their ship, the HMS Samurai, these books were my home.

No one knew them better than I did. I spent my nights sitting by the light of the laptop, typing away adventures.

And after cracking half a million likes on my last Captain Caruso fan fiction, I could taste the $100,000 prize money.

It tasted like fucking freedom. Like rent paid. Like champagne popped in celebration of finally being debt free.

“So today’s the day, huh?” Otis said, sliding me a protein bar from a drawer. He knew I’d skipped breakfast for a triple espresso.

“Today’s the day,” I mumbled, chewing. I didn’t dare look away from the screen. Six minutes left.

“You told her yet?”

I glanced sideways. Otis’s raised brow caught the overhead lights. He’d painted his cheekbones in a stunning highlight, which shifted in color when he tilted his head.

“I don’t see why she needs to know,” I muttered, eyes back on the spinning upload icon. He didn’t reply, but I could sense his disapproval by the way he swiped a customer's credit card.

A guy with a sparse hairline but impressive chest hair carried a whole stack of Earth’s Core up to the counter like this was some sort of famine and only bad sci-fi could save him.

The smell of pumpkin spice hit me when two women and their take away cups stopped in front of me.

Both of them looked like the typical girl next door: blonde, sweet, non-tattooed. The very opposite of me.

“Excuse me,” one said, “are all of Earth’s Core sold out already?”

I looked up at the now empty table at the center of the store. Then at the queue of people still waiting to pay. It now reached past the front door and around the corner. Holy crap.

“There are more in the back,” Otis said while adding two free bookmarks and what looked like his phone number to the paper bag of a dude in a muscle T. “Nora will be delighted to get some for you.”

“Just a sec,” I told the women, raising a finger. Five minutes left. My palms were sweating. Should I refresh the page? Open a new tab? The tall one rolled her eyes at me but then turned back to her friend.

“You think he’ll look like this in real life?” She asked her friend while she ogled the cardboard cutout like she wanted to take it home and do Bowie knows what with it.

“Totally,” said the other. “Found a shirtless pic of him the other day. All I can say is: smash.”

“Oh my God, stop. You’ll make me drool into my PSL.”

I gagged under my breath. Their attention snapped back to me.

“Allergies,” I said.

“How long will this take?” the tall one asked. “We’re kind of in a rush.”

My eyelid twitched. I bit my cheek, trying hard not to toss the monstrosity she called a drink at her fake fur jacket.

If this file wouldn’t upload in the next three minutes and thirty seconds, I would lose more than my shit. “Just one more sec,” I gritted my teeth, remembering Otis begging me to be nice to the customers.

“I heard he and his fiancée are having problems,” the other one said.

“Already? Didn’t they just get, like, engaged?”

The tall one nodded. “Should I give him my number?” she whispered, then giggled. “OMG, can you imagine?”

I shuddered. There should be prison time for saying “OMG” and “PSL” out loud like that.

“Nora, we need more books or this will turn into an international crisis,” Otis whispered urgently. His customer service smile had turned tight as more people complained of the empty shelves.

I glanced at the storage door, then back at the screen. Two minutes left.

“Fine,” I snapped.

“Sorry. Excuse me. Sorry.” I squeezed myself through the crowd, sprinted the five steps to the back of the shop, to the small storage room we rarely used. The door was ajar, propped open by a chair. Boxes upon boxes behind it.

How many books had Otis ordered?

As I heaved two boxes out of the room, my foot caught on something.

A box tumbled to the floor, my hand snapped out but the door swung in my face and I just stood there, perplexed, as it fell into the lock.

With me on the wrong side. I rattled on the handle already knowing this was futile.

To fix the lock had been on Dad’s to do list.

Fucking fantastic.

“Otis!” I banged the door. No reply. I knocked harder, probably bruising my knuckles, but I didn’t care. “Otis, open the damn door.” I kicked for good measure. “HELLO? ANYONE?”

Shit, shit, shit.

“Emergency!” I screamed. “Fire!”

All I could hear from the other side was a chorus of footsteps and voices. The store was too full for Otis to hear me.

With shaking hands I fished my phone out of my back pocket, and called Otis. After a few rings his voice answered.

“Hi this is Otis’s phone, if you are either one of my parents then I am currently busy working and will call back as soon as humanly possible. Now hang up. If you're anyone else, I’m probably busy having sex. Call back laters.”

I stared at the phone in disbelief. One minute left.

I called again. This time I left a message. “I swear to you if you don’t open this door I will fire you then I will shave off your eyebrows while you sleep.”

I bit my knuckles, running circles in the small room. I could call the national guard. I could call my ex? I winced. I wasn’t that desperate. I could call the fire brigade? The cops?

Just when I was about to, the door opened.

“This is a very bad time for taking a break,” Otis said from the crack in the doorway.

Pushing past him, I basically jumped over the counter. I held my breath, scrolled down. But nothing happened.

The site had frozen.

I refreshed. Bold red text now glared back at me: Submissions Closed.

“No!” My head dropped. My jaw dropped. My everything dropped. I was free-falling until I hit my forehead on the counter.

“Did it not go through?” Otis asked, poking my arm.

“I… I don’t know.” I heaved a breath, checking my inbox.

But it held only spam and a reminder that the Doc Martens I wanted were on sale.

Which would normally be a reason for joy.

Now, I’d happily sell my entire collection for my confirmation email.

But no matter how often I refreshed the browser, there wasn’t one.

The protein bar threatened to make a reappearance. What if I had been too late? What if the thing I had worked so hard for, had pulled all-nighters for, read and reread and polished to perfection, what if that thing had been for nothing? It couldn’t be. I needed this.

Otis threw me a sad smile. “Sorry, Love.”

He didn’t know the half of it.

Maybe it had uploaded? Maybe there was a delay? Maybe I could email them and explain? Say my puppy died? I’d been kidnapped? By that guy over there with the lightsaber?

Wait.

“Otis,” I said. No, shouted. Apparently. Because Otis jumped on the spot.

“What?”

“People are wearing cosplay. It’s comic con.” I pointed at the poster behind me.

My best friend's well plucked eyebrows rose to his hairline. “Ah, right. That explains the T-Rex cycling past me this morning.” He touched his chest, looking relieved. “I’m glad it wasn’t a lingering effect from whatever I drank at Garland’s last night.” He turned. “Card or cash?”

“Just listen for a moment.” I said, shoving books in paper bags. “Who’ll be the most obnoxious person there today?”

Otis pursed his lips, fake scratching an invisible goatee. “Probably my ex, to be honest. I told you, we broke up because he was a little too much into furry—”

I turned one of the books around so the author's photograph was visible. “John Kater.”

Sharp blue eyes watched me suspiciously. A sly grin forming. “So you finally went over to the dark side, Nora Rose.”

I smacked him with the book. “If John Kater is going to be there, so will his manager.”

“Right.” Otis rubbed his arm.

“His manager is Emily Arlington.” I tried to stare him down, which was hard cause he was a whole head taller than me. “Emily is part of the selection committee for the contest.”

Otis shook his head. “How do you even know stuff like that? You really need a life, Nora.”

“It means I still have a chance.”

He winced. “I don’t think so. Tickets sold out last week.”

My heart threatened to break through my chest. Two people dressed as hobbits were just about to leave the shop.

“Hey, you,” I shouted, rounding the counter and blocking their way to the exit. “Are you going to the convention?”

They both stared at me a little frightened. I couldn’t blame them. One of them nodded.

“How much for the tickets?”