Chapter 12 #2
“Sam,” he says, tone gentle but firm, “you really need to do this on your own. Those readers have been standing in line for hours to meet you. They want that one-on-one connection. It’s part of the experience.
Plus”—he hesitates, choosing his words carefully—“we want to preserve a certain illusion. That you’re… well, single.”
My jaw tightens. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means,” Derek says smoothly, “your readers like a little fantasy. It’s not about hiding who you are, it’s about selling what they connect to—the dream. And right now, that dream is that every woman out there has a shot at the mysterious, charming S. P. Rochelle.”
I start to protest, but Penny lays a hand on my arm. “Hey,” she says softly, “listen to him. He knows what he’s doing.”
“Penny—”
She squeezes my arm before I can argue further. “I’ll just stand off to the side and beam with pride. You’ll know I’m here.” Her gaze lift to mine, steady and sure. “You’ve got this.”
I exhale, frustration loosening into something gentler. “You always know what to say, don’t you?”
“Pretty much,” she teases.
The store manager clears her throat politely. “Whenever you’re ready, Mr. Rochelle.”
I give Penny’s hand one last squeeze and force myself toward the door. I take stock of how I’m feeling. Sure, the nerves are still there, but I’m also noting a little excitement. I write for these people and to see how much they love my stuff… it’s surreal.
The threat of vomiting is gone and now… I feel ready.
I step out and head toward the table. Derek and Penny angle off to the side near a tall shelf of paperbacks, whispering to each other as staff open the front doors and guide the fans inside. I take my seat, forcing my shoulders to relax.
The line moves slowly at first, women filtering through the velvet ropes, clutching tickets to get their advanced copy of The Ruin of Gods. The air hums with laughter and excited chatter.
Then I spot her—the first woman in line. She’s probably mid-forties, bright pink blouse, blond curls that bounce when she walks, clutching her ticket like it’s a backstage pass to heaven. She looks at me with uncertainty, then glances around.
“Hi there,” I say, smile ready, pen in hand. “Thanks for coming out today—”
Before I can finish, she lets out a sharp, piercing shriek that echoes off the brick walls, and I jump in my seat.
“Oh my God!” she yells, eyes wide, hand flying to her chest. “S. P. Rochelle is a man?”
The room goes dead silent for half a second. Then comes the murmuring—soft at first, then rising like wind picking up through the trees.
“Wait, what?”
“No way.”
“I thought he was a woman!”
“Did you know?”
I swear I can hear the wave of realization rolling through the crowd, spreading in a ripple of gasps and louder exclamations. I had expected this. So had Derek, who mutters, “Here we go.”
Penny’s covering her mouth with both hands, her shoulders shaking in barely contained laughter.
I take a breath, force a grin, and gesture toward the woman. “Surprise!”
Her shock melts into astonishment, and then into sheer delight. “You’re joking! You’re really him? You wrote The Shadow Princess and The Chronicles of the Stone Veil?”
“Yes, ma’am,” I say, voice calm, hands steady even though my heart’s going full speed. “Guilty as charged.”
“Oh, honey,” she gushes, stepping closer, her excitement bubbling over. “You have no idea what those books did for me. After my divorce, I was in a bad place—then I picked up The Revelation of Light and Dark, and I swear, that series helped me believe in love again.”
Something in her voice hits me square in the feel-good. I had not expected such a personal story. I smile, genuinely moved. “That means a lot to hear. I wrote those stories hoping they’d matter to someone. Sounds like they did their job.”
“They sure did,” she says, blinking fast to keep from tearing up.
I nod down to the book. “Who do you want this made out to?”
“Allison,” she breathes.
I write a note, Thanks for reading, and then scrawl my signature carefully, trying not to smudge the ink. I slide the book back across the table and she stares at it like I just handed her the Holy Grail.
“Can I get a picture?” she asks, already fishing for her phone.
“Of course.”
I stand, and the store manager steps in to take the photo. The woman positions herself beside me, grinning ear to ear. Her hand brushes my arm once—then again, slower, as if confirming I’m real.
Click. Flash. Done.
“Thank you so much,” she says, throwing her arms around me in a hug that could qualify as a chiropractic adjustment.
“You’re very welcome,” I manage, laughing as I hug her back.
Before she lets go, her hand presses against my biceps and she gasps. “Oh my, he’s ripped!”
The whole front of the store bursts into laughter.
She turns to the rest of the line and calls out, “Ladies, S. P. Rochelle is a man—and he’s built like a Greek god!”
The chatter surges again, half disbelief, half giddy excitement. Someone whistles.
I glance over at Penny. She’s doubled slightly at the waist, one hand clamped over her mouth in an attempt to control her laughter. Derek, beside her, just shakes his head, pinching the bridge of his nose.
I grin helplessly, trying not to laugh myself, and call out, “All right, folks, one revelation per person. Next?”
The next woman steps forward, clutching her book and trying not to giggle. “You’re really him?”
“Last I checked,” I say, motioning her closer with a smile. “Come on up. Let’s make this official.”
And just like that, the line begins to move—nervous laughter giving way to genuine excitement. The tension breaks, replaced with the hum of voices, the scratch of my pen on paper, and the occasional shout of disbelief that S. P. Rochelle is, in fact, a man from a little town called Whynot.
Through it all, Penny stands off to the side, proud and glowing, and every time I look her way, the nerves ease a little more.
By the time I’ve signed the tenth book, I’m grinning for real because this doesn’t feel so terrifying after all.