Passion in Portland 2016 Anthology Read online

“Son-of-a-bitch,” I muttered under my breath as I glanced at the article ripped from the newspaper and also tacked on the board above me.

  As I wrote my new book, I’d glance up and see that paragraph and it inspired me to write a romance that had not one sex scene in it – not one! I was going to show him that I didn’t need to have titillating sex in my novel to make it a great story, one that my readers would love. I would show him.

  I wrote morning, afternoon, and night, thousands and thousands of words, pages and pages, day after day, pouring my heart and soul into the best story I’d ever written. My hero was a former NBA star and my heroine a gorgeous model who’d been burned in a fire that had left her physically, emotionally, and psychologically scarred. They meet at the gym and he only sees the beautiful side of her face, as her hair and a hoodie covered the scars that tortured her constantly, but he immediately falls for her. They text and email back and forth until he knows without a doubt that he is in love with her but she can’t find the strength within her to tell him of the humiliation and shame she carries. You see, she accidently started the fire that not only scarred her, but killed her neighbor.

  I knew that once I finished the book and got it ready for publishing, it would be the novel that well and truly lifted my career to the next level. I’d never written so quickly – the words pouring out of me like flood water breaking through a dyke as I furiously typed word after word, page after page, chapter after chapter. From the time I typed the first word to the time I finished was only seventeen days. 90,000 words of pure excellence were ready for my sister to read. I emailed her… and waited.

  And waited. She’d had my story for more than a week and I knew better than to question her before she was ready. So when she finally called me on day eight, I was beside myself, riddled with anxiety.

  “Well?”

  “I don’t know how to express myself,” Becky almost whispered in reply. “It’s brilliant. It really is the best work you’ve ever done. I loved it.”

  “Really? You’re not just saying that?”

  “Really. I’m floored by your talent. I mean I knew you were talented, but this? This is a true gift you’ve shared with me, Gee.”

  She’d called me Gee since we were little. I hate the name Gina and when Becky was young she couldn’t say it anyway. She’d managed to say Gee… and it stuck.

  “You think it’s good?” I asked.

  “Better than good. Much better than good.”

  I was thrilled, relieved, and excited that she liked it. I sent it off to my little team of beta readers and started thinking about a cover. I knew exactly what I wanted. An almost naked man with a tattoo… or two. Take that, Jackson Wright!

  ~~~~~

  “What the…?” I couldn’t believe he had the nerve. There, sitting in my inbox, was an email from J. Wright. He had some follow up questions for me. Why?

  The article in the newspaper had been published weeks ago. I couldn’t imagine they were interested in doing another one. So why on earth did he have more questions?

  Ms. Walters,

  Thank you for answering my questions on September 10th. I just have a couple more that I’d like to ask before I put this file to bed.

  1. Do you feel the signing event was successful for you, as an author?

  and 2. Do you have any new books coming out before the end of the year?

  Thank you for your time,

  Jackson Wright

  I closed my email app on my computer and reread that stinging paragraph in his article that I still had tacked to my cork board.

  Why did he care if I thought the event successful? I was just a nobody. Maybe he was asking all of the authors who’d attended. Maybe he was secretly hoping I’d say it was a bust and he could justify his insolent questioning of my writing ability.

  It took me two days of stewing before I replied.

  Mr. Wright,

  1. Yes. I thought the signing was wonderful – well-organized and well-attended. I sold many books and met some wonderful people.

  2. I have a new book coming out next month – The Face of Love. I believe it just might be my best novel yet.

  G. Walters

  I clicked the send button and went to get ice cream from the freezer. I deserved a reward.

  What I didn’t deserve was the backlash at my sex-less book I received after my new book was published. Apparently, if you put a mostly-naked tattooed man on the cover of a book, the readers expect it to be hot and spicy. I had let them down miserably, and some of my loyal readers were so unhappy, they took to messaging me and emailing me to explain that a man like that on the cover was nothing more than a tease if I wasn’t going to follow up with some raunchy sex and lust-filled chapters.

  The comments destroyed me, and had me questioning my ability to write a story worth reading. I watched as blog after blog wrote reviews that usually began with something like, I was so excited to read this book after seeing the cover, but it never seemed to live up to its potential. Or, G. Walters has delivered book after book of scorching hot sex that leaves the reader hot and bothered and in love with their new book boyfriend. What happened here?

  Becky told me not to listen to them – they wouldn’t know a great love story if it reached out and bit them in the ass. I tried to do as she suggested but it was just too hard.

  Now, don’t get me wrong… there were TONS of people who loved the book. Some of my best friends are bloggers and many of them agreed with Becky – that it was my best novel to date. The five-star reviews were being posted every day and I was grateful for them. But why is it we get bogged down by the critics who like to tear us to shreds? Why do we give them a loud voice? Publishing a book isn’t easy. Writers open themselves up to criticism from every corner of the earth and we take it on the chin like a professional. I bet the critics wouldn’t be quite so loud if they were in our shoes.

  The funk that possessed me resulted in several days of binge watching Netflix and eating Oreos and mint chocolate chip ice cream. I would sleep for twelve hours and then head straight to the couch for the other twelve hours of the day, gorging and all but making myself sick. Becky called me several times, trying to entice me out of my apartment with promises of thick, juicy burgers or the best margaritas in town, but I declined and declined and declined again. I knew she was getting really worried when she showed up with chicken soup and a gallon of milk.

  “I’m not ill,” I frowned as she barged into my apartment.

  She didn’t respond, just stood two feet inside the door and gasped. “Um, this is gross,” she gagged.

  There might have been some empty ice cream containers on the floor, and a few bottles of mostly empty beer. And there was probably a pizza box from the previous weekend, pizza slices leftover, hard, crusty, and smelly. The coffee table had several empty glasses on it, which I would have taken through to the kitchen and loaded in the dishwasher, but it was still full from the last load and I didn’t have the energy, or desire, to empty it.

  “Gee! This is not like you. You have got to let this go.”

  “I poured my heart and soul into that book and nobody likes it,” I huffed.

  “Soooo not true! A few people didn’t like it. So what? There are lots of people who didn’t like The Scarlet Letter, or Pride and Prejudice, or even 50 Shades of Grey. It’s just their opinion. Don’t let them get to you.”

  I smirked and shut the door, shoving her inside my not-so-clean apartment.

  “Now, eat this,” she ordered, shoving the container of soup into my hands. “I think you should have something a little more nutritious than sugar for lunch.”

  It took a couple more visits from my baby sister before I managed to crawl out from under the dark cloud that covered me, reclaiming my normal, happy self. I finally unloaded the dishwasher and loaded it with the filthy dishes that were scattered all over my apartment. I got rid of all the trash (three bags!) and vacuumed and sprayed air freshener in every room… twice! I opened up all the windows and l
et in the crisp November air to clean out the stale remnants of self-pity. And then, when I felt human after a very long, hot shower, I sat down at my desk and opened my laptop.

  I knew if I went to Facebook first, I’d be sucked in and spend all day just scrolling, so I opened up my email, getting rid of all the junk and sales advertisements, then looked for messages that needed my attention. Just organizing my email took over an hour. You don’t realize just how much crap you get every day until you don’t check it for a few weeks!

  With the majority of the emails deleted, and the urgent emails from my editor, cover artist, proof reader and websites I used for marketing dealt with, I came to the last unread email… from J. Wright.

  “What the hell does he want now?” I all but screamed at my laptop. “I answered his stupid follow-up questions.”

  In order to read his message, I needed a drink. I shuffled into the kitchen, pulled a beer from the refrigerator and popped off the cap. I took a nice long pull and shuffled back down the hall to my office, and slumped into my chair. I double clicked on the email and took a deep breath.

  He wanted to meet for coffee next time I was in Portland. Huh? Why?

  ~~~~~

  I was early. I’m always early. Dad used to say that if you weren’t ten minutes early you were late… and it stuck. Plus, I had a ninety-minute drive and the traffic was always so unpredictable on the I-5. So, there I was, sitting in the coffee shop, my phone in my hand, scrolling through my newsfeed on Facebook and using my peripheral vision to watch for Mr. Jackson Wright.

  He was late.

  When he casually sauntered through the doorway looking like he didn’t have a care in the world, my blood began to boil. How dare he make me wait? My time was precious. I didn’t have time to sit around and wait for him.

  He saw me and smiled. “Coffee?” he asked, as he stepped towards the counter.

  “Mocha Latté,” I replied. “Venti.” Ha! I’ll make him spend five bucks on my drink and I’ll take a couple of sips and then leave. I was pleased with my plan.

  A couple of minutes later, he set my cup in front of me and pulled out the chair at the table and sat opposite me, shrugging out of his suede jacket and hanging it on the back of his chair. He looked just as gorgeous as I’d remembered.

  “Thanks,” I mumbled, reminding myself how much I disliked the man.

  “You’re welcome,” he smiled brightly. “Thanks for meeting me.”

  “Hmph.”

  He took a sip of his drink and then asked, “So, how are you?”

  Is he serious? “Look, Mr. Wright, I…”

  “Call me Jackson, please.”

  “Jackson,” I said. “I really don’t have a lot of time to just chit chat. Unless you have some more follow-up questions for me, I really should be getting back to work. I have an appointment with a photographer to discuss a future book cover and I need to finish my next novel. I’m working on some unbelievable and physically impossible bedroom romps with very little substance making up the ridiculous plot. I hope to have it out in December so some of my unsuspecting and unsophisticated readers will download it on their new kindle… the one they’ll get for Christmas.”

  “Ah,” he sighed.

  “So, if you have no actual questions, I should be going.” I pushed back my chair, making a grating sound across the concrete floor.

  “Please,” he replied. “I am sorry if that offended you. I wasn’t necessarily talking about you.”

  “Haha,” I burst. “Not necessarily talking about me? Good to know, but I still have work to do.” I stood up.

  So did Jackson.

  “You know, I have to admit I knew very little about romance novels when I arrived at that signing event a few weeks ago. In fact, I was pretty pissed I was assigned to cover it. I mean, it’s not like there weren’t any female journalists that could have gone, and they probably would have had a great time.”

  I just glared at him, my lips pursed, my fists clenched at my sides.

  “But I’ve learned quite a bit and if I were to go back and do it over, I probably wouldn’t have…”

  “Been such an asshole?” I finished his sentence for him.

  “That’s harsh,” he frowned.

  “Unbelievable and physically impossible bedroom romps with very little substance making up the ridiculous plot,” I reminded him.

  “Okay. Point taken. Please don’t leave yet. There was something that I wanted to say to you.”

  I stared at him for a couple more seconds and then sat back down again. I folded my arms across my chest and dared him to speak. Body language can be a powerful tool.

  “I read your book.”

  “Which one?” I asked. “I have several, you know.”

  “The new one,” he replied. “Your new one… about the former model who was burned in the fire. The Face of Love.”

  I didn’t say anything, just sat there, my eyes laser focused on him, trying to show no emotion whatsoever.

  “I wanted you to know that I thought it was really, really good.”

  Well, that took me by complete surprise. I really didn’t know what to say. That was the last thing I expected to come from his lips.

  “It was well-written and packed with raw emotion. You really drew me in and I found myself unable to stop reading it. And the end? It was really beautiful.”

  Damn!

  “I just wanted you to know that I think you are really talented, and that… well… if I made you feel anything less, well, I am very sorry.”

  Damn!

  “I felt it was important to say in person,” he added with just the hint of a smile on his lips.

  “Thank you,” I whispered, unsure of myself and the lump forming in my throat.

  “You’re welcome.” Now the smile was in full bloom. “Anyway, that’s really all I wanted to say, so, if you’re in a hurry…”

  “I could spare the time to drink this,” I said, a slight rosiness flushing my cheeks as I lifted my cup, unable to make eye contact as I stared down at the wooden table.

  How can men have that kind of effect? I mean, I was pissed as hell at Jackson while I sat at the table as he made me wait not ten minutes ago. And then? After he complimented me and apologized for being the jerk that he was? I could feel the heat in my cheeks. I could barely swallow for the emotion that had nestled in my throat. I felt my pulse quicken and the butterflies in the pit of my stomach flutter and torment me. My body and heart betrayed my mind.

  We sat for a few minutes as we sipped our scalding coffee, looking out at the bustling sidewalk as shoppers and professionals hurried past the window. I was completely unsettled and extraordinarily baffled at my response to his candid admission. I didn’t like the man… not one bit. Or so I thought.

  ~~~~~

  Three days later I began a new novel, a story that I had seen in a dream the night before. I know it sounds cliché, and I have always rolled my eyes when I heard an author say that they’d had a dream and turned it into a book. Yet here I was doing exactly the same thing, and I wasn’t hesitating to write about the characters that I’d seen so clearly in my mind as I’d restlessly slept, the vivid scenes I was watching screaming desperately to have their story told to the world.

  I wrote for several days which was a welcomed distraction from thinking about Jackson. Jackson and his big expressive eyes. Jackson and his adorable smile. Jackson and his thick unruly hair. I hadn’t heard from him after I’d left the coffee shop - a handshake and a warm goodbye, and then we walked away in opposite directions. Although, as I wrote my male character, he seemed to possess a strikingly similar physical appearance to one Jackson Wright, right down to the silver ring he wore on his right hand, the middle finger. It had what appeared to be some kind of Celtic knot engraved on it. I tried not to put much stock in it, after all, it was a dream and I was just being faithful to the characters and the story that had presented themselves to me.

  After two weeks of planning, plotting, and writing, I had
a solid beginning of a love story that I was in love with. It was sweet and tender but had mystery and angst, along with undeniable physical attraction and sex that would make every woman swoon and most men envious. I wrote with heart and passion, even though I was still naïve in many ways when it came to orgasms and sexual positions. My experience was certainly limited but that wasn’t going to stop me from writing an amazing book. I may have been a fraud, but I was a talented fraud.

  Thanksgiving came and went. Christmas came and went. My story was finally finished. Was it as good as my last book? I wasn’t sure. It was definitely different; a different tone for sure with pages of hot, steamy love-making. But I was proud of it and was thrilled with the final edits.

  Becky loved it too. She and Ryan had read it together, Ryan unable to look me squarely in the eyes the next few times I saw him. He knew about my lack of a love life and I’m sure he was baffled at some of the things I wrote, but Becky had thoroughly enjoyed it so I didn’t care what her husband thought.

  In early January I published… and waited for the responses and reviews.

  3.

  It’s difficult to describe the feeling of loneliness when your day is taken up with answering messages and emails from readers who love your work and want to reach out to tell you so. It’s difficult to describe the feeling of emptiness when your latest release breaks into the top 100 of Amazon and then two weeks later finds you on the USA Today bestsellers list. It’s difficult… very difficult to feel so empty when I should have been over the moon. I mean, that’s what an author works for. That’s what I had been working for.

  Yet here I was, dreams coming true and feeling more alone than I’d ever felt. I didn’t have that special someone with whom to share my joy and accomplishment.

  Becky had announced at their New Year’s party that Kimmy was going to have a little brother or sister – they were expecting baby number two. I was utterly thrilled for them… genuinely ecstatic. But as I’d driven home that night from their house, I couldn’t help but feel the twinge of jealousy in my core. I was the older sister. I should be doing all of these things first; getting married, buying my first house, having a baby, having baby number two. I was only three years older than Becky, but still. Shouldn’t it be me?