Chapter 1

Aspen Wolfe

M y finger hovered over the delete key. As my stomach clenched in a bitter knot, my lips quivered. I didn't want to do it, flush over five thousand followers away as if they were nothing. They weren't nothing. I didn't even know if I could survive as a sapphic author without my social media presence. Fans like engaging with authors, reading and commenting on our posts, ogling photos of what we were having for dinner, and, most pointedly, being alerted to our new and upcoming releases. I felt sick, but I had no choice.

With a shaky hand and a moist tear, I set my jaw and pushed the button. In the time it took my racing heart to pound out a beat, Aspen Wolfe was gone. Five years of grueling daily work to build a loyal following, to be welcomed into every imaginable sapphic and LGBTQ circle, and to make connections with other authors, artists, editors, advertisers, and fans went poof. I may not have liked Mary Jones very much, but I loved Aspen Wolfe down to my bones.

"Take that, SapphicLover69," I growled as the screen blinked and returned to a generic homepage asking me to log in or create an account. I wanted to smash my laptop into useless bits of plastic, chips, and wires. It wouldn't have helped. A shiver of grief ran through me before a tranquil calm settled on my shoulders like a butterfly. "You won't find me now."

Thankfully, Aspen Wolfe wasn't dead—just her online presence. Still, that had been a tremendous part of my life for the past five years. You see, Mary Jones was ordinary in every sense of the word—average height, average weight, medium brown hair and eyes, with no distinguishing talent or skills. I was merely a hopeless romantic who taught junior high English in Gulfport, Florida, to kids who'd rather be anywhere else except in my classroom. At least I had an exciting girlfriend … until she left me for a motorcycle chick. The tables had turned when the hot little thing took Tracy (my ex) for a ride—literally and figuratively—ripping her off to the tune of all her worldly possessions. By then, I was over her enough we could become friends.

Looking back, I discerned what a wonderful thing our breakup had been. Instead of wallowing in self-pity, I'd thrown myself into bringing a secret dream to life—writing a hot, steamy, sapphic romance novel. Of course, being a public schoolteacher, I couldn't say Mary Jones penned a book some pastors in town would call smut. (Although, really, there must be thousands of Mary Joneses in the world.) So, I'd gotten creative and conjured up not just a pseudonym, but an entirely new person—Aspen Wolfe.

As a teenager, I went on a ski trip with kids from my class to Aspen, Colorado, and loved it. The mountains, the snow, the frosty air, all the things I never experienced in Florida, stuck in my emotional memory like the smell of chocolate chip cookies baking in Mimi's oven. Even more life-altering, I kissed my first girl on that trip. Wed the locale to my favorite animal, add an "e," and I had Aspen Wolfe. Where I was frumpy, bland, and shy, she was fashionable, exciting, and gregarious. She wasn't afraid of anything, and she wrote a smoking, provocative women-loving-women romance for her debut novel to prove it.

It took me a year to finish my first book, Hot in Heels, about a CEO ice queen and the annoyingly cheerful driver who thaws her stony heart. Oh, the things they do in that limo! I was still teaching tweens, so I created social media accounts for Aspen Wolfe. My sister, the hairstylist, fixed me up to look stunning for a profile photo, and, while she was in town, I changed outfits and locations ten times to stock up on snapshots to dole out over time so people online would know I was real. I am real, and they are pictures of me; I just rarely look so attractive.

As Aspen, I developed an author website, joined readers' and writers' groups, took online classes to learn all the ins and outs, and then tried to sell myself and my book proposal to publishers. I ran into a lot of, "We aren't taking any more manuscripts this year." Really, in February? The ones who said, "We don't have time or resources to invest in an unproven author," were at least more honest.

About that time, the sadder and poorer-but-wiser Tracy came back into my life, begging for a shoulder to cry on and a couch to sleep on. She stayed up reading my manuscript one night and swore it was the most arousing words she'd ever seen in print, and, if I didn't self-publish it, I was a bigger fool than she had been.

So, in my spare couple of hours a night, I went to webinars and Zoom classes to learn how to self-publish a book, hired a cover artist, and set a release date. At least my college degree and eight years as a teacher equipped me to edit and proofread for myself. I followed the prescribed launch procedure, built excitement for my book, and then watched all my hopes and dreams plummet into an abyss when I received a whopping three purchases on day one—my sister and Tracy being two of them.

But Aspen Wolfe doesn't give up the way Mary Jones would have done. She's a winner, a success, a woman who overcomes obstacles to get what she wants. Therefore, I stuck with it and joined an ARC service, giving away copies to get reviews. The first couple were demoralizing; however, my Aspen wasn't about to surrender.

It was then an established sapphic author of historical fiction novels reached out to me. She was twenty years older and much more experienced, so I adopted Tammy Fairfield as my mentor. A month later, Hot in Heels hit number one in Lesbian Romance, and five-star reviews were pouring in. It won an award for Best Sapphic Romance by a Debut Author.

I closed my laptop with a labored sigh and gazed at the bookshelf displaying my books, trophies, and certificates. There weren't that many, not after a mere five years, but they provided me with a sense of validation. Last year, I had achieved enough success to quit teaching and dedicate myself entirely to writing. By then, Tracy had found her One, the woman who completed her in all the ways I hadn't. But I wasn't Aspen Wolfe when we were together—I had been plain Mary Jones.

"Who am I now?" Feeling the weight of the question as though it were a ponderous stone, I immediately regretted deleting my accounts. Throwing the laptop open, I madly pounded keys, but it was gone. "I can still be Aspen Wolfe," I told myself. "I'm still writing and publishing under her name, and I still have my newsletter subscribers. Aspen can continue communicating with readers that way."

Feeling numb, I sat for a long time, shifting my gaze from the useless social media page to my shelves of books and awards. "All because of that damned stalker SapphicLover69."

Oh, don't think I trashed my online presence on a whim—I tried everything else to get rid of this lunatic first. It had started innocently enough. She was a fan who thought my books were great and said nice things. She shared and reposted my memes and advertisements, and I thought she would help me get more sales.

Next came the private messages, things like "Hi," with a smiley face or a wavy hand emoji. When I wasn't busy, I'd send back a "Hi," or "Thanks for supporting me," insignificant niceties like that—nothing the least bit personal. About a month after this began, I went to visit relatives for the Christmas holidays and was offline for a week. That's when the casual exchange flipped on its ear. I returned to find at least a hundred private messages clogging my inbox.

At first, they sounded concerned. "Are you OK?" and "What happened? You know I'm here to help." Then they got darker. "Why are you ghosting me?" "I thought we had something special. "Why are you ignoring me?" "You don't want to make me mad." By the time I got to the last one, blubbering about how I was her true love, and we were meant to be together, how dare I fight fate, I blocked her, him, or they—because, really, how was I to know? It was no big deal. I blocked people all the time—the East Indian trying to sell me a foolproof service to gain ten thousand followers overnight, the ones who for the low price of $49.99 will feature my book on their site nobody ever heard of and send enticing ads to their ten thousand followers (who they probably got from the guy in India). I also blocked all the men who just "loved" my content and cover photo—you know, the image of my latest book and all the content relating to women loving women. So, I figured that was the end of SapphicLover69 bothering me.

No. Next, she started following me everywhere online. I'd blocked her from my private messages and profile, but I couldn't keep her off the internet. If I commented on another author's gorgeous cover art, she was there hounding me, replying with inappropriate sexual references or calling me unrepeatable, vile names.

I contacted the people and group managers, apologizing for this crazy person's deplorable behavior and asking if they could remove the comments and block her. Some did, especially authors and readers I had talked to for years, whereas others never responded to me—notably the large book and reader forums that valued free speech or were just too busy to bother. I suppose when your page receives over a hundred comments a day, it becomes burdensome to seek and delete ones some members might have found offensive.

Next, I researched SapphicLover69, trying to figure out who this person was; only her profile was purposefully vague. There was no personal information, not even a country listed, and no personal photos, either. She used a cartoon icon as her profile picture. Her account listed tons of "friends" and had been open for years but not a clue to her identity. Even my Aspen account listed Gulfport, Florida, and had photograms of me, doctored though they were.

I'm certain she formed fake profiles under other usernames to come after me because, as the months marched by, I was inundated with hateful rants from various pop-up individuals I'd never seen before. It got to the point I loathed logging on. What had started as a fun and effective way to meet readers and converse with other authors was being turned into a nightmare by this obsessed person who obviously had no life of her own. I mean, who does that?

Then, SapphicLover69 began spreading rumors about me, and my sales suffered. I panicked. I couldn't afford to lose royalties because of this smear campaign. It had taken more courage than Mary Jones ever imagined for me to quit teaching school and bet everything on my career as an author. That was an Aspen Wolfe move if there ever was one. I couldn't think of anything more humiliating than to walk into the principal's office and ask for my old job back. So, I fought her. I stood up for myself, posted some of those photos of me as Aspen looking cool and sophisticated, and invited people to come meet me at this winter's Read Out. Aspen Wolfe would have a booth.

Now you might ask, why would a woman living in the most gay-friendly town in the Southeastern U.S. even use a pen name or pseudo persona? Tracy says I'm paranoid and ridiculous. My insecurities and self-consciousness were factors in our breakup. No, it wasn't all her fault. Why shouldn't she want to be out and proud leading the Pride Parade and engage in public displays of affection? I was too reserved, too worried about what people would think … about what my parents would think. They knew I liked girls; they just preferred not to talk about it and were so proud when I moved into the respectable profession of teaching. "Keep a low profile," Mom had warned. "People don't mind being around gays as long as they aren't made to feel uncomfortable." Whatever that was supposed to mean. There were scenes in my books that would most assuredly make them squirm.

Mary Jones was a wimp, and I didn't want to be like that. So, I wrote bold characters who didn't care what anyone thought and lived vicariously through them. I envisioned who I had always wished to be and gave her the name Aspen Wolfe. Aspen would never be cowed by a crazed fan.

As terrifying as it was to put myself out like that, constantly afraid a student or parent would wander by and see me with a table full of tantalizingly sexy, lesbian love stories for sale, I bit the bullet and did it. Why did it matter if I wasn't even teaching anymore?

It had been scary, and, if it hadn't been for my belief in Aspen Wolfe, I'd have never dared. Then I posted photos of me at the Read Out signing autographs and posing with Tammy and other authors I had met online. Sales picked up again, and I thought the danger had passed … until last week when SapphicLover69 returned with a vengeance. This time, she accused me of using AI—AI! As if! "She doesn't even write her own slop," she'd posted. "Aspen Wolfe is a fraud in every sense of the word."

What hurt the most was when my groups and people I thought I knew didn't take down her attacks. Maybe they didn't jump on the bandwagon, but only a few spoke out in my defense. Was she right? Was I a fraud? No. I write every word of my stories and novels, and they aren't slop. They're witty and emotional, and my readers come away most satisfied when they've finished one of my books. What do I have to feel guilty about?

But her claim that she'd had boring, disappointing sex with me, so how could I possibly write great love scenes, was the last straw. I rebuked the claim on my page—and in every group I belonged to—then planned my strategic exit.

I slouched in the recliner chair in my living room where I write and stared out the window between the bookshelf and the entertainment center. The sun shone brightly, and a gentle breeze fluttered through the palm branches. I didn't notice the tears trickling down my face until I tasted their saltiness on my dry lips. It was natural to grieve such a loss, after all.

"But I'm still Aspen Wolfe," I reminded myself. "I can be whoever I want to be. My career isn't over; it's just getting started. I'll get through this." It was going to take a lot of pep talks.

Soon I was joined by a fat, fluffy, black cat whose purr was loud enough to hear from space. He hoisted his bulk onto my chest and licked my tears. "Furball." I sunk my fingers into his thick hair and drew comfort from his affection. While many cats might be aloof and disinterested, Furball was a big love machine who always made me feel better about everything. "You're still my number one fan," I praised and allowed love and appreciation to fill my heart. "You don't care if I'm Aspen or Mary—you just love me because I feed you," I laughed, thankful I still could.

I was lost in my emotional rollercoaster when the beep of a notification on my laptop jolted me from my self-pity. "An email," I told him, then frowned. Who could it be from? Had the fallout from deleting my account already started?

With hesitation and no small amount of anxiety, I clicked to bring up my mail.