Chapter 6

The Book Fair

B etween the stand-up comic's routine, a second glass of wine, and the pleasure of excellent company, I slept well. The next morning, I dared to look at my phone. There was a text from Tracy asking if I'd made it OK and scolding me for not checking in, one from my sister saying she was going to kill me because her kids were now insisting she get them a cat, and forty-two from the unknown number. I was tempted to delete them all sight unseen, then decided I should read them in case there were death threats. The last thing I wanted was for my friends to end up in a dangerous situation by being in my proximity.

So, I thumbed through them all. ‘Where'd you go?' ‘Why won't you answer me?' ‘I'm waiting.' ‘I know what room you're in.' ‘I'm coming down tonight to fuck you.' ‘You want to fuck me, I know you do.' And more of the same.

It was disturbing and disgusting, and Elaine had been right. This idiot was just trying to get under my skin, and I refused to let her. "Aspen Wolfe is above being disturbed by harassing messages." I pushed the three little dots in my text messaging app to block and report. "There—take that!"

I needed a shower. Hot droplets massaging my neck and shoulders felt good. I washed my hair and shaved then lotioned up. Even though I had chosen slacks for the day, I'd probably change into comfortable shorts for the night's excursion and was unsure what I'd wear for my presentation.

Next came hair and makeup. It didn't come out as stunning as what Alice had done for me, but at least I looked more polished than usual. After dressing, I did the curling iron thing, being vigilant not to burn myself. A light mist of hairspray should keep it from drooping. Alice loaned me her fragrance-free variety so it wouldn't interfere with my chosen scent for the day. Something from Bath and Body Works on my neck and wrists should do the trick. I didn't want an overpowering smell that knocked people down when I walked past them.

Studying myself in the mirror, I was about to pat my nose with a powder puff when a knock sounded at my door. I lurched in alarm, my empty stomach leaping into my throat. Had she come looking for me?

I crept through the nook and peeked out the peephole, then released the breath I'd been holding. "Are you gonna take all morning beautifyin' yourself?" Tammy blasted impatiently. "You're slower than my wife, and that's saying something."

I opened the door to see my cadre of guardians pulling their carts of books. "I'm ready," I answered. "Just waiting on y'all."

"Yeah, right," Tammy smirked. As it turned out, Tammy and Beth's suite was on my floor, though I didn't know where the others' rooms were.

"Since our tables are all assigned, we're going to grab a quick breakfast at the coffee bar in the lobby, then get set up in the gallery," Elaine said.

"My table is just two down from yours!" Winter exclaimed enthusiastically before her countenance fell. "We're in the terrace area between the main hall and the pool, which means it'll be hot with all the windows and skylights, and some of the traffic may not even know we're out there."

"Look on the bright side," Tammy countered. "Hotel guests going to use the pool will find you for sure."

"Now, I'll move around to everyone's tables to watch them for you when you need to use the restroom or go sit for a minute," Beth offered.

"Thanks!" I grabbed my book boxes, locked the door, and together we moved toward the elevator.

"Here, Aspen," Winter said, adding her hands to the sides of my box. "Put that on my cart."

Accepting her offer, I set the heavy boxes atop hers. "Thank you. I should have thought about bringing one of those." Her smile was guileless and sweet.

"No more unsolicited messages last night, I hope," Tammy growled in warning and jabbed the down arrow.

I shook my head. There was no point in sharing all the filth. It would just get Tammy worked up and worry the others. Besides, I blocked the bugger.

"Beignets, here we come!" exclaimed a jubilant Elaine, big grin beaming.

A n hour later, I stood at my table piled with romance novels for sale and bookmarks and author cards to give away, flanked by two eighty-one-inch banners, one for each of my two nominated books. (Three categories, but only two books; helped my odds of winning something.) Alas, it was not beside Tammy's.

I sipped from my to-go coffee cup and set it down in a safe spot, readjusting a book on its easel at what I hoped was a pleasing angle. Whenever I glanced to my left, Winter waved at me with a hopeful expression. She made me laugh, which was good for calming my nerves. I had promised to point readers her way when they left my table, and she vowed to do the same. One of the first tips I learned about marketing was the value of cross-promotions with other authors.

At nine o'clock, the broad double doors of the gallery opened to a crowd of waiting fans. The hall, with a three-hundred-and-fifty-person capacity, featured inlaid lighting in tray ceilings over ornate carpets and light-colored walls. Three rows of twelve tables dominated the main room, with two extra along the far wall opposite the doors. In the window-lined space between the gallery and the pool (where Winter and I were), they had set up another line of twelve tables.

Seventy-one authors were registered for the conference, but a few shared a booth, and some didn't reserve one. It cost an extra hundred dollars, so if they thought they wouldn't make that back in sales or if they only had one book or were only coming for the awards banquet … anyway, each novelist vibrated with expectant energy when readers noisily spilled into the hall.

Once inside, the book buyers and autograph hunters divided, flowing like water around rocks in a stream. I smiled at the first to stop at my display. Don't look desperate. Stand up straight. Be cool and confident. Be friendly and nice, echoed all my instructions to myself. You are Aspen Wolfe, a successful, award-winning, best-selling author who is friendly without being needy.

She bought a copy of Only a Touch on a recommendation from a friend, and I signed my name inside the cover. Several others took bookmarks or author cards. I swear, some people only came for the free stuff. Still, they listed my website and newsletter sign-up, which could lead to future sales.

I had made my first hundred dollars by the time a group of three lesfic fans bounded up. The gregarious one with a fountain of narrow, black braids cascading around a cool, dusky face enthused like she was at a party in heaven. "You're Aspen Wolfe!" Bouncing on white sneakers, she beamed at her two companions. "Look, y'all—it's really Aspen Wolfe!"

"I want a book," decreed a tall, lean young woman with short, stick-up hair dyed in Mardi Gras colors. She sported a tattoo sleeve and an eyebrow ring to accompany the hoops in her ears. "I want Aspen Wolfe's autograph."

"Yes, that's me, Aspen Wolfe," I answered with a modest smile. "Which book do you want?"

"Let me look at them all," the first young woman said. She picked up a book and flipped it to read the back.

All three appeared to be college-aged. The third one hung back, staring at me in an appraising manner like she was trying to decide if she loved me or loathed me. Dirty-blonde hair streamed down her back, and a dark intensity clung to her despite her cheery rainbow tank top and the casual cut-off jean shorts she wore.

Suspicion flared to life, and I launched into vigilant mode. What if she was SapphicLover69? Suddenly, I presumed any of these reader-fans could be my stalker. She could be acting all nice to my face, laughing manically to herself about how she would devise my destruction.

The quiet woman flicked her gaze over me with what looked like disdain, sending a shiver down my spine. I returned my attention to the other two.

"This one is nominated for an award," I said, picking up a copy of Quick. "It's a romantic thriller with steamy, erotic scenes all happening in real time. What I mean is, it would take an audiobook narrator about ten and a half hours to read it and all the action occurs consecutively in one day, so it's like everything transpires as you read it with no dead time in between. It was challenging to write, and people say it's exciting to read."

"Fire!" exclaimed Mardis Gras hair.

"No cap!" added the young Black woman, who snatched the book out of her companion's hand to read the blurb.

I beamed, proud I could pull off such a tough assignment as that book had been. "Where are y'all from?" I asked.

"Oh, I'm Demi, from N'awlins, and you're my all-time favorite author. Hey, one of your MCs in this one is a POC like me!" Her effervesce spilled out as her feet did a rendition of the Snoopy dance.

"I'm Nan Anders, from Nashville," said Mardis Gras hair. "Drove my Harley down the Trace yesterday to be here for this. You can write, ‘Chillin' with Nan An' right here and sign your name," she directed, handing me a copy of Only a Touch. "Chapter Ten," Nan chanted in a low, husky tone and wiggled her brows at me. I'd had more subtle come-ons.

"What about you?" I threw out to the shady blonde who had crossed her arms.

"None of us came together," she sneered. "We just met in the hallway. You don't need to know where I'm from. Give me a copy of that thriller and be quick about it." Her tone was sharp and demanding like she was my ice-queen boss and I her lowly subordinate. Then I saw her form waver with witty humor at her play on words, and I returned a knowing smile.

"They're fifteen dollars a piece," I said.

Demi took one of each and produced a hundred-dollar bill. "I have most of the ebooks, but I must have signed paperbacks!"

"Too rich for my blood," Nan sighed while I scratched out her dictated line and Aspen Wolfe's practiced signature.

"Here y'all go." I handed them each their books, tucking the money into a pouch around my waist. Was it stylish? No, but I'd lost or had cash swiped at live events before, and I couldn't afford it again. "Be sure to stop by Winter Bliss's table," I suggested, pointing in her direction. The girl with no name shrugged while the other two bounced and giggled their way to Winter's table.

I took a moment to glance around the terrace alcove and through the windows to the main gallery. Across the hall, I spied whom I thought might be the woman in black from last night. She had the same build, the same long, dark hair obscuring her face, and she was just standing staring at me from a distance. I gritted my teeth and searched for Tammy and Beth. If I could flag down Beth to have her watch my table, I could confront the lurker who'd been following me and gawking across crowded rooms. That's just the kind of thing a stalker would do.

By the time I spotted them, two extraordinarily sophisticated older women strolled up, catching my eye. Pushing down anxiety, I presented a pleasant smile. "Welcome to the Literary Laurels Book Fair," I greeted. "Take your time and browse but feel free to ask questions."

They didn't seem to notice I was there, though they gave my books a passing glance.

"This society is going to the dogs," grumbled the taller woman with red hair that sprang from her head like a fountain and bowed in tapered layers around her sleek neck. Her jewels looked real, and she was dressed to impress in a designer business suit and heels that seemed over the top for the casual occasion.

"Really scraping the bottom of the barrel this year," replied the stockier woman in a tailored pantsuit and leather loafers. Her gray hair was styled in a severe fade cut that appeared freshly shaved over her diamond-studded ears. Both women carried themselves like royalty.

Concerned over their lack of appreciation for the event, I followed the women's gazes through the wall of windows to the back side of Q.L. Shade's booth. A tall woman in her forties, Q.L. was an author whose sapphic literary fiction novels showcased a rich tapestry of characters, including bisexual, nonbinary, and trans individuals. She had even published a memoir of her personal journey of transition.

"I'm sorry, but women who want a penis every other day or who were born with one shouldn't be allowed to participate alongside real lesbians," sneered the butch, who suddenly paled compared to my friend, Tammy, regardless of her money.

My mouth gaped, and my eyes widened. I couldn't believe I was hearing this kind of prejudicial talk and I hoped to God Q.L. couldn't hear them through the panes. My mother had taught me to maintain a low profile, to keep my mouth shut, and to mind my own business. Besides, these women looked important, and I knew not everyone was up with the times.

What would Aspen Wolfe do? Maybe I could find the words to defend my fellow author without being offensive to the ignorant couple.

"The Literary Laurels Society—the premiere supporter of women loving women books and sponsor of this event—adopted a diverse platform several years ago to keep up with the evolving composition of our community. I see it as a win for everyone." I smiled, pleased with my non accusatory defense of the conference's updated policies.

The elegant redhead glanced my way, turning her nose up in derision. "Oh, it's you." She curled her lip. "The fraud."

Like a flash of lightning, Winter Bliss whisked to the corner of my table and planted herself with arms crossed and a defiant chin raised. "Aspen is not a fraud! Do you think AI could create such intricate characters and storylines?" She opened her posture long enough to wave a hand at the books on my table. "That was nothing but a nasty rumor. And she's won awards from Literary Laurels, The Rainbow Quill, and Indie Authors International." With that, she slapped her arms back into their disapproving, crossed position.

The older, butch woman emitted a dour laugh. "Now she's got a troglodyte racing to defend her."

"Hey!" I planted fists on my hips and glared at them, fury threatening. I didn't get mad often, but these two were pissing me off. "How rude! You can't talk about Winter like that."

The tall, slender woman in the skirt twisted her face to her companion. "She doesn't know who we are," she commented as if I was ignorant white trash. Leveling her disapproval on me once more, she stated, "For all we know, you're an actor hired to play the part of Aspen Wolfe."

"Aspen is more genuine than you two," Winter blasted, waving her skinny arms at the chic women.

The butch's face hardened to a stony glare. "This is Ms. Valery Preston, the executive president of Femlove Ink, the foremost publisher of lesbian fiction, and I'm her assistant, Cary Marino." Her posture resembled that of a mafia godfather's bodyguard. Femlove Ink was one of the many publishing companies that had turned down my first book, the one that took the Debut Author Laurel Award. Meeting her made me happy to have been rejected.

Valery raised a hand to stifle any further comment from the muscle. "I am intimately acquainted with the Literary Laurels Society, as I was a foundation member and served on the board for over a decade. I was practically running this affair while you were still in diapers. The Laurels organization was established to support lesbian authors and books in a world dominated by straight men who wished nothing more than for us to cease to exist."

Her expression darkened as she pointed a glossy fingernail at me. "We fought hard, sometimes at great personal and financial peril, for the right to tell our stories. Now every new fangled queer designation people can conceive of wants to ride our coattails and profit off our sacrifices. And I suppose you think that's fair?"

Valery aimed the lecture at me, ignoring Winter altogether, as if she didn't matter or wasn't worth acknowledging. That angered me most of all. But I bit my tongue and tamped down the tirade I ached to release.

Instead, I nodded and spoke calmly. "Ms. Preston, I truly appreciate all that you and your associates did to pave the way so people like me can pursue a career we love, writing stories about women like us. The hundreds of fans who have turned out for this event and hundreds of thousands more around the world owe you a tremendous debt of thanks. All that you have accomplished, championed, and struggled to achieve is indeed praiseworthy. But our tent is bigger now. Don't you think bisexuals, transgender women, and nonbinary people deserve the right to tell their stories too?"

"Certainly," snapped Cary. "I'm all for them telling their stories, just not at our expense. Let them establish their own support groups and let us have our space. We didn't invite them in; they invited themselves. Now everything has to be ‘sapphic' to be more ‘inclusive,'" she said sarcastically with air quotes.

I heard Winter suck in a breath and saw her step forward in my peripheral vision, and I held up a hand. Then, with a meek countenance and calm tone, I replied, "The current board of Literary Laurels voted to be more inclusive and adopt the term sapphic for that purpose. You indeed provided a foundation for my generation to build on, and authors like Winter Bliss and Q.L. Shade, and, frankly, all the others represented here owe you a debt of thanks we can never repay. That still doesn't excuse you for acting like an obnoxious bitch."

A look of outrage passed over both their faces, but, before either could rebuff my remark, Ms. Catherine Beech, the current reigning president of the society, stepped up to join us with an endearing smile.

"Valery, Cary, how nice of you to come!" she greeted in welcome.

In an instant, Valery slapped on a cheery fa?ade and turned to hug and air kiss the elegant and enlightened leader who did not allow age to devolve her into a dinosaur. "Why, Catherine, so marvelous to see you! I was hoping to run into you this morning."

She looped her arm through Catherine's, pivoted on her heel, and walked her in the opposite direction from our tables. Cary rolled her eyes behind their backs with a grimace then fell in behind the two pillars of the lesbian fiction world.

"Well done!" exclaimed Marty Sanderson, the buxom Black author of butch/femme romances whose table was wedged between mine and Winter's. "If you hadn't told that arrogant horse's ass off, I was fixin' to."

I smiled, more than a little proud of myself for standing up. Winter beamed at me with admiring eyes, twisting her fingers in front of her until she had to reach to push up her glasses. "Thanks for rushing to my rescue, faithful space knight," I smirked at her with flirtatious eyes.

Stop it, Mary! We aren't flirting with her!

Winter grinned and bounced on her toes. Then I pinned her with a serious look. "You better get back to your table before someone steals all your stuff."

She stopped bouncing and stared at me in disbelief. "You mean someone here would steal something?"

Poor, sweet, trusting Winter. She was like a puppy that I just wanted to take home and snuggle. "Yes, here. I've had it happen before. Now, shoo. We'll talk later."

At that, the twinkle returned to her eyes, and she sprinted away to count her books.