Bottle Rocket

Ann McMan

Nuance

Bedazzled Ink Publishing Company • Fairfield, California

© 2012 Ann McMan

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from the publisher.

978-1-934452-76-9 paperback

978-1-934452-75-2 ebook

Cover Design

by

digisurfer

Page 25. Theodor Geisel, Horton Hears a Who

(New York, Random House Books for Young Readers, 1954)

Nuance Books

a division of

Bedazzled Ink Publishing Company

Fairfield, California

http://nuancebooks.bedazzledink.com

Dedication

In a very short period of time, I gained and lost a father—and found the love of my life. This book is dedicated to my dear dad, Eddie—and to my wife, Salem. I love you both.

Bottle Rocket

Chapter One

SHAWN HARRIS’S DEBUT novel was a runaway best seller.

In lesbian fiction parlance, a best seller was defined as any book that sold more than three thousand copies in the lifetime of its print contract. Well, Shawn’s semi-autobiographical novel, Bottle Rocket, blew the lid off that equation. Within three months, her fledgling, comic romp was living up to its name and had soared right off the charts and into the annals of lesfic legend. Bottle Rocket was a bona fide hit, and Shawn was an overnight celebrity.

Nobody was more stunned by this turn of events than Shawn.

Well . . . maybe Shawn and one discriminating and outspoken reviewer for the esoteric online journal, Gilded Lily.

Kate Winston was an icon in the lesbian fiction world. Positive or negative comments from her could make or break the critical fortunes of any aspiring author brave enough to seek her approbation.

Not many dared.

Those who did and lived to talk about it went on to enjoy tremendous success and frequently acceded to the highest and most elusive level of accomplishment—crossover status.

Gilded Lily was the mainstream mouthpiece of the lesbiverse. With over 82,000 subscribers, the online magazine boasted a list of regular contributors that read like a who’s who of gay culture. And Kate Winston was one of its best and most controversial bloggers.

The marketing director for Shawn’s publisher never thought the likes of Kate Winston would ever look twice at the fledgling novel. But when the sales numbers for Bottle Rocket started inching closer to the stratosphere, the editors at Lily took notice and shoved a copy of Bottle Rocket across the table toward Kate in a weekly storyboard meeting.

“We’d like you to take a gander at this book for next week,” the arts and culture editor said.

Kate picked the book up like it was a piece of flotsam that had drifted her way on a red tide.

“Bottle Rocket?” she asked. She flipped it over and glanced at the blurb on the back cover. “You’ve got to be kidding me. I don’t waste my time on pulp fiction.” She dropped the book back to the table. “What else you got?”

“Kate.” Linda Evans sighed. “Don’t start, okay? This book is burning up the best seller lists, and we need to take a look at it.”

Kate hooked a finger over the bridge of her glasses and pulled them down her nose.

“Since when do we give a shit about a book simply because it’s popular? You know as well as I do that big sales numbers are usually the best indicators of indifference, not quality.”

Linda wasn’t in the mood to have this debate. Again. “Just humor me. Okay?”

“Why should I?” Kate crossed her arms. “I have fourteen other books already in the queue, and any one of them could paint rings around this flimsy slice of sophomoric crap.”

Linda was growing exasperated. “Isn’t that a bit harsh? Even for you?”

Kate shrugged.

Linda sighed. “I’ll make you a deal. You review this one—without complaint—and I’ll let you be the lucky dog who gets to represent the magazine at CLIT-Con in San Diego next month.”

Silence fell around the room.

Attending the annual CLIT-Con—an unfortunate acronym for the prestigious Creative Literary Insights and Trends Conference—was a plumb assignment. Everybody knew it. Last year, it had been in Honolulu.

Linda tried not to smile as she watched Kate fold like a cheap lawn chair.

The rest, as they say, was herstory.

“I HAVE SOMETHING to tell you, but you have to promise me that you won’t get how you get.”

Shawn dropped the phone to her shoulder and sighed. She hated it when Gwen got this dramatic. She put the phone back up to her ear.

“What is it? Just tell me, okay?”

“Nuh uh.” Gwen wasn’t budging. “You have to promise first.”

“Good god. You act like I’m a bull in a field of spring clover.”

The line was momentary silent. “And your point would be?”

Shawn stared at her computer screen and considered her options. She could hang up. But then she’d never know what prompted Gwen to call her this early on a Saturday morning. Gwen lived in Seattle, and it was barely five a.m. out there. Whatever this was about, it must be big. And bad.

Dangerous combination.

She sat back in her chair and picked up a pencil. It was a nice one—a Ticonderoga Yellow Barrel No. 2. She’d picked up ninety-six of them yesterday at Staples and spent about thirty minutes that morning sharpening them all. She didn’t really write with pencils, but she liked them a lot, and felt better when she had dozens of them at the ready. You never knew . . . and it was better to be prepared.

Too bad that same prescription didn’t work as well with Gwen.

She tried another approach.

“Is this about that damn podcast again? I told you I didn’t want to do it. How was I supposed to know they were doing a whole segment on pleasure aids?”

“It’s not about the podcast. And, by the way, you didn’t help yourself by talking about the best places to shop for prostate stimulators.”

Shawn felt a surge of umbrage. “Why does that one thing stick in your craw so much?”

Gwen sighed. “Maybe because your readers don’t generally waste their time worrying about ways to stimulate parts they don’t have?”

“I told you. I want to appeal to a broader audience.”

“Trust me, Shawn, this is not the way to do it.”

“Hey? I’m not without instincts here.”

“That’s true. And we’ll get to your thoughts about the photo shoot for the AfterEllen piece later.”

Shawn smelled a rat. “What’s wrong with my idea?”

“Sweetie . . .”

“No. I wanna know.”

Shawn could tell that Gwen was getting frustrated. She glanced at her watch. They’d only been on the phone for four-and-a-half minutes. Pretty good progress. Even for Shawn.

Gwen took a deep breath. “You’ll just have to trust me on this one. No one wants to see you posing behind a soft-focused sea of chicken . . . parts.”

“It’s going to be tasteful,” Shawn insisted. “And it’s going to be shot in black and white—that’s always high-toned and arty.”

“Shawn . . .”

“I need a photo that speaks to the content of the book, and the narrator is a chicken sexer. It makes sense. Admit it, Gwen. Your knee-jerk response is to hate any idea I have.”

Several more seconds of dead, west coast air floated across the phone line.

“Let’s table the AfterEllen discussion for later,” Gwen finally said. “That’s not the reason I called you at such an ungodly hour.”

“Okay. Why did you call me, then?”

“Gilded Lily is posting Kate Winston’s review today—and they sent me an advance copy.”

Shawn could hear the minor key vibrations in Gwen’s voice.

“And?”

“And . . . not what we hoped for.”

Shawn dropped her pencil. “She didn’t like it?”

“Not exactly.”

Shawn felt the junkyard dog sleeping inside her begin to stir. “What does that mean?”

“It means she hated it.”

“She hated it?” Shawn was incredulous. “How is that possible? It’s got sixty-three damn five-star reviews at Amazon.”

“Shawn. We’ve talked about consumer reviews. They’re entirely subjective.”

“That doesn’t mean they don’t count.”

“Of course they count, but they don’t have any relationship to reality-based critical assessments.”

“It’s been in the top ten for three months—mostly at number one.”

“Shawn. We talked about this. You wanted us to solicit some critical reviews, and I told you that if we did, there’d be no way to predict or to manage how they’d go.”

“Well, sonofabitch.”

“Relax. It’s one reviewer.”

Shawn snorted. “Yeah. The most important one.”

“It’s going to be fine. Your book is already breaking sales records for debut fiction.”

“You mean, it was,” Shawn grumbled.

Gwen sighed. “I’ll send you this preview copy so you can read it before it posts later this morning. I wanted to be sure I had the chance to talk with you first, so you didn’t go postal when you saw it.”

“Yeah. Okay.” Shawn indulged in a few momentary fantasies about dusting off her paintball gun and heading for SouthPark Mall. It was an idea with some merit.

Gwen was talking again. “Call me back after you’ve read it and had time to come down off the ceiling fan?”

“Maybe.”

“Shawn?”

“Okay. Jeez, Gwen . . . I’ll call you back.”

Shawn’s computer beeped, and a new mail flag popped on her monitor.

“Later.” Gwen hung up.

Shawn leaned forward and stared at the backlighted subject line of the forwarded email.

“Simply Offal.”

She sighed and dropped back against her chair. It was going to be a long, damn morning.

She wondered if she had more pencils.

244 COMMENTS. SEE ALL.

Comment from: LezBfrndz32

I can’t believe you read the same book! I usually like your reviews, but this time, you really got it wrong! Bottle Rocket is a great book and your review is just rude and so are you!

Comment from: DebbieDuzGirls

Wow. It’s one thing to dislike a book. It’s another thing to assassinate the author! Kate Winston should be ashamed of this mean-spirited review, and Gilded Lily should never have posted it. I suggest that Ms. Winston go and read the comments from the sixty plus readers who actually understood Shawn Harris’s great debut novel. Obviously, Ms. Winston missed the point.

Comment from: Westie809

Whoever checked your sex at the poultry farm tossed you into the wrong bin, chickadee! Aren’t you supposed to be encouraging lesbian writers, not silencing them???? Get a new job, Kate! You’re not helping.

Comment from: HellBent4Leather

Is that really you in the photo? You’re hot!!!!

Comment from: HellBent4Leather

Are you on Grinder????

Comment from: CarolJ@gmail.com

I’ll admit that Bottle Rocket wasn’t exactly my cup of tea, but calling it “a flimsy and poorly realized faux-southern novel full of clichés, worn-out conventions, and unnecessary obfuscation” really seemed over the top. I’ll agree that the premise for the novel is off-putting at first, but Harris does actually manage to make the characters real—even endearing. I wouldn’t rank this book among the ten best I’ve ever read, but I don’t agree that it’s without redeeming qualities.

Comment from: AngelEyes

Ouch. Suffer from peri-menopause much?

Comment from: BillieW

Although I wouldn’t have employed as much vitriol in summarizing my reactions, I would agree, in general terms, with your assessment of this book. As an author, Harris clearly has raw talent and an abundance of potential, and some of the dialogue is exceptionally bright and well crafted. But the overall premise of the novel is ridiculous and strains credibility. I think you might have over-exaggerated the negatives here and I, for one, am anxious to see what Harris can come up with as an encore.

Comment from: HellBent4Leather

I want to play with your hair!!!

Comment from: LisaLupner

You hate everything! Why do they even ask you to read these books? You should move over to News Corp.—I hear they’re looking for some like-minded reviewers.

Comment from: FemBot

Damn Winston! I think if you pulled your head out of your ass you might be able to get a better look at the book!

Comment from: HellBent4Leather

Oh, man. When you do this, can I watch????

Kate slammed her laptop closed and sat, shaking her head.

Good god. I should never have agreed to read this one. I knew the review would smoke all the Free Speech Lesbians out of their holes.

She sighed and tapped her mouse in agitation. Why am I so goddamn weak? It’s not like going to CLIT-Con is all that big of a deal.

She reopened her laptop and waited for the comments page to reload. When it finished, she noticed that something new had just posted.

Comment from: ShawnHarris

Hello, Kate. I know we haven’t been properly introduced, but I felt the need to make some kind of acknowledgement of your . . . review . . . of my book, Bottle Rocket. You know, I’d like to thank you, but normally, I make women buy me dinner before first before I allow them to . . . well . . . I think you get my drift. Since it’s clear that the nuances of my novel were so nuanced that they managed to elude a reviewer of your stature, maybe you’d consent to discuss the book with me publicly, in a more balanced forum—a kind of level playing field? I’d welcome the opportunity to explain it to you in ways that might help you overcome your apparent inability to access its deeper meaning—which, by the way, I did not intend to overlay with obfuscation. Feel free to contact me directly at shawnharris.com—or through our marketing director, Gwen Carlisle. I think you can access her contact information through your editor, Linda Evans? If not, let me know and I’ll be happy to set something up.

Kate was incredulous.

You’ve got to be kidding me? Who the hell does she think she is? I’m not some junior lackey who’s at the beck-and-call of an unknown, hack author.

She clicked inside the comment box beneath Harris’s remarks and started typing.

Comment from: Kate Winston

Thank you, Ms. Harris, for the generous condescension. If I believed that the content of your book warranted further consideration, I certainly would take you up on your kind suggestion that we meet to discuss it. As it is, however, I think I’ve exhausted my quotient of interest in your fledgling foray into fiction. I wish you the best of luck with your future endeavors.

P.S. Fuck you and the horse you rode in on, honey!

Kate sat back and clicked “post” without rereading—or rethinking—her response. She knew that Linda would go ballistic when she saw this exchange, but that was nothing new. Linda went ballistic at least twice a week over something Kate did, or didn’t do. This was just business as usual.

She looked again at the provocative post from Shawn Harris. It really irked her. It was so . . . arrogant.

She shook her head and closed her laptop. Who cares?

It was business as usual.

Right?

Chapter Two

IT WAS A media circus. Correction. It was a media nightmare.

Gwen pushed back from her laptop and thought for the thousandth time about the paltry salary she made for “managing” this kind of brouhaha.

It wasn’t enough. Not for Shawn. Hell, for Shawn she needed a contract rider that paid her damn hazardous duty pay.

In the three days since Kate Winston’s review of Bottle Rocket posted, Shawn’s public feud with the reviewer had gone viral. It was an overnight Internet sensation—a pissing contest of epic proportions. And all of the social media outlets were eating it up—even the ones Gwen hadn’t heard of yet.

She looked at her computer screen.

BackDoor.com.

Just like this one. It was some kind of bizarre, fringe site devoted to profiling celebrities who were taking it up the . . . well.

Shawn was their poster child this week.

God. How was she supposed to keep up with this when it was like playing Internet whack-a-mole? The damn sites came and went faster than her string of ex-girlfriends.

And that was pretty goddamn fast.

And now, the editors at Gilded Lily were outraged because rabid fans of Shawn’s had used Twitter to organize an onslaught of umbrage and crashed the magazine’s website two days in a row.

How the hell was Gwen supposed to manage that?

Hell. If she figured this one out, she could give up being a marketing director for a lesbian publishing company and get Hillary Clinton’s job.

To make matters worse, supporters of Kate Winston were now retaliating with a backlash of righteous indignation that made a tsunami look like a ripple in a wading pool. In the last twenty-four hours, more than sixteen toxic reviews of Bottle Rocket had been posted at Amazon.

God. These women were like pre-menstrual zealots on crack.

Gwen sighed and opened a new browser window. Might as well see what new damage has been done today.

She navigated to Amazon and pulled up the e-book listing for Bottle Rocket.

Nineteen new reviews. Great. And the overall rating had now plummeted from five stars to two and a half.

Christ.

“Where the hell are the site administrators?” she asked aloud.

Couldn’t they see what was going on here with this bullshit? Why didn’t someone remove these hostile reviews?

Give that one up. Trying to find a human being at Amazon was about as useful as trying to find a virgin at a Shriner’s convention.

She sat back again and picked up her coffee cup.

This was a complete clusterfuck.

She took a sip of her coffee. It was cold—of course.

Shawn was such a pain in the ass. Gwen had dozens of books to market, including five best sellers and one with a movie contract. But somehow, she seemed to spend seventy-five percent of her time dealing with Shawn.

Correction. Dealing with the messes Shawn created. Why did Bottle Rocket have to be so damn successful?

Because it’s a great book.

Kate Winston plainly had some kind of burr under her saddle when she reviewed it—and whatever was biting her, it had nothing to do with the content of the novel. That much was clear. Even that servant of Cerberus over at Kirkus Reviews gave it a thumbs-up, and she never liked anything Gwen sent her way.

Nope. This was something else. And since she couldn’t defuse it, it was up to her to figure out how to leverage it.

If she had a claim to fame, this was it. She was better than anyone at turning a liability into an asset. Hell. She majored in this at Wharton.

And this quagmire was one whopper of a liability.

She put down her coffee cup and picked up her cell phone.

“The best time to make hay is while the sun shines,” her mentor had always said.

She scrolled through her contacts until she found the listing for the chief organizer at CLIT-Con.

The call was answered on the second ring. “Barb Davis.”

Barb always sounded like she was taking bites out of the phone.

“Barb? It’s Gwen Carlisle.”

“Hi, Gwen. What’s up?”

Gwen could hear loud banging noises in the background. Barb was a sculptor who worked with iron. It sounded like she was demolishing a Buick.

“Are you in your studio?” Gwen asked.

“Yeah. I’ve got a big commission for the San Diego Zoo, and I’m running behind. I’m hustling to finish this up so I can get serious about planning the Con.”

“Well, you’re in luck. That’s why I’m calling.”

The banging stopped.

“Really?”

“Yep. Have you got a topic nailed down for the plenary session yet?”

“No. I have a few suggestions, but nothing that trips my trigger.” Gwen could hear the unmistakable sound of a Zippo lighter. Barb was firing up a cigarette. “Got something in mind?”

Bingo.

“In fact, I do. Have you been following the cat fight between Shawn Harris and Kate Winston?”

Barb laughed. “Who the hell hasn’t been? It’s getting more press than Seal stepping out on Heidi Klum.”

“Sad, but true,” Gwen agreed. “However, it just might make for record receipts at the Con if we think creatively.”

The line was silent. She could hear Barb take another long drag on her cigarette.

“You mean, put them together on the same bill? Like a twisted Point/Counterpoint kind of thing?”

“Exactly.”

More silence.

Then Barb laughed. “You’re a fucking genius.”

Gwen smiled. “So I’ve been told.”

“Let me shop this idea around and get back to you.”

“That’ll work.”

“Later.” Barb hung up.

Gwen glanced down at her computer screen. During her five-minute phone call with Barb, two more hostile reviews had posted at Amazon.

She smiled.

Things were looking up.

SHAWN LOOKED AT the little digital timer for what felt like the ten-millionth time.

It had to be stuck. She knew from the amount of sweat dripping off her forehead that she’d been on this damn thing for at least an hour.

She glanced at the wall-mounted TV. Kelly Ripa was gushing all over Ryan Reynolds, whose hairline was seriously starting to recede.

She hated this gym. The TVs were always tuned to horrible stuff. Didn’t anybody watch the news anymore? It’s not like there was a presidential election going on or anything . . . Couldn’t people care about that—even a little bit?

Ten more minutes had to have passed. She glanced at timer again.

Two?

No fucking way!

She hated this gym, and she hated this damn NordicTrack.

And right now, she hated Kelly Ripa, too.

Although Ryan Reynolds actually was kind of hot—in a breeder sort of way . . .

She shook her head to clear it. Okay. Clearly she’d been on this thing long enough. She was starting to get delirious.

In recent years, Shawn had been fighting a guerrilla war with her weight. Extra pounds would creep in, under the cloak of darkness, and strike without warning. Garments that once had been safe and familiar became objects of torture. And this really mattered now that she had such a public persona, and had to do so many damn interviews. She was convinced that this experience—having to squeeze her ass into “girl” clothes—was so egregious that it could replace waterboarding as a way to make even the most hardcore terrorist sing like a canary. Hell. After her first two hours in a pair of Privos, which were supposed to be casual, she was ready to confess to eighty-five capital crimes.

Gwen had taken her shopping, and they’d filled her closet with “outfits.” Shawn now called this repository her WMD: Wardrobe of Mass Destruction.

She felt like a diesel mechanic in drag.

But she had to admit that Gwen knew her business, and some of that shit actually looked pretty good on her. And Gwen said that if her goal, as a serious author, was to dance to the music of the mainstream market, she had to step up and pay the piper.

On gym days, she wasn’t sure it was worth the effort.

Her timer beeped. Finally. She climbed down off the machine and grabbed her towel. Cheated death again.

“Shawn? I thought that was you.”

Or maybe not.

Shawn sighed and turned around to face the woman standing in front of her. Bernadette. Great.

“Hi, Bernie.”

Bernadette smiled at her. Shawn could see that she was still wearing her Invisalign braces. The woman had been manic about them during the month they dated. She wouldn’t eat or drink anything but water while she had them in, and she had them in a lot. Shawn thought Bernie looked . . . thin. Really thin. Kind of like a camp survivor—with unusually straight teeth. Her blonde hair was pulled back into a bun so tight that her skin was stretched across her cheekbones like Saran Wrap. She was wearing a hot pink Lululemon ensemble that looked like it had been applied with spray paint.

“Fancy meeting you here.” Shawn used the end of her towel to wipe the sweat off her face.

Bernie shrugged. “I work out here all the time. I wonder why I haven’t run into you before now?”

Shawn held out the front of her soggy t-shirt. “Well, as you can see, I don’t.” She smiled. “It’s hit or miss for me, and lately, I’ve been missing more than I’ve been hitting.”

“I don’t know.” Bernie looked her up and down. “I think you look just fine.”

Shawn raised an eyebrow. There was no accounting for taste.

“And by all accounts, you’re getting plenty of exercise in your online cage fight with Kate Winston.”

Shawn was intrigued. “You know about that?”

Bernie laughed. “Who doesn’t? It’s all over Facebook. I heard that Ellen DeGeneres even Tweeted about it the other day.”

Swell.

On the other hand, that couldn’t be bad for book sales . . .

“For real?” Shawn asked. “What did she have to say?”

Bernie shook her head. “Beats me. But you’re sure in the big leagues, now. Must be some kinda book.”

“Have you read it?”

“No.” Bernie slapped Shawn on the arm. “You know I’m not much of a reader, honey.”

That was true. Bernadette even had a hard time making it all the way through a “Six Signs That Your Sex Life Is On The Skids” quiz in Cosmo without nodding off.

And it was worth noting that nodding off during the quiz was one of the six signs.

“I remember,” Shawn said. “Maybe you can get the audio book?”

Bernie’s eyes grew round. “There’s an audio book?”

Shawn rolled her eyes. “Sure there is. Meryl Streep is reading it.”

“Really?” Bernie’s voice dropped to a near whisper.

Shawn stared at her in amazement. “No. Not really. God, Bernadette . . .”

Bernie slapped her on the arm again. “You can be such an asshole. No wonder Kate Winston hates you.”

“Kate Winston doesn’t hate me, she hates my book.”

Bernie looked incredulous. “Hello? Been to Facebook lately? Last time I checked, she had you listed in her profile under Things I Most Hate. As I recall, you were in a dead heat for third place—right after Brussels sprouts and the Tea Party.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me?”

Bernie shook her head.

Shawn was fuming. Attacking her book was one thing, but going after her personally was a declaration of war. This bitch was going down . . . and not in any of those warm, fuzzy, I’ll-call-you-in-the-morning ways, either.

She picked up her jacket and her bag. “It was great to run into you, Bernie—but I’ve got something I need to go and take care of.” She started toward the exit, then stopped and turned back around. “How long until you get those things off?”

Bernie looked confused. “What things?”

Shawn pointed at her mouth. “Those Invisalign things.”

“Oh.” Bernie didn’t have to think about it. “Three more weeks. Why?”

“I was thinking that maybe I could buy you something to eat.”

“You mean like go out to dinner?”

Shawn shook her head. “No. Like buy you some groceries. Seriously, Bernie—you’re starting to look like Karen Carpenter.”

Bernie seemed horrified by the comparison. “Karen Carpenter had horse teeth.”

“Yeah, well. She also digested her own organs.”

Bernadette thought about that.

“Call me next month.”

Shawn nodded. “It’s a date.”

THE FIRST THING Shawn did when she got back to her bungalow was shuck off her sweaty workout clothes. She hoped it would help to calm her ass down. Then she took a long, cold shower. She hoped that would help to calm her ass down, too. When she got out of the shower and realized that her ass was still someplace far south of calm, she opened a bottle of wine and poured herself a big glass. Why not? It was after four . . . someplace.

Maybe a few minutes on the porch with Al would help?

Shawn’s house was located in a trendy, transitional neighborhood on the fringes of Dilworth—one of downtown Charlotte’s more desirable residential areas. All the houses on her tree-lined street had tiny yards and big front porches. It was a nosey dog’s paradise, and most of her neighbors had very nosey dogs.

Shawn’s nosey dog, Al, was a big golden retriever who just showed up on her doorstep one day in the deep of summer, bearing nothing but a smile, a huge appetite, and most of a gnarled Nylabone. Shawn tried valiantly, and actually did succeed at locating Al’s owners, but they said she should just keep her. They said the dog kept escaping from her run, and that they didn’t really like her all that much.

Shawn didn’t really want a dog, but she couldn’t face turning Al over to a rescue outfit, and the Pound was out of the question. After all, she wasn’t that much trouble. She seemed perfectly happy just to lounge around on Shawn’s big front porch and chew on her tennis balls. And, oddly, she never tried to run off.

Shawn named her Albatross—Al for short. It seemed to fit because Al had a way of looking at Shawn with those big brown eyes that seemed to suggest she, too, knew what it felt like to carry a big load of ennui around.

They understood each other.

So Shawn sat with Al in the declining light and drank her glass of Darioush. It was fabulous. She had to admit that this was one of the best things about having a best seller—easier access to better wine.

But when even twenty minutes with a truly fine Shiraz didn’t succeed in calming her ass down, she gave up and grabbed her laptop off the table next to her chair. Part of her knew that looking at Blogula’s Facebook page was going to be a mistake, but she couldn’t stop thinking about what Bernie told her at the gym. Hell. She might not even be able to view it. They sure as shit weren’t “friends.”

She typed Kate’s name into the search window, and her page loaded immediately.

Well, wrong about that.

Gwen pretty much managed Shawn’s Facebook page, so she must’ve friended Winston, along with every other damn reviewer on the planet.

Shawn was surprised when she saw Blogula’s profile photo. She was . . . interesting, in a spawn-of-Satan sort of way.

She tapped her track pad for a moment, then gave in and clicked on the icon to view Winston’s photo album. A dozen small pictures filled up her computer screen. There she was, posing at some awards gala with other Gilded Lily types. She was wearing a tight little black dress with a big bow across the chest. There was another photo of her with her arms wrapped around the head of a brown and black dog. Shawn thought they kind of looked alike—both had heads full of short, husky-looking hair. No wonder some of Kate’s detractors nicknamed her Eraserhead. It seemed to fit.

Cute dog, though.

Another photo showed Winston in a bikini lounging in some tropical locale.

Jeez. Why did people always cram their Facebook pages with photos of themselves looking great?

Shawn clicked on that one to make it larger.

Winston was laughing and holding onto some candy-ass-looking drink with a parasol sticking out of it. There was another woman with her in the photo. Shawn moused over her image and the tag “Randi” popped up.

Yeah. I’ll just bet you were, love chunks, she thought.

So.

Eraserhead goes for the FemBot types?

It figures. No wonder she hated my book.

Shawn clicked out of the photo album.

She sat back and picked up her glass of Darioush. She really needed to spruce up her own profile photos. Not that she looked shabby or anything, but those pictures of her in Tool World posing with the 500-amp ground clamp probably didn’t do a lot to make her look like a serious author. She glanced back at Kate Winston. She had dark blue eyes. Damn.

She drained her glass.

Let’s get to the rat killing.

She scrolled down the page to read Winston’s lists of hates and loves. How friggin’ sophomoric is this?

She started to read the “loves” list. Yadda, yadda . . . poetry, yadda, yadda . . . Edgar Meyer, yadda, yadda . . . The Iron Chef, yadda, yadda . . . Hannibal Lecter . . .

Hannibal Lecter?

She shook her head. That figures.

What else do we have here?

Under “dislikes,” Winston listed bigotry, religious intolerance, Nutella, the novels of Norman Mailer, and formulaic lesbian pulp fiction. That was it. Shawn checked the list twice to see if her book—or her name—showed up anyplace. They didn’t.

Bernie was nuts.

She sat back. Unless, of course, Winston considered Bottle Rocket to be an example of lesbian pulp fiction.

Probably.

She thought about that. It was true that in writing Bottle Rocket, Shawn set out to lampoon some of the more ridiculous conventions that were the mainstays of the genre—like the mind-blowing, multiple orgasms that always occurred on a first date. But she wrote that bit of apocryphal sensationalism into her book with great intentionality. It was supposed to be funny and ironic, and not a serious depiction of lesbian relationships. After all . . . everyone knew that real relationships didn’t work that way. At least, they never had for Shawn.

She glanced up at Winston’s profile photo again.

And probably they never have for you either, Eraserhead.

But she had to admit . . . Winston was kind of cute—in a pit bull puppy, I-know-I-look-sweet-but-I’ll-rip-your-throat-out-if-you-try-to-pet-me kind of way.

A small green light in the lower right-hand corner of the page caught her eye.

Winston was online and logged into Facebook.

Before she had time to think better of it, Shawn clicked on her name and typed an instant message into the chat window.

Message from: ShawnHarris

Do you seriously think my book is lesbian pulp fiction?

A full minute went by. Then Shawn’s message indicator popped up. Winston had written back.

Message from: KateWinston

Are you talking to me?

Shawn rolled her eyes and typed back.

Message from: ShawnHarris

No. I sent this IM to Betty Friedan and it accidentally folded space and landed in your inbox. Of COURSE I’m talking to you.

It wasn’t long before Winston responded.

Message from: KateWinston

It’s affirming to see that you’re every bit as charming as the members of your fan base.

Message from: ShawnHarris

Really? I haven’t exactly seen your name on any Miss Congeniality lists. In fact, I’m fairly certain that it’s YOUR claque I have to thank for all 37 of those toxic reviews at amazon.com.

Message from: KateWinston

Don’t jump to conclusions. Have you considered the possibility that 37 people may have been able to claw their way past your camp followers and actually read the thing without having to down a pint of your Kool Aid first?

Shawn was incredulous. Who the fuck pissed in her Wheaties?

Message from: ShawnHarris

Want to dial it back a little bit? I’d like to think that I’m capable of recognizing and appreciating legitimate criticism when I see it.

Message from: KateWinston

All evidence to the contrary.

Message from: ShawnHarris

Hey . . . who put a nickel in you?

Message from: KateWinston

Let’s see. I think you did. If memory serves, YOU contacted ME to ask if I “seriously” thought your book was lesbian pulp fiction.

Message from: ShawnHarris

That’s true. So?

Message from: KateWinston

“So” what?

Message from: ShawnHarris

So, do you seriously think that my book is lesbian pulp fiction?

Message from: KateWinston

Did you read my review?

Message from: ShawnHarris

Of course I did.

Message from: KateWinston

Then I’m confused about why you’d have to ask me this question.

God. She’s so infuriating.

Message from: ShawnHarris

Look. You’re the one whose Facebook profile proclaims a disdain for pulp fiction.

Message from: KateWinston

First of all, what does that have to do with you? And, second, if you’re so plainly convinced that your book is pulp fiction, then you don’t need me for this conversation.

Jeez. Be a bitch, much, lady?

Message from: ShawnHarris

Look . . . I’m just trying to have an open conversation with you. Wanna stuff the rancor?

Message from: KateWinston

Sure. Wanna call off your attack dogs?

Message from: ShawnHarris

I don’t happen to HAVE any attack dogs.

Message from: KateWinston

Oh, come on! They’ve crashed the Gilded Lily site for five days in a row now.

Message from: ShawnHarris

I am NOT responsible for the behavior of my fans.

Message from: KateWinston

Really? I don’t see you out there renouncing their behavior.

Message from: ShawnHarris

And I don’t see you recanting any of the vitriol you spewed about my book, either.

Message from: KateWinston

I would hardly classify my review as vitriolic.

Message from: ShawnHarris

I would hardly classify it as fair and balanced.

Message from: KateWinston

Remind me again why we’re having this conversation?

Message from: ShawnHarris

Because, against my better judgment, I was hoping we could have some adult dialogue about your obvious misread of my novel.

Message from: KateWinston

It seems clear that having “adult” dialogue is a stretch for you.

Message from: ShawnHarris

I really don’t understand why you feel the need to be so irascible.

Message from: KateWinston

Look. This debate is going no place. Besides, it’s probably inappropriate for us to be having any kind of personal contact before the Con.

Message from: ShawnHarris

The Con?? What are you talking about?

Message from: KateWinston

CLIT-Con. You HAVE heard of it, haven’t you?

Message from: ShawnHarris

Of COURSE I’ve heard of it. What does it have to do with this conversation?

Message from: KateWinston

Hello? We’re both on the agenda for the plenary session?

What the fuck? No way! Gwen would’ve run something like that by me. Winston has to be blowing smoke.

Message from: ShawnHarris

I have NO idea what you’re talking about. Gwen hasn’t mentioned anything about that to me.

Message from: KateWinston

Really? How very singular. Barb Davis was just on the phone with my editor setting it up. But that’s a moot point. I think you should hold your criticisms of my literary insights and professional methodology for our public forum in San Diego.

This was so not happening. She was going to kill Gwen.

Message from: ShawnHarris

We’re going to be part of the opening session?

Message from: KateWinston

No . . . we ARE the opening session.

Message from: ShawnHarris

You and me?

If it were possible to hear someone sigh over the Internet, Shawn was pretty sure she just heard one.

Message from: KateWinston

Yes—and about 1,500 attendees.

Shawn felt like the porch floor was seizing up beneath her chair. She needed to end this conversation so she could talk with Gwen and find out what the fuck was going on. She glanced at Al, who was softly snoring on her Coolaroo. Inspiration struck.

Message from: ShawnHarris

I gotta go. My dog just ate a tennis ball.

She closed the chat window and logged out of Facebook.

WINSTON WAS GLOATING. That much was clear. Bitch. What a waste of skin that woman was. How dare Gwen put her in a place where she’d look so ridiculous?

Well.

To be fair, she really didn’t need all that much help to look ridiculous. But, still. Gwen knew how Shawn was, and planning something like this whole CLIT-Con gig and not telling her about it was a recipe for disaster.

Still. It would give her a chance to face Winston and hold her accountable for her rude and insidious comments about her book. And she’d get to do it in front of the audience that mattered the most. CLIT-Con was the lesbian publishing event of the year. Everyone who mattered in the field would be there.

Including representatives from the big six New York publishing houses. They were always on hand, sifting through the silt, looking for a flash in the pan.

She picked up her wine glass and smiled. Gwen knew her shit.

Yeah. This could work.

KATE WAS STILL irritated. What was with this Shawn Harris person?

It wasn’t like she was a prude or anything, but she just didn’t believe it was appropriate to approach people you didn’t really know in all these direct and deeply personal ways. For her money, this was the biggest problem with the damn Internet. Social barriers weren’t the only things that fell like Jenga blocks when Facebook went live. So did what was left of the culture’s sense of propriety. Now, everyone was fair game. If you didn’t like something someone said or did, you could tell them so. Directly—in real time. And you could automatically share your opinion with everyone they “knew.” And everyone knew everyone these days. It was like being stuck in an endless loop with Kevin Bacon. No one was safe, and nothing had integrity.

What was that old expression? Opinions were like assholes? It was true. And today, every asshole with an opinion had instant access to a binary bully pulpit.

To hell with this.

Kate walked into her small kitchen and poured herself a glass of wine from an open bottle of Shiraz. Why not? It had to be four o’clock someplace.

That damn note from Sophie was still on the counter.

“I’d like to have Patrick next weekend,” it said.

Her ex still had a key to the house, and frequently came by—unannounced—to see the dog, or to retrieve some personal item. It chapped her ass that Sophie would just breeze in and out like she still had a right to, but there wasn’t much she could do about it. When Sophie left her to move into her new girlfriend’s tiny loft apartment, Kate agreed to store some of her belongings until they could find a bigger place. That was nearly two years ago, and she was getting tired of having Sophie’s shit still strewn around all over the house.

But Sophie did still love the dog, even if she didn’t still love Kate, and Kate had a grudging respect for how attentive she remained to him. Patrick was a fuzzy, black and brown Shepherd mix with a big heart and a lopsided smile. They had adopted him from an animal rescue league not long after they bought the house in suburban Atlanta, and he quickly wormed his quiet way into both of their hearts. When their relationship fell apart, Patrick remained the one constant that led them to remain on speaking—even friendly—terms with each other. Kate often thought that he was like the Shirley Temple of dogs—a well-placed lick on the cheek and a roll of his soulful brown eyes could melt even the hardest heart—including her mother’s. Even she was not immune to Patrick’s full-frontal charm offensive. And on a good day, Kate’s mother was like Miranda Priestly without her estrogen patch.

God. Why was she so surrounded by women who seemed determined to make her life miserable? Why did she keep making the same goddamn bad relationship choices over and over? Why did her mother take such delight in pointing this unhappy trend out to her—ad infinitum? Why did this glass of wine have so many little pieces of cork floating around in it?

Goddamn it.

She set her glass down and picked up the bottle. Shit.

Where was that damn strainer?

She pulled open a deep drawer in her kitchen and looked around for it. Her Nippon sushi knives were in here—safely tucked away in their ornate wooden box. That made her think about Harris’s damn book, which was set, in part, at the Zen-Nippon School for Chick Sexing in Japan.

It was a ridiculous premise, but also strangely quirky and effective. In a way, that whole Japan section of the novel worked. The prose was almost lyrical in parts, structured like intricate strands from a sequence of haiku. She’d never read anything quite like that before—certainly not in what passed for every-day, run-of-the-mill lesbian fiction.

Maybe she had been too harsh in her public assessment of the novel? It really did have some beautifully written passages.

No.

At the end of the day, it was too much like this bottle of wine—ripe with brightness and flavor, but ruined by bits and pieces of the same old crap that clogged up the entire damn genre.

Of course, she had to admit that even a compromised bottle of good wine was still drinkable, if you had the patience to strain it. Kate wasn’t normally a patient person—especially when it came to her work. But wine was another matter.

She finally saw the little mesh funnel, hiding at the back of the drawer. She pulled it out and walked to a tall wooden cabinet to get a glass decanter.

Shawn Harris was somebody else’s problem.

Thank god.

Chapter Three

“REMIND ME AGAIN why I agreed to do this?”

They were riding in a Town Car en route back to the hotel from a book signing Shawn had just done at Obelisk—the famed GLBT bookstore in Hillcrest.

Gwen closed her eyes and rolled her head back against the plush seat. “Why didn’t I spring for the limo with the minibar? You’re really making me insane with this.”

Shawn and Gwen had arrived in San Diego a day early so they could hold the signing event before the start of the Con. Practically since the second they met in the lobby of the Hilton Bayfront Hotel, Shawn had been second guessing her decision to attend the Con. Mostly, she had been second guessing her decision to participate in the public faceoff with Kate Winston. Shawn’s alternating fits of pique, umbrage, and ennui were enough to drive Gwen to drink.

In fact, Gwen didn’t really need to be driven anyplace to want to drink, but dealing with Shawn was so taxing, she was even eyeing that vegan wine they served at the hotel bar with interest.

She shook her head.

Shawn stopped her tirade long enough to notice. “What is it?”

Gwen opened an eye and looked at her.

“What are you thinking about?” Shawn asked.

Gwen shrugged. “I was thinking about vegan wine.”

“Vegan wine?”

Gwen nodded.

“Seriously?” Shawn threw up her hands. “I’m pouring my heart out to you, and you’re sitting there thinking about something ridiculous like vegan wine?”

Gwen nodded again.

Shawn stared back at her for a moment like she had just shape-shifted into some other kind of life form. Then she laughed. “What is that shit, anyway?”

“Beats the fuck outta me. I didn’t know that wine had animal product in it.”

“Well,” Shawn said, “maybe it just means that the grapes aren’t crushed by anything with cloven hooves.”

Gwen considered that. “It certainly would add a rather nice, Old Testament flair to the product.”

“I’ve always been a big fan of Levitical law.”

“Yeah, why is that?” Gwen asked. “It seems like an odd pastime for someone named Harris.”

“My mother’s birth name was Muriel Abramowitz.”

Gwen sighed. “Of course it was.”

“By the way.” Shawn nudged Gwen’s arm. “Don’t think I missed this flimsy attempt to distract me from my angst about this damn conference.”

“How am I doing?”

“Let’s see . . . that’d be someplace in the general vicinity of shitty.”

Gwen rolled her eyes. “Come on. Suck it up and deal with it. You agreed, and now it’s time to put on your big girl panties and face the music at this cakewalk.”

“Gwen. You know I hate it when you mix metaphors like that.”

“I know. That’s why you write, and I handle the business. And, Shawn?”

Shawn looked at her.

“I’m goddamn good at handling the business. So please, shut up and trust me do it.”

Shawn sighed and turned her head toward the window.

The car glided along Harbor Drive. It was a perfect day in San Diego. But then, every day was a perfect day in San Diego. Gwen didn’t really understand why anyone would choose to live in a place without seasons. She thought about Seattle. So what if it rained two hundred days a year? At least you knew you were alive. These collagen-stuffed people walked around like extras in a Frankie Avalon movie.

“So.” Shawn was speaking again.

Gwen looked at her. “So?”

The car turned onto Park Boulevard and the hotel campus.

“Wanna go hit the bar and split a bottle of that vegan shit?”

Gwen smiled at her. “My treat.”

LATER THAT NIGHT, Shawn had some time to kill before the Pre-Con Mixer, so she wandered down to the vendor area to skulk among the tables loaded with shiny new books. She was pretty confident that no one would recognize her—she wasn’t that well known in the community yet, and there was no photograph of her on her book cover. And, so far, she had resisted Gwen’s insistence that she have a professional author portrait taken for general PR use. She told Gwen that she didn’t want to look like a goddamn realtor.

She picked up a random book and flipped it over to view the author’s photo and bio.

On the other hand . . . maybe Gwen was right. There probably was a certain advantage in not looking like you worked for Aamco Transmissions.

She took her time, winding in and out of the tables. They were piled high with titles written by the best and the brightest of the genre. All the sub-categories were represented, too. Shawn was amazed at how apparently—specific—the tastes of readers were. This was like shopping for spices at the Egyptian Bazaar in Istanbul. Every shape, size, color, and smell was represented—each promising varying degrees of zest and heat.

Shawn drifted over to a pyramid of books piled next to a hand-lettered placard that read Paranormal.

Really?

She picked one up. The Bane of Love’s Desire. The cover showed two well-endowed, hot women in a clinch. One of the women had very pronounced cuspids that were poised just above the carotid artery of the other.

Les-pires?

Okay . . .

She read the blurb.

On a desolate moonlit night, sultry heiress, Brianna Morgan, flees her engagement party to find some much-needed respite from the stresses of her impending arranged marriage to billionaire tycoon, Bryce Witherspoon. While driving aimlessly along a winding country lane, she notices a solitary figure standing at the roadside and gives in to a reckless impulse. Brianna soon discovers that Aiden, the dark and enigmatic hitchhiker, is more alluring and mysterious than anyone she’s ever met before.

Much more.

Caught up in the erotic spell of Aiden’s otherworldly hunger, Brianna discovers a depth of need and passion that she’s never known before. As the two women spiral closer and closer to ultimate oblivion, Brianna is left to wonder if she is simply the next victim of Aiden’s murderous bloodlust—or if together, they can overcome the curse that has held Aiden hostage for hundreds of years, and find their way to everlasting love.

Two young women approached the table, and Shawn looked up from reading the blurb. One of them exclaimed and reached around her to grab a copy of the same book off the towering display.

“Oh my god,” she cried. “Darien Black’s new book is out.”

Her companion snagged a copy, too.

The two women giggled and hurried off with their prizes.

Shawn shook her head and returned her copy of the book to the display.

I wonder how Kate Winston would classify this one?

At the next table was an impressive stack of books arrayed behind a label that read Mystery/Thriller. Shawn picked up a copy. Catalina Heat. The cover showed two well-endowed, hot women in a clinch. One of them had the barrel of a very large and shiny gun pressed against the carotid artery of the other.

She read the blurb.

On a hot and steamy afternoon during the dog days of August, tough and chewy butch-with-a-gun, “Cal” Callaghan, gets hired by the uppity Vanessa Bryson to investigate a rash of threatening emails that have been sent to her estranged daughter, the actress Miranda Somersby. There is just one condition: Cal cannot ever contact Miranda directly. But fate intervenes, and one night while Cal is driving aimlessly along a deserted coastal byway, she notices a solitary figure standing at the roadside next to a broken-down sports car. The stranded motorist turns out to be Miranda, and Cal soon discovers that there is more than one reason why Vanessa was so determined to keep the two of them apart. Cal also realizes that Miranda is more alluring and mysterious than anyone she’s ever met before.

Much more.

Caught up in the glitter and fast-paced allure of Miranda’s celluloid world, Cal discovers a depth of ardor and need that she’s never known before. As the two women spiral closer and closer to love, the threats against Miranda escalate, plunging them both into a churning vortex of violence and unleashed passion—while Cal begins to wonder if she is simply the next unwitting stone in Vanessa’s diamond-studded bracelet.

Shawn gingerly returned the book to its pile. She noticed that its author, Vivien K. O’Reilly, was scheduled to do a signing tomorrow afternoon.

No wonder they had so many on hand. Shit. There had to be at least three-dozen copies of the bright orange book on the table.

She hoped that Gwen had strong-armed her boss into shipping enough copies of Bottle Rocket to the Con. They had high hopes for robust sales in advance of tomorrow’s fireworks display at the opening session.

Better not to think too much about that right now. Her stomach was already in knots from drinking half of that weird-ass bottle of vegan wine.

She moved on to the next table.

Erotica.

Hmmmm. These books certainly had . . . intriguing cover art.

She randomly selected one. The cover showed two very well-endowed, hot women in a . . . clinch? It was hard to tell from the angle. Shawn rotated the cover. Yep. It was a clinch, all right. But wow—the detail on that leatherwork was remarkable. One of the women was holding what looked like the end of a cat-o-nine-tails against the carotid artery of the other.

She read the title. MILF Money: Erotic Tales of Vanilla Days and Chocolate Nights byTowanda.

Towanda? Seriously?

She flipped it over to take a gander at the blurb. Across the top, big as life, was a quote from Eraserhead herself.

“Move over Wisteria Lane! The only back door that sees more action than the ones belonging to these ladies is probably attached to a loading dock.”

– Kate Winston, Gilded Lily

She tossed the book back to the table in disgust.

“You have got to be kidding me. And my book she hates?”

Several other shoppers standing near Shawn looked at her in surprise. Shit. She didn’t mean to say that out loud. “Sorry.” She quickly left the booth and went to another table.

Historical Romance was printed in big block letters on a white card.

Okay. This should be safe.

She browsed through a few of the titles, and then picked one up. Westward Ho by Montana Jackson. The cover showed two well-endowed, hot women in a clinch on the seat of a buckboard. One of them was wearing a cowboy hat and leather chaps, and held a knot of starched rope against the carotid artery of the other.

She read the blurb.

On a bleak and frigid day along the Santa Fe Trail, cattle boss Chase Cameron rescues a ragtag group of New England pioneers from a Comanche attack. Among the wanna-be settlers is sultry and independent young widow, Maris Cavanagh, who has fled her pampered Brahmin life to seek adventure on the frontier. Chase is moving her herd to Fort Dodge, and agrees to see the pioneers to safety. Early one morning during the long journey, she encounters a solitary figure standing aimlessly next to a winding stream . . .

She placed the book back on the table.

Yeah. Okay. Checked out on this one.

The next section of books proudly reposed under a banner that read Spec Fiction.

I wonder what the hell these are about? Shawn picked up a book with a lurid cover. It showed two well-endowed, hot women, dressed in futuristic, space garb in a clinch atop some kind of metal table. One of the women was holding what looked like a hopped-up speculum against the carotid artery of the other. She read the title. Gyno Galaxy IV: Puss and Bübs Explore Deep Spaces.

What the hell? The author’s name was V. Jay-Jay Singh.

Yeah. Shawn put the book down. I don’t think so.

She took a quick look around to see if anyone was watching her. As casually as she could, she drifted over to the next table.

General/Romance.

Thank god. There were loads of books on this table. Clearly, this was one of the more popular sub-genres. One caught her eye—more because it didn’t have a cover showing two well-endowed, hot women clinching anything. She picked it up. Jericho.

Okay. This might have potential. She turned it over to read the blurb.

Sultry and beautiful librarian flees carnage of a failed marriage . . . yadda, yadda, yadda . . . car breaks down . . . yadda, yadda, yadda . . . gorgeous and blue-eyed local doctor encounters a solitary figure, stranded along the side of a country road . . . yadda, yadda, yadda . . . fight their growing passion . . . yadda, yadda, yadda . . .everlasting love . . . yadda, yadda, yadda . . . on to the sequel.

Shawn snorted in disgust and put the book down. Good god. Does anybody write anything original?

She looked back at the book. Still. I wonder how she got them to agree to that cover?

Someone bumped into her and apologized. Shawn checked her watch. The pre-Con Mixer was due to start in about twenty minutes, and the vendor area was filling up.

She heard laughter and looked toward the coppery sound. Three women were standing together near a big table loaded with hats and koozies—all emblazoned with CLIT-Con logos. One of the women caught Shawn’s eye. She was on the short side, with a head of short, gray-streaked, husky-looking hair—the kind you just wanted to play with. She was still laughing at something someone had said, and she had a fantastic set of dimples. The rest of her . . . sets looked pretty appealing, too.

Shawn stood there, trying to persuade herself that she really did need a ten-thousandth koozie, when someone behind her called out to the group.

“Kate! What time did you get here, babe?”

A very large woman, wearing a black Harley t-shirt that proclaimed, “If you can read this, the bitch fell off,” blundered past her and made a beeline for the group. She had an impressive mullet that fell below her broad shoulders.

She wrapped the smaller woman up in a big, butchy bear hug, and then turned around to motion another woman over.

“Greta. Get over here and meet the famous Kate Winston.”

Shawn was stunned. Every ounce of that shitty vegan wine started to bubble up inside her.

Ohmygod. Did I really almost go over there and hit on fucking Eraserhead? How did I not recognize her? It must have been the glasses . . .

She needed to hide.

She needed to throw up.

She needed to find a goddamn exit sign.

This was not happening.

In her haste to escape, she backed into a tall pyramid of books and knocked it over. Of course, it would be the biggest fucking display in the whole fucking vendor area of the whole fucking conference. And of course, every fucking person in the whole fucking hall turned around to fucking stare at the fucking klutz who fucking knocked it over.

Including She of the Poison Pen.

Shawn got to her knees and scooped up the books.

Oh god. The display contained about twelve thousand copies of Gyno Galaxy IV. Wait. That wasn’t all. There also were copies of Gyno Galaxy II, Gyno Galaxy III, and the flagship of the series, Gyno Galaxy: Probing Explorations. Good god.

On the other hand . . . V. Jay-Jay had an entire Gyno franchise?

She needed to talk to her publisher . . .

Chapter Four

THE PRE-CON MIXER was rocking and rolling. Literally This year, the organizers were basking in receipts from record-breaking registration numbers. This meant that in addition to better (non-vegan) wine that actually came in bottles, and cheeses imported from places more exotic than Indiana, there was music. Live music. Played by live musicians, with real instruments. And they were actually good—unlike last year’s endless, canned recordings of Israel Kamakawiwo’ole.

However, Kate did have to admit that his cover of “Sisters are Doin’ It for Themselves” was surprisingly tuneful and upbeat. Who knew you could riff on a ukulele like that?

She had staked out a nice corner behind one of the huge potted palms near the wine bar, and was doing her best to avoid getting sucked into conversations with . . . well, anyone. She was on sensory overload from having to listen to so many endless appeals for reviews, and just wanted to enjoy a few minutes of solitude. She put on her reading glasses and did a halfway credible job of hiding her nametag beneath her jacket, in the hopes that most people wouldn’t recognize her. So far, it seemed to be working pretty well.

What she really wanted to avoid was running into Shawn Harris—who was certain to be here tonight.

She scanned the big ballroom again.

Not that she’d even know how to recognize Harris if she did show up. The photo on her Facebook page didn’t reveal much. The author was wearing a red ball cap that covered most of her face, and there was no photo on her book jacket. Her Web page had the same damn hat picture—Harris was obviously very attached to that tool thingy she was holding. Ridiculous. Why would her publisher put up with that kind of sophomoric crap?

Kate drained her second glass of wine and wondered how long she’d have to wait for the crowd near the bar to thin out so she could mosey over and ask that surly bartender for a refill. What was his problem? It wasn’t like he was paying for the stuff himself.

Maybe he just didn’t like lesbians?

She smiled. If so, he was in for a long night.

She thought about Harris’s book again, and their artfully choreographed, High Noon-stylefaceoff tomorrow afternoon.

If you held her down and threatened her with death, dismemberment, or sharing an elevator with Newt Gingrich, she’d have to admit that some parts of Bottle Rocket hinted at a quirky kind of originality. And it was also true that there were occasional snatches of prose that weren’t half bad . . . once you got past the overblown language and epic conventions.

God . . . what was with the crush of people just standing there near the damn bar? The surly bartender caught her eye. I know you’re going to make me open another bottle of the Shiraz, his gaze seemed to say.

Kate looked away and tried to hide her empty wine glass.

Shit. She saw Quinn heading her way. The big woman was still wearing her black Harley shirt and a tight pair of jeans that were several sizes too small. For some reason, she had added a pair of zip-on leather chaps to her ensemble, and they made her legs look like overstuffed sausages.

“Kate?” The voice came out of nowhere and scared the shit out of her. She jumped, and nearly dropped her glass. It was Gwen Carlisle.

“Since when did you become one of the Con Palm-Pilots?” Gwen asked. “What are you doing hiding out back here?”

Kate smiled with relief. “Gwen. Thank god you’re here.” She lowered her voice. “Right now, I’m hiding from Quinn.”

Gwen looked confused. “Quinn? Quinn who?”

“Quinn Glatfelter.”

Gwen looked incredulous. “The BDSM author?”

“That’s the one.”

“She’s here?” Gwen glanced around.

Kate grabbed her by the arm. “Stop it. She’s right behind you.”

Gwen turned back toward her. “Was that her in the chaps?”

Kate nodded. “Yeah. Subtle. Kinda hard to miss, isn’t she?”

“I’ll say.”

Kate couldn’t tell if Gwen was appalled or intrigued.

“Is your publisher interested in broadening their author list?” She paused. “Literally?”

Gwen snorted. “Very funny.” She took a big sip from her tall pilsner glass. Funny. Kate would never have pegged Gwen as a beer drinker. “Tell me, Kate. Why aren’t you a writer? We’d sign you in a heartbeat.”

“I am a writer.” She raised an eyebrow. “I think it’s possible that you might have a passing familiarity with some of my recent prose work?”

“That’s not what I meant, and you know it. But while we’re on the subject. Why did you eviscerate Shawn’s book the way you did? You know as well as I do that it’s a great read. Exponentially better, I’ll warrant, than seventy-five percent of the crap that crosses your desk.”

Kate shrugged. “That’s true.”

“So? Why the hatchet job?”

Kate looked at her. “You think Harris has the chops to make it as a mainstream novelist, don’t you?”

Gwen nodded. “Of course I do.”

“Well. So do I.”

Gwen’s jaw dropped. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me.”

“Oh, I heard you all right. I just don’t understand you. Why the hell would you post a toxic review like that of a book you really liked?”

“I didn’t say that I liked Bottle Rocket. I said that I agreed with you that Shawn Harris has the chops to make it as a mainstream author. This book, however, is not the vehicle that will get her there. Any shot at real brilliance it had was completely undercut by its regrettable adherence to the same old clichés and worn-out plot devices that define most of the genre.”

Gwen stood there for a moment without speaking. “It’s hard to argue with you, Kate. You know your shit.”

Kate was unfazed by the compliment. “That’s what they pay me for.”

“Still,” Gwen continued, “you have to admit that Bottle Rocket, as a lesbian novel, deserved higher marks than you gave it.”

Kate shrugged. “I don’t rank books according to how much better or worse they are than the rest of what’s floating around in the shallow end of the pool. I’m a critic, not a reviewer. There’s a difference.”

“Care to explain the difference to me?”

“I’d be happy to,” Kate smiled sweetly at her, “tomorrow at ten o’clock.”

Gwen sighed and finished her beer. “You’re a tough nut to crack, Winston.”

Kate did not disagree. “So they tell me.”

Gwen held up her pilsner glass. “I’m dry. Wanna stroll on over to the bar and get topped off?”

Kate hesitated.

“Oh, come on.” Gwen took her by the elbow and tugged her forward. “This damn plant isn’t going anyplace.”

They walked toward the bar. The line was ridiculously long. She noticed that most of the people in the line were holding two glasses—one empty, and one someplace short of empty. Smart. It seemed like a good system—top them both off, then rotate back around to the end of the line and start all over again.

She sighed. “We’re going to be here all night.”

“Nah,” Gwen reassured her. “It’s all in who you know.”

Kate looked at her. “What do you mean?”

Gwen held up a forefinger. “Watch and learn.” She scanned the line ahead of them. “Vivien!”

A small, redhead, wearing a lime green jumpsuit, turned around, then waved vigorously when she saw Gwen.

“I heard from the Poughkeepsie Public Library,” Gwen called out.

Vivien waved them both forward. “Come on up here with us,” she shouted over the din.

Gwen nudged Kate. “See? Told you.”

They advanced two-thirds of the way forward in the line.

“Viv, meet Kate Winston.”

Vivien K. O’Reilly trained a pair of very round and surprised eyes on Kate.

“No shit?” She looked Kate over. “The She-Bitch herself. Badass hair.”

“Um . . . thanks?” Kate replied.

Gwen chuckled. “So, Viv. The Poughkeepsie Public Library would love to have you do a reading—and we can fit it in right before the Rehoboth shindig.”

“Fabulous.” Vivien did a little joyous jig and waved the hand holding her pilsner glass around. A spray of white foam flew all over the back of the woman standing in line just front of her. Fortunately for Viv, she was too engrossed in her conversation with V. Jay-Jay Singh to notice.

V. Jay-Jay Singh?

Oh shit.

V. Jay-Jay had been after Kate for months to review her Gyno Galaxy series, and Kate had dodged or ignored so many calls from her that she’d need an abacus to count them all. She looked wistfully at her potted palm, then down at her empty wine glass. It was a tough call—more wine, or facing the music with V. Jay-Jay.

Someone walked past them, carrying two wine glasses that had plastic tops.

Go cups? For real?

Kate touched Gwen on the sleeve. “Excuse me, I think I may have left the iron on in my room. I’m gonna duck out and go check on it, okay?”

“Gwen looked at her strangely. “Okaaaaay.”

Kate held out a hand. “Nice to have met you, Viv. Best of luck with your book.”

“Thanks.” Viv shook her hand and gave it a little squeeze before releasing it. “I wasn’t kidding about the hair.”

“Really?” Kate raised an eyebrow. “How about the ‘She Bitch’ part?”

Viv thought about it. “No. I pretty much meant that, too. But from me, that’s not a bad thing.” She looked Kate up and down again. “Not bad at all.”

Kate gave her a wary little smile and walked off, wondering for a moment if Viv might actually be the elusive HellBent4Leather character who now made regular appearances on her blog.

She fought an impulse to run a hand through her short, husky hair. What was so damn odd about it?

She walked toward the main doors to the lobby and its bank of elevators and saw yet another crush of people she needed to maneuver around. It felt like a damn conspiracy. Every person she’d pissed off or worked to avoid for the last five years seemed to be attending this conference en masse.

She veered off and doubled back toward the wine bar, where Gwen and Viv were no longer in evidence. They must’ve refilled their glasses and headed off for greener pastures. A makeshift bussing area had been set up behind the bar, and beyond that was a door that probably led to the service galley for this ballroom. White-coated servers buzzed in and out, carrying large trays of hors d’oeuvres and crates of glasses. Maybe I can sneak through there and make my way back to the elevators without being noticed?

As she got closer to the service area, she realized she wasn’t the only one to have this idea. Another woman was lounging around back there, doing a poor job of acting like she belonged in that part of the reception area. Kate could tell by the way she kept stealing nervous-looking glances around the room as she inched closer to the exit that she didn’t quite have the confidence required to sneak out with authority.

Amateur, she thought.

A server, carrying a big tray of dirty plates and glasses, nearly knocked the woman over as he flew past her en route to the galley. Kate laughed as the woman comically jumped out of his way, then quickly looked around to see if anyone had noticed. She saw Kate looking back at her and turned five shades of red. She quickly cast about like the room was on fire, and she was desperate to escape.

Kate thought she was cute, in a clumsy Ellen DeGeneres-meets-Buster Keaton sort of way. She had wispy hair with blonde highlights, and smiling eyes—even though they looked panicked and a bit maniacal right now. She was wearing faded jeans, a white blouse with an oversized man’s tuxedo jacket, and running shoes that looked like they’d seen a lot of hard use. She wasn’t petite, but she wasn’t large either. She just looked . . . solid. Like someone you could tuck into and not worry about toppling over. Like someone who might still be standing after being hit by a tsunami, or a horde of impatient busboys.

The woman stole another look at Kate, and her agitation seemed to increase.

Kate decided to take pity on the poor creature and scout around for another way to escape the mixer. She turned on her heel to head toward the main lobby exits and ran smack into a tall busser carrying a big tray loaded with empty . . . somethings, who was making a beeline for the back of the hall. He was more fleet of foot than Kate, and managed to dodge her without spilling his cargo—a feat that earned him a hearty round of applause and a few wolf whistles from the revelers who were close enough to witness the near disaster.

Kate didn’t fare quite as well.

She went sprawling into a cluster of big potted plants that had been concealing another group of shy types. When she exploded through the leafy wall of their hideout, they scattered like beads from a broken necklace. In her clumsy attempt to right herself and minimize her mortification, she slipped on a big clump of Spanish moss. She lost her footing again—this time, crashing into a table where several authors were seated.

Miraculously, they all managed to pick their drinks up off the table before Kate came to rest on top of it.

“Well,” she heard one of the authors remark, as she lay spread-eagled across their plates of canapés and crudités, “this has to be the best damn hot bar I’ve ever had at one of these things.”

Kate rolled her head toward the sound and realized two things—the side of her face was now covered with something pasty that tasted like pretty good pimento cheese, and the voice above her belonged to none other than V. Jay-Jay Singh.

Life was a capricious bitch, and she took no prisoners.

Well, she thought, morosely. At least I created enough of a diversion to allow that other poor schmoe to escape.

THE OTHER POOR schmoe didn’t waste any time beating a hasty retreat, once all eyes in the room were pointed toward the spectacle of the miraculous, tumbling blogger.

Shawn smiled. If Kate Winston weren’t such a complete virago, she’d actually feel a little sorry for her. It had to be mortifying to end up flat on your back like that—splayed out across all those little plates like the world’s biggest appetizer. And what a drag to take a tumble and end up in a supine position on top of the table belonging to the erotic authors.

On the other hand, it couldn’t happen to a more deserving subject.

Still. Eraserhead did look kind of cute with all those bits of kale sticking out of her hair . . .

Shawn punched the elevator button for the ninth floor.

She still needed to finish her opening remarks about Bottle Rocket for the faceoff tomorrow. The moderator asked her to prepare a short, two-minute intro that would bring the audience up to speed about the plot and themes of the book. She’d been trying to work on it in fits all day and wasn’t making much progress. Probably because she knew that Winston was doing her version of the same thing, and she felt hamstringed, trying to second guess what the acerbic critic was likely to say.

For some reason, the damn elevator was stopping on every floor. Each time it came to rest, the doors would roll back, but no one would be standing there. Shawn kept pushing the button with the big, illuminated number nine on it, but the thing just took its sweet time. She glanced up at the brass plate fastened above the door opening. Otis. It figured. Her Uncle Warren used to work for the old Otis Elevator Company in Erie, and she recalled that he always moved in the same deliberate way, no matter how much Aunt Jane yelled at him to hurry up.

She pulled a folded piece of paper out of her jacket pocket and looked it over. Lame. Her remarks were nowhere near pithy enough to counter the slash-and-burn summary that she was positive Kate Winston would be delivering to the salivating crowd tomorrow. She shoved the paper back into her pocket without bothering to refold it.

The elevator groaned and stopped again. Fourth floor. Shawn waited for the big metal doors to roll back. They did. And, once again, there was nothing waiting out there but a big swath of hideous carpet. What was that pattern, anyway? Cabbage roses?

Maybe I should just get off and take the damn stairs.

She was too agitated. Acting like a total klutz in front of Winston all but obliterated the tiny bit of chutzpah she had left. She tried to imagine what proverbial bit of wisdom her mother would reel off right now—after she exhausted her usual litany of complaints.

“How long has it been since you got a haircut?”

“Those pants make you look like you’re standing in a hole!”

“Why don’t you wear some makeup? You look like death takes a holiday.”

“Are you still seeing that blond bimbo with the braces?”

“Why can’t you settle down with a nice boy like your cousin, Jerome?”

It always took her a while to get warmed up.

“Don’t be so mishugina—this, too, shall pass. You worry too much, Shawnala.”

That part was certainly true.

She looked down at her shoes.

Her mother might be right about the pants, too.

Shawn sighed. Maybe a good workout would make her feel better. There was nothing quite like working up a good sweat to get her mind off the other things in her life that were making her crazy.

The elevator stopped again. Fifth floor.

Seriously?

On the other hand, why worry? By the time she reached the ninth floor, the fucking conference would be over.

She leaned back against the wall of the tiny metal box and resolved just to enjoy the ride.

Sometimes, things just had a way of working out the way they were supposed to.

THE SHOWER DIDN’T make her feel much better. But she knew it would take more than a damn shower to take the edge off her grand departure from the conference room trailing bits of wilted lettuce and crushed mini-quiche in her wake—not to mention the bright orange swath of cheese spread that was plastered to her hair like spackling compound.

It was not a good look. And it didn’t help that it was V. Jay-Jay Singh who hauled Kate to her feet and brushed the worst of the . . . comestibles from her clothing. And Kate didn’t miss the fact that V. Jay-Jay managed to work in a gratuitous grope of her backside while she was “helping” her out.

Erotic authors. Jesus, Mary, and Winston Churchill on a cracker. Why did it have to be their table she chose for her Flying Wallenda act?

How in the hell was she supposed to stand up in front of all these people tomorrow and put her best Bitch on, now that they’d all seen her splayed out like some kind of ludicrous Blue Plate Special? Her only consolation was that maybe Shawn Harris hadn’t been in the room to witness it. That would have been the final mortification—the last nail in the coffin containing what was left of her self-confidence.

Shit. This was getting her no place. She’d never be able to relax and get any sleep.

She picked up the fat notebook that contained the roster of hotel amenities and flipped through its laminated pages. There was a decent-looking fitness center on the concierge level. Maybe forty-five minutes on a treadmill would clear her head?

It was nearly nine-thirty. She had just over twelve hours until the opening session’s battle royal with Shawn Harris commenced. She needed to find a way to unwind, or she’d be worthless tomorrow. And working up a good sweat always did the trick.

Why not give it a shot?

She changed into shorts and a t-shirt and snapped up her card key. Nobody would be in the workout room at this hour. She left her room and headed for the bank of elevators at the end of the hall.

She ought to be safe.

Chapter Five

KATE GOT TO the fitness center and made a couple of annoying discoveries: she was not alone, and one of the three workout machines was in obvious disrepair. A placard taped to the front of the broken unit proclaimed that it would be repaired by . . . Kate squinted to read the date. Three weeks ago?

She sighed and rolled her eyes.

Of course, the two other hotel guests who had picked this ungodly hour of the night to work out had ensconced themselves on the functioning end units, leaving only the middle treadmill available. They were both running. At least, the woman was running. The large man with a very hairy back and spandex shorts that left little to the imagination, was doing more sweating than anything. She looked around for alternatives.

There was a wall-mounted flat panel, tuned to HGTV, or “Hey Girl TV”—an odd choice for a workout room. Beneath it, a sagging rack held up an indifferent-looking set of hand weights. It was tucked next to a long bench covered with ripped red vinyl. It was a conundrum. The weight bench or the center treadmill were her only options. She looked at the weights again.

Don’t see that happening.

She was too embarrassed to turn around and leave, so she dropped her bag to the floor and resolved to try a twenty-minute run on the center treadmill. That was long enough to be respectable, and maybe she’d luck out, and the other two people would finish up and leave so she could enjoy some solitude.

The large, hairy man was grunting now and shaking his head with apparent disgust at the hideous padded headboard that David Bromstad had just added to someone’s Florida vacation home. Everyone’s a critic. But, in fact, Kate did not disagree with him. The monolithic headboard was hideous enough to adorn a high-roller suite at the Bellagio.

As discretely as she could, she took her place on the center machine. The woman to her right glanced at her, then quickly looked away as if she’d seen a ghost.

What is her problem? Kate thought. She programmed her unit, and the rubber conveyor beneath her feet moved. Soon, the three runners were laced into their individual rhythms, and the only sound in the small room came from the slapping of their shoes against the mechanical moving sidewalks.

Meanwhile, David Bromstad had completed his appointments in the master suite of the house he was making over. The result was too much for the man in the spandex shorts. With a snort, he punched the stop button on his treadmill and grabbed his towel.

“That looks like a goddamn bordello,” he said to no one in particular. “This dude should be designing Motel 6 lobbies.” He climbed down off his machine and huffed his way out of the room

Kate just shrugged and kept running. The woman beside her didn’t even look his way. She was too intent on staring at something fascinating on the blank wall next to her treadmill. The two of them ran on in silence for a few more minutes until they fell into step with each other. Their footfalls seemed to strike the conveyors with exactly the same cadence. It was eerie, and began to feel awkward to Kate. As discretely as she could, she reached out and punched up the speed on her machine. That was better. She was running faster now.

Then the woman beside her did the same thing. After a few seconds, they were running in tandem again.

Are you kidding me with this?

Kate reached out and punched the up arrow. Two clicks this time. In short order, the woman beside her caught up again.

Kate was incredulous. What the fuck?

She punched her up arrow three more times. She was edging dangerously close to the unit’s top speed, but damn if she’d let this annoying woman best her. It wasn’t long before the other woman followed suit. They were both flying now. It was ridiculous. The muscles in her legs were starting to sing from the exertion. This was really far too fast for her, and she knew there was no way she could sustain this pace for very long. Her machine whined—it sounded like the bearings were shot.

Great.

She was starting to sweat now—profusely. But damn if she’d be the one to slow down first.

The run went on and on. Well past good sense or safety. David Bromstad morphed into Candice Olson. Now, someone’s kitchen was getting the Motel 6 makeover.

Beside her, the woman with the short blond hair was panting. Hard.

Serves you right, Kate thought. Her shirt was so soaked with sweat it was sticking to her like a second skin. It was getting harder to remain coherent. She was feeling light-headed. Not a good sign. She needed to slow down before she passed out.

She heard an odd, thumping sound. At first, she thought it was part of the motor whine coming from her treadmill—the thing sounded like it was on its last legs. But then she realized the sound was tied to her foot striking the rubber conveyor. She glanced down. Shit! The entire sole of her shoe was flapping like the loose jaws of that woman who had been ahead of her in the drink line at the Pre-Con mixer.

Nice. So much for these damn hundred-and-fifty-dollar Gel Kayanos.

Now she’d have to stop, or risk tripping over her sole.

What a cruel pun. Even Kate had to smile at the irony of that one.

Just as she reached out in defeat to slow her machine down, the bottom of her shoe flew completely off, breaking her stride. She stopped running and started stumbling, but the conveyor kept moving at its programmed, breakneck speed. She was airborne for the second time that night with no admiring coterie of erotic authors to break her fall. She was going down. Hard.

“Fuck me!” she yelled, as she spun completely around and fell toward the unmoving treadmill that had been vacated by hairy-back spandex-man. She flailed her arms like a lunatic, pirouetted, and finally came to rest flat on her back. As she fell, the yawning abyss of the rest of her life unreeled before her eyes in cold and unforgiving black and white—a bleak and relentless film montage that made the best of Ingmar Bergman look like a Mel Brooks double feature. She’d be a paraplegic—living a somber and colorless life of abject solitude in someplace hideous like . . . Indiana, routinely spewing her pent-up vitriol by writing caustic, unsolicited reviews with a breath-controlled mouse.

Roll credits. Cue the orchestra. Bring up the house lights.

While Kate was busy watching her personal home movie, her companion hit the emergency stop button on both machines and scrambled over to her.

“Good god!” she gasped. She was still breathing heavily from her own ridiculous part in their duel with disaster. “Are you okay?”

Kate’s legs were sprawled across her own treadmill at an impossible angle. One foot was still caught beneath the conveyor of the unit by what was left of her mangled shoe.

“Do I look okay?” she hissed, before she could think better of it. “Sorry,” she added.

“It’s okay.” The other woman knelt beside her. “Can you sit up?”

“I think so.” Kate allowed the woman to slip an arm behind her shoulders and help raise her into a sitting position. Her heart was still pounding from the aftermath of her run and the adrenaline rush that accompanied her dismount.

“Let’s get your foot out from beneath that conveyor,” she said. “Can you move it?”

“I’m afraid to try,” Kate said. “My ankle hurts like hell.”

The woman nodded. “It’s already swelling. You’ll be lucky if it’s not sprained.”

“You think?” Kate grimaced as the woman carefully extracted her foot from beneath the belt. “I knew I overpaid for these damn shoes.”

“I think we should get this off your foot—in case your foot starts to swell, too.”

“It won’t swell,” Kate deadpanned. “You only get that feature if you spring for the pumped-up kicks.”

“Better run, better run?” The blonde woman unlaced Kate’s mangled shoe. Kate looked up at her with interest. She had hazel eyes that were crisscrossed with smile lines.

Kate nodded. “Faster than my bullet.”

“Interesting metaphor.” The woman dropped Kate’s shoe to the floor. “You like Indie bands?”

“Not really,” Kate replied. “But I’ve done my time at outdoor music festivals.”

“Groupie?”

Kate rolled her eyes. “Hardly. I used to be a stringer for Wired.”

“Really?” The other woman looked intrigued. “Why’d you give that up?”

“Ever been to Manchester, Tennessee in June?”

The woman thought about it. “Bonnaroo?”

Kate nodded. “Sharing a bathing trough with fifty-thousand stoners tends to lose its magic after the first few visits.”

“I don’t know. That sounds a whole lot like my fond memories of scout camp.”

Kate raised an eyebrow.

“We were an esoteric group. We earned badges for things like converting smudge pots into bongs.”

Kate narrowed her eyes. “Did you say scout camp? Are you sure you didn’t mean to say Wilderness camp?”

The other woman shrugged. “You say tomato . . . Besides.” She waved a hand. “What’s the difference, really?”

Kate rubbed her sore ankle. “For starters, a juvie probation officer and a court order.”

The other woman laughed. She had a great smile. “Spoken like someone familiar with the drill.”

“I had two older brothers,” Kate explained. “Let’s just say that I barely escaped deportation.”

The blonde was still smiling. Kate thought that something about her seemed familiar, but she couldn’t quite place it. She really was awfully cute. Kate wondered if she were in San Diego for the Con. There were reputed to be upwards of six hundred lesbians staying in this hotel. It would be just her luck to stumble across one of the straight ones.

Literally.

“Think you can stand up?” The woman gestured at Kate’s sore ankle.

Kate sighed. “Only one way to find out.”

“Can I give you a hand?”

Kate hesitated for only a second. “Sure. If you don’t, I’ll probably have to spend the night in here, watching reruns of bad headboards.”

The other woman stood up and offered Kate her arm. “I think that might actually violate the Constitutional ban on cruel and unusual punishment.”

“Don’t believe it.” Kate took hold of her arm and slowly hauled herself to her feet. “They said the same thing about Ice Capades.” Her ankle hurt like hell, but she actually was able to put a bit of weight on it without screaming. It could have been a lot worse, and with her, it usually was. Maybe things were looking up.

“How’s that feel?”

Kate turned her head to look at the other woman. Their faces were very close together.

Yep. Things were definitely looking up.

“It’s not as bad as I was expecting,” Kate said.

“Think you can walk back to your room?” the woman asked. “Or is there someone I can call for you?”

“No,” Kate said a bit too quickly. “I’m here alone.”

Oh . . . smooth, Winston, she thought. Why don’t you just offer her your goddamn room key?

She tried to cover her mortification. “I’m here for the literary conference.”

The woman nodded. “Me, too.”

Score.

“Really?” Kate tried to feign innocence as they slowly walked toward the red weight bench so she could sit down. Who the hell was she? Was she here with anyone? And more importantly, had she been downstairs when Kate took her first nosedive of the evening?

She sat down. “What do you do?”

The woman let go of her arm and stepped back. She looked embarrassed. “I’m . . . one of the . . . um . . . authors.”

Kate was surprised. “You are? What genre?” No wonder she looked familiar.

“Um. I don’t really fit any of the standard categories.”

Kate was intrigued. “You don’t? What have you written?”

The woman shrugged.

Kate thought her coyness was charming. “Tell me. If it’s one of the books being featured at this Con, I’ve probably already read it.”

The woman seemed extremely uncomfortable now. She was looking anyplace but at Kate.

“Yeah, I know,” she finally said. Then she sighed. “What the hell?” She looked at Kate. “You have read my book. And tomorrow morning at ten o’clock, you’re going to tell me and half the population of the lesbiverse why you hated it so much.”

Kate felt all the blood drain from her face. This was not happening. She closed her eyes. “You’re Shawn Harris.”

It was not a question.

The author of Bottle Rocket nodded. “Guilty.”

Kate’s head throbbed in sync with her ankle. “You know,” she said in a small voice, “maybe I will just stay here tonight.”

“YOU REALLY DON’T have to do this,” Kate said for the tenth time through clenched teeth, as she limped along a boulevard of rust and amber curlicues toward her room. Who designs these fucking carpets? She winced as they turned a corner. Probably that Motel 6 guy. They still had another long hallway to traverse. Kate had been adamant about getting a room as far away from the elevators as possible. These conferences were like key clubs, and she didn’t want to be up half the night listening to the damn doors open and close.

“Of course I do,” Shawn Harris said sweetly for the tenth time. “Sometimes, adhering to conventions is a good thing.”

Kate grimaced, and not because of her ankle. “I never said your book was conventional.”

“You didn’t?” Harris asked. “I’m pretty sure you said it was ‘full of clichés and worn out conventions.’” She looked at Kate. “I guess that’s not the same thing?”

Kate was getting pissed off. She wanted nothing more than to be back in her room—alone—and away from this annoying woman. “It’s not the same thing, and you know it as well as I do.”

“Oh, really? Care to enlighten me?”

Kate glared at her. “I don’t think Mother Teresa could enlighten you. Why the hell should I try?” She tried to pull her arm away, but Shawn held on.

“Now, now. Don’t be stupid. You need to hang on to me until we reach your room, or you’ll fall flat on your cute little ass.” She squeezed her arm. “Again.”

Kate was furious with her. “You’re really enjoying this, aren’t you?”

“Let’s see . . .” Shawn looked like she was pretending to think about it. “Yeah. I am.”

“Fine. Let’s have it your way. I’d be happy to tell you exactly what I thought about your debut novel.”

“Too little, too late, Winston. You’ve already shared your unique perspective with me, and with about eighty-thousand of your closest friends.”

Kate shook her head. “You’re not hearing me. I said I’d tell you what I thought—not what the critic paid by Gilded Lily thought.”

Shawn looked at her. “There’s a difference?”

Kate rolled her eyes. “Of course there’s a difference.”

They walked along in silence for a moment.

“Color me so confused,” Shawn said.

Kate limped along without speaking.

Shawn tried again.

“Or if you don’t want to do that, you can always just Color Me Barbra.”

Kate looked at her with a raised eyebrow.

“Hey, it was a seminal recording,” Shawn explained. “In my house, your choices were Barbra Streisand or Fred Waring and The Pennsylvanians. Believe me, it wasn’t pretty.”

Against her will, Kate laughed.

“Imagine my complete confusion when they moved me to North Carolina at age twelve. Now you know why I escaped to Japan. It was about as far as I could go without ending up back where I started.”

Kate was surprised. “You really did that?”

“Really did what?”

“You really went to Japan?”

“Of course I did.”

Kate was silent.

“What did you think? That I just got all that shit off Wikipedia?”

Kate didn’t respond.

Shawn shook her head in amazement. “That’s what you thought, isn’t it? That I just pulled that stuff outta my ass.”

“No, that’s not what I thought. In fact, I thought the whole Japan section of your book was beautifully written. Authentic. Almost transcendent in its originality.”

Shawn stared at her stunned. “Then why the fuck didn’t you say that?”

“Because it’s not my job to jack-off new authors who are drinking their own Kool Aid. Your fans were already canonizing you, and it was clear that you were well on your way to a more mainstream market. In my view, you needed to take a few body blows to toughen you up before you jumped headfirst into the big leagues.”

Shawn looked incredulous. “Just who the hell do you think you are. Some twisted, Internet incarnation of Albert Schweitzer? Trust me. Your brand of help I could do without.”

“Oh, please. You thought I was hard on you? You wait until the New York Times Book Review sinks its teeth into your pampered little ego. Mark my words—if you crank out another novel that caves in to the same worn-out, hackneyed conventions we’ve all read a zillion times, the best you can ever hope for will be competing for space in the remainder bin at Books-A-Million.”

Shawn didn’t reply, but Kate could tell that she was fuming. A band of red was slowly making its way up her neck, rising above the collar of her gray t-shirt. Kate came to an abrupt halt in front of a door.

“This is me.”

Shawn let go of her arm. “It sure is.”

Kate fumbled in the pocket of her shorts for her key card. In a few more seconds, she’d be safe and alone in her room, and the events of this evening would just be a bad memory. Correction. Another bad memory. She seemed to be racking them up with gusto these days.

“Thanks for the help,” she said without emotion.

Shawn shrugged. “Wish I could say the same.”

Kate sighed. “I guess I’ll see you tomorrow morning.”

“That you will. We can continue our lively discussion then.”

Kate turned away from her without speaking and inserted her card into the slot on the door. The tiny green light flashed, and she opened the door and stepped inside. Just inside the doorway, her sock-clad foot slid across something in a plastic bag on the floor. She skated forward like a bare tire on wet pavement and made a frantic but futile grab for the doorframe. As she crashed to the floor for the third time that night, she thought morosely that at least no one could accuse her of failing to add variety to her many misfortunes.

SHAWN WAS STUNNED. One second, she was staring at the back of Kate Winston’s head of short hair. The next second, she was staring at . . . nothing.

What the fuck?

She looked down. Kate was on the floor again. She’d gone down so quietly that Shawn wouldn’t even have noticed if she’d turned away when Kate unlocked her door.

“What the hell happened?” she asked, squatting behind her.

“What the hell do you think happened?” Kate replied.

“You fell again?”

Kate let out a slow breath. “I bet you were the brightest one in your class, weren’t you?”

Shawn ignored the remark. “Why did you fall? Is it your ankle?”

“No.” Kate rummaged around on the floor and pulled something out from beneath her butt. “I slipped on this.” She looked it over, and then held it up in disgust. “Welcome to CLIT-Con.”

Shawn took it from her. It was a flimsy plastic bag filled with handouts and brochures advertising attractions in and around San Diego. There also were a couple dozen, brightly-colored pellet-like items loose in the bag.

“What are these little bead-like things?” she asked, holding the bag up to the light.

Kate craned her neck around to look, too. She grabbed the corner of the bag and rubbed a few of them together. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“What?” Shawn looked at her.

“They’re fucking Tic Tacs. Who the hell would put Tic Tacs loose in a bag on the floor?”

Shawn thought about it. “Someone who’s out drumming up business for a personal injury lawyer?”

“Why didn’t they just use ball bearings? There certainly can’t be any shortage of those at this damn conference.”

“Now, now.” Shawn wagged an index finger at her. “Take care not to indulge in any of those stereotypes you hate so much.”

“Go to hell.”

Shawn slowly shook her head. “Tell me. Does that thing hurt?”

“Does what thing hurt?”

“That stick up your ass. By my calculation, this is the third time tonight you’ve wound up sitting on it.”

“I reiterate—go to hell.”

Kate tried to shift herself into a different position so she could stand up. She winced in pain and dropped back to the floor.

“Let me help you stand up,” Shawn offered.

Kate shook her head.

“Oh, come on,” Shawn persisted. “I’ll just help you inside and then I’ll leave you alone to sit and brood in uninterrupted solitude.”

Kate sat there another few seconds, then she sighed. “All right. But I’m only agreeing because I don’t want to spend the night sitting here on this hideous carpet.”

Shawn nodded. “It does sort of clash with your ensemble.”

“You think? It looks like a damn reject from the Heywood Hale Broun collection.”

Shawn reached beneath Kate’s arms and lifted her up into a standing position. “You know, you’re actually pretty funny—when you’re not busy gnawing the entrails of fledgling authors.”

Kate winced. Shawn wasn’t sure if she was trying to suppress a smile, or because of the effort it took for her to stand up. It was clear that her ankle was hurting a lot.

“Put your arm around my neck,” Shawn suggested. “It’ll be easier for you to walk.”

Kate looked dubious.

“I promise that I won’t take advantage of your weakened state and cop a feel like your fans at the erotic table downstairs.”

“You saw that?”

Shawn nodded. “It was kind of hard to miss. I mean, you don’t get to see a nice ass coated with cheese every day.”

“Oh god.” Kate gingerly draped an arm around Shawn’s shoulders. “I’ll never live this down.”

“Buck up, Brünnhilde. If this Dorothy Parker gig doesn’t work out, you can always go back to being chief of the Valkyries.”

“Anybody ever tell you that you’re annoying and a total wiseass?”

Shawn laughed. “Add frumpy and you could be channeling my mother.”

They started the slow journey across Kate’s room.

“Your mother thinks you’re a frumpy and annoying wiseass?”

Shawn nodded. “And an old maid.”

“I think I like her.”

“She’s a Jew from Lower Merion who has elevated misery to the level of art.”

“Now I know I like her.”

“Either you’re a freak with a fondness for scrapple and the Mummer’s Day Parade, or you’re just eager to side with anyone who wholly disapproves of me.”

“Are these the only options?”

Shawn nodded.

“Yes.”

“I should have left you in the hallway.”

“But you didn’t,” Kate said. She winced again as they reached an overstuffed armchair. Shawn kicked its matching ottoman to the side so she could help her sit down.

“Why not?”

“Because you already said I had a nice ass.”

“Don’t let that go to your head, Blogula. I happen to think that anything covered in cheese is nice.”

“A woman of discrimination.”

“So unlike yourself.”

“And by the way . . . Blogula?”

Shawn nodded enthusiastically. “Like it? It’s kind of a pet name I have for you.”

“Charming.” Kate shook her head. “Well, I guess it’s no worse than Eraserhead.”

“You know about that one?”

Kate gave her a withering look.

“In fact,” Shawn stood back and looked her over, “I think your haircut is quite utilitarian.”

“Utilitarian?”

“Sure. It gives you a great place to store all those discarded cocktail picks.”

Kate rolled her eyes. “Okay. You’ve earned your Girl Scout badge for this evening. Why don’t you mosey along and find another place to exercise your beneficence?”

“Are you trying to get rid of me?”

“Now I’m certain that you were the brightest one in your class.”

Shawn sighed. “Well, I guess I could go and get a head start on setting up my cookie concession.”

“Off you go.” Kate waved a hand. “Save me a box of Tagalongs.”

“How about we score you a couple of Ibuprofen, instead?” Shawn pointed at her ankle. “It might help keep the swelling down.”

Kate sighed. “You really are a glutton for punishment, aren’t you?”

“Apparently. I even watched all twenty-seven of the Republican Primary debates.”

“Ahh. You’re a glutton and a masochist.”

“Oh, come on. Don’t tell me that you didn’t manage to get caught up in any of the national Tea Party road show. It made for better TV than back-to-back episodes of Pawn Stars.”

Kate looked confused. “There’s a Presidential election this year?”

Shawn rolled her eyes. ““Nice try. How about that Ibuprofen? Got anything like that here?”

“As a matter of fact, I do, but I can’t take any right now.”

“Why not?”

“Well, it’s Advil P.M., and I haven’t eaten anything since this morning. I think it would knock me on my ass.”

Shawn tried not to smile. As soon as the words were out of Kate’s mouth, she realized what she had said. She dropped her head into her hands.

“Somebody up there hates me.”

Shawn patted the toe of the one shoe Kate still had on. “No worries, Eraserhead. Help is still at hand.” She went to the telephone on top of a nightstand and picked up the receiver.

Kate lifted her head. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“Ordering you some dinner.”

“You can’t do that.”

“Sure I can.” Shawn ran a fingertip down the directory of services printed on the face of the telephone. “How to call room service was the first thing they taught us in Scouting. Well, right after we learned how to make a travois out of drapery rods and discarded bikini wax strips. See?” She punched in a sequence of numbers. “You just push these little buttons, and presto. Minions way down in the bowels of the hotel rush to minister to your every need.”

“Where the hell was this Girl Scout troop?”

Shawn held the receiver up to her ear. “I told you . . . Main Line Philadelphia.”

“It figures.”

“Hello? Room Service? Yes. This is Miss Winston in Room 816. I’d like to order a . . .” She looked at Kate with a raised eyebrow.

Kate sighed. “A cobb salad.”

“A cobb salad,” Shawn repeated.

“But no hardboiled egg.”

“No hardboiled egg,” Shawn said.

“And no croutons, but extra bacon.”

Shawn dropped the phone to her chest and stared at Kate. Kate shrugged.

“No croutons, but add extra bacon.”

Kate wasn’t finished. “No processed cheese, either.”

Shawn sighed and closed her eyes. “No cheese.”

“I didn’t say no cheese,” Kate hissed. “I said no processed cheese.”

Shawn counted to three. “Can you tell me what kinds of cheese you have?” She listened, and then turned to Kate.

“They have cheddar, Swiss, parmesan, Monterey Jack, and bleu.”

Kate thought about it. “Is the bleu cheese made from soy?”

Shawn barely refrained from strangling Kate. “Fuck the cheese. What kind of dressing?”

“Vinaigrette,” Kate said.

“Vinaigrette dressing,” Shawn said into the phone.

“But only if it’s made with EEVO,” Kate added. “And I want it on the side.”

Shawn had had enough. “Listen,” she said to the minion on the line. “Forget all of that bullshit and just bring me a bacon double cheeseburger with an extra-large side of fries.”

Kate looked horrified. “Are you crazy?”

Shawn ignored her. “That’s right. And make it two of each.”

“I am so not eating that.”

Shawn looked at her. “You’ll eat it all right, and you’ll pay for it, too.”

Kate thought about it. “Extra mustard.”

Shawn smiled. “Extra mustard. And throw in a bottle of Darioush and two glasses.”

Chapter Six

“I DON’T AGREE with that at all.”

Kate was sopping up the last of the mustard with a soggy French fry.

“Of course you don’t,” Shawn said. “If you ever agreed with me about anything, you’d have to enter a witness relocation program.”

“That’s not true,” Kate said. She held up her wine glass. “What about this?”

“I don’t think this counts.”

“Why not?”

“Oh come on. Who wouldn’t like a really fine Shiraz?”

“You saw the Gyno Galaxy series, right?”

Shawn sighed. “You know I did.”

“Oh, that’s right. You did go down on it . . . in a manner of speaking.”

“Very funny.”

“Your gymnastic feats aside, V. Jay-Jay Singh has been known to open beer bottles with her . . . well . . .”

Shawn was intrigued. “With her what?”

“Use your imagination.”

Shawn thought about that for few moments. “No way!”

“Way.”

“Nuh uh.”

“Uh huh.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“I don’t really care.”

Shawn looked down in the general vicinity of her own . . . opener and shuddered. “That’s not even possible.”

Kate shrugged.

“Is it?”

Kate shrugged again.

“And they think we’d be a better draw for the opening session than that?”

“Shawn, I really don’t think they thought about having V. Jay-Jay demonstrate this particular gift.”

“Too bad.” Shawn sighed. “I think it would’ve attracted truckers from ten states.”

“Trust me. Anything named CLIT-Con would attract truckers.”

“Yeah, but they’d all think it was something that required penicillin.”

“They certainly could’ve sold a shitload of koozies.”

Shawn snagged another French fry from Kate’s plate. “Did you eat all the mustard?”

“Beggars can’t be choosers.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Well, you did eat all of your fries and half of mine.”

“Yeah? Well you ate all of your burger and half of mine.”

“Did not.”

“Did, too.”

“I only ate your bacon. It’s not the same thing.”

“It is when it’s sitting on top of a bacon cheeseburger.”

Kate sighed. “Eating the bacon hardly qualifies as eating half of the sandwich.”

“Does, too.”

“Does not.”

“Does, too!”

“See?” Kate rolled her eyes. “This is exactly what I meant when I pointed out your fondness for excessive statement.”

“Gimme a break, Winston. One thing has nothing to do with the other.”

Shawn shifted her weight. They were sitting side by side on Kate’s big bed with all the food spread out across the space between them. Kate’s sore ankle was propped up on a stack of extra pillows. Shawn hadn’t intended to stay in Kate’s room to eat, but when the food arrived, Kate told her it was ridiculous to schlep it halfway across the hotel again, and that she should stay and eat her portion while it was still semi-hot.

Shawn could never say no to any woman who correctly used the word schlep.

Or to any woman who put mustard on her French fries.

They’d been trying to find safe topics to discuss, and had drifted into a conversation about trends in lesbian fiction. Shawn was surprised to discover that Kate actually had a balanced and informed perspective about most aspects of the genre. Plus she seemed to be on a first-name basis with all of the leading authors and publishers. It soon became clear that, although there were many things she liked about the literature—if you could call it that—she abided in frustration that so much of it was cloying and repetitive. And that shortcoming, in her view, could be laid squarely at the feet of the publishers, who did little to push, cajole, or insist that their authors move beyond the safety nets of the familiar.

And where the hell were the editors?

Kate told Shawn that she once, in disgust, took the time to count all of the adverbs used in a book she had been asked to review.

“When I got up to eight hundred and fifty, I quit counting, and I wasn’t even halfway through the damn thing.”

Shawn was amazed. “Seriously. How could an editor brazenly allow such appallingly deficient prose to see the enthusiastically blinding light of a gloriously new day?”

Kate scowled at her. “Fuck you and the reflexive pronoun you rode in on.”

“Did you just end a sentence with a preposition?”

“Oh, my bad,” Kate said without a trace of contrition. “Fuck you and the reflexive pronoun you rode in on, bitch.”

Shawn slowly shook her head. “Are you always this crusty?”

“I don’t know,” Kate replied. “Are you always this annoying?”

“You’d have to ask my marketing guru that question.”

Kate nodded. “I think I begin to understand why she spent most of the evening in the beverage line, two-fisting tall boys.”

“Oh really,” Shawn asked with interest. “Was V. Jay-Jay opening them for her? I always did suspect that Gwen’s tastes ran to the exotic.”

Kate actually smiled. “That could lend new meaning to your title.”

“Bottle Rocket?”

Kate nodded.

Shawn laughed out loud. “Now there’s an idea for some cover art that would rival the best of what’s on display downstairs.”

“Oh, god.” Kate raised her eyes to the ceiling. “Don’t even get me started on that part of this business. Most of those books look like . . . I don’t know.” She waved a hand. “What’s the same sex term for bodice ripper?”

Shawn thought about it. “Carhartt cutter?”

Kate laughed. “Flannel flayer?”

“Boot buster.”

“Chap chafer.”

“Saddle soaper.”

“Jersey jerker.”

Shawn raised an eyebrow. “Jersey jerker?”

Kate shrugged. “I was channeling women’s basketball.”

“Oh. Okay. That works.”

Kate drained her wine glass. “I don’t suppose there’s any more of this, is there?”

Shawn grabbed the bottle off the end table next to her side of the bed. She held it up sideways. “I’m sad to report that Elvis has left the building.”

“No he hasn’t.” Kate giggled. “I saw him getting off the elevator about three hours ago.”

“For real?”

Kate nodded. “He was all wrapped around Vivien K. O’Reilly. I think he’s moderating a session tomorrow.”

“Ours?”

“In your dreams, Sparky.”

Shawn sighed. “Too bad.”

“Why?”

“I thought it might provide some much needed comic relief.”

Kate snorted. “Oh really? How? By having him belt out a few rousing choruses of ‘Don’t Be Cruel’ to warm up the room?”

“It could work.” Shawn bumped Kate’s shoulder. “Besides, isn’t that your signature tune?”

“I don’t have a signature tune.”

“Of course you do. Everybody does.”

Kate seemed intrigued. “Oh really?”

Shawn nodded.

“Okay, wiseass. What’s yours?”

Shawn smiled. “Clearly, you don’t understand how signature tunes work. I don’t get to pick one. It evolves . . . organically.”

“Organically?”

Shawn nodded again.

Kate looked dubious. “I haven’t known you very long, but there seems to be precious little about you that could ever be called organic.”

“Pish posh.”

“Pish posh?”

Shawn shrugged.

“You’re such a nerd. If you did have a signature tune, it would have to be something retro and annoying.”

“Like?”

“I don’t know.” Kate chewed the inside of her cheek. “Maybe something by The Archies.”

Shawn sat up straighter. “I loved The Archies.”

“You would.”

“Hey. You can’t hold having unrefined musical tastes against me. The soundtrack of my formative years was comprised mostly of polkas.”

“And Barbra Streisand.”

Shawn didn’t deny it. “It was pretty pathetic. In retrospect, I wonder if my mother’s cherished subscription to the Columbia Record Club was part of their ‘Turn Your Child Into a Serial Killer’ package.”

“It could be. Ever enjoy torturing small animals?”

Shawn sighed. “Nope. Just bloggers.”

“That figures.”

“I know. Lucky you.”

Kate eyed her. “Opinions on that differ.”

They fell quiet. Shawn could hear the sound of muffled laughter coming from the hallway outside Kate’s room. Things seemed to be heating up. It was no secret that most of the real action at CLIT-Con took place after hours on the floors above the conference venue. She glanced at her watch. It was nearly midnight. Kate wasn’t looking at her. The quiet between them seemed unnatural. Shawn suddenly felt uncomfortable as hell, and she didn’t really know why.

She decided that flight was her best option.

“I really need to go,” she said. “It’s awfully late, and I should never have stayed this long.”

Kate didn’t reply.

Shawn collected their empty plates and stacked them on the service tray. “Thanks for the meal.”

“No problem,” Kate replied. She wasn’t looking at Shawn. She was too busy smoothing out a crease on the bedspread. “Thanks for helping me back to the room.”

Shawn stood up, carried the tray to a small desk, and set it down, then thought better of it. “Do you want me to put this outside the door?”

Kate shook her head. “I’ll deal with it later.”

Shawn continued to stand in front of her, feeling like she needed to say something else, but not knowing quite what. “Will you be okay?” It was lame, but it was the best she could come up with.

Kate raised her eyes and looked at her. There was only one lamp turned on the room, but Shawn could still see how blue her eyes were.

“I’ll be fine.” She patted the knee of her affected leg. “It feels a lot better already.”

“Okay.” Shawn picked up her gym towel and room key. “I guess I’ll see you tomorrow morning.”

“That you will.”

The short walk to the door felt like Lee’s retreat from Gettysburg. She was sure that Kate was watching her, and that made her feel clumsy and inelegant. What the hell had happened to the almost easy camaraderie they seemed to be inching toward? Shawn was actually starting to relax about the session tomorrow. Correction—today. But something changed when they heard the laughter outside the door, and they both retreated to their corners like boxers after the clang of a bell.

The door loomed in front of her like the entrance to a tomb.

That wasn’t right. It was more like an exit than an entrance. And she knew that once she was on the other side of it, calm and reason would be restored. Right now, she felt like a pinball machine on tilt. She grabbed the door handle, and the big dead bolt lock unlatched with a loud click. She stepped halfway out of the room and looked down the hall.

Her blood ran cold.

No fucking way.

She took a half step back and hovered in the doorway so she could take a second look.

God. It was even more horrifying a second time.

She backed into the room as quickly as she could and slammed the door shut.

“What the hell is going on?” Kate’s voice rang out from her prone position on the bed.

Shawn stood with her back against the door, taking deep breaths. “I can’t talk about it.”

“Oh, good god.” Kate climbed down off the bed and limped to the door. “What’s the matter with you?”

Shawn held her gym towel up to her eyes. “I think I’m blind.”

Kate shoved her away from the door and reached for the handle. “Move over.”

“You can’t go out there.” Shawn barred her way.

“Why the fuck not?”

“Because I saw Gwen,” Shawn hissed. “And it was terrifying.”

“You saw Gwen?”

Shawn nodded.

Kate held out her hands. “That’s what has you in such a swivet?”

Shawn nodded again.

“What am I missing here?”

“She was . . .” Shawn made an oblique gesture.

“She was what?”

Shawn held up her hand. “Just trust me on this. You don’t want to know.”

Kate grabbed Shawn by the arm and hauled her away from the door. “I’ll make my own assessment, thank you.” She craned her neck and looked through the peephole. After a moment, she turned to Shawn with an expression of exasperation. “You’re crazy. There’s nothing out there but a hundred miles of bad carpet.”

“Just wait a minute,” Shawn replied. “She’ll be back.”

“Back? Back from where?”

“The ice machine. She was carrying a big bucket full of long necks.”

“Long necks?”

Shawn nodded.

“Really?”

Shawn nodded again.

“Could you tell what kind?” Kate sounded intrigued now.

“I’m not positive, but it looked like PBR.”

“PBR?” Enlightenment spread across Kate’s features. “Interesting. This is definitely gonna be worth watching.” She turned back to the peephole. After another minute, she fluttered a hand back and forth in excitement. “Here she comes,” she whispered. “Oh. My. God.”

Shawn tried to push her aside. “Let me see.”

“Quit shoving me,” Kate hissed. “You’ve already seen her.”

“Come on. I saw her first.” Shawn elbowed her way in so that they both were vying for space in front of the tiny peephole.

“Oh god,” Shawn said. “Is she wearing what I think she’s wearing?”

Kate’s face was millimeters away from hers. Even in her excitement, Shawn didn’t miss that her hair smelled great—like ginger and oranges.

“Yep,” Kate said. “That’s Quinn’s, all right.”

Gwen was walking past Kate’s room, carrying a bucket that was overloaded with beer bottles and ice. Tiny cubes of ice were falling out as she walked along, disappearing into the rust and brown abyss of the carpet. She was wearing an oversized black t-shirt—and nothing else. No pants, no shoes, no nothing. When she passed the door, they could clearly read the message emblazoned across the back of her shirt.

“I guess the bitch fell off,” Shawn whispered.

“Jesus Christ,” Kate muttered. “Is that a dog collar? And what are those bracelet-looking things on her ankles?”

Shawn nudged her. “Excuse me . . . but aren’t you the same woman who reviewed the immortal classic, MILF Money?”

“Fuck you.”

“You know,” Shawn said. “Normally, I’d just refer a detractor like you to my marketing guru, but now I’d worry about your safety.”

“Is that supposed to make me feel better?” Kate asked, turning to her. Their noses were nearly touching.

“Um. Yes?” Shawn wasn’t thinking very clearly right then. Kate’s eyes glowed like Ohio Blue Tips—the kind her grandmother used to use to light the gas burners on her kitchen stove.

“These conferences are notorious for hookups like this,” Kate said. She was still speaking in a whisper, although by now, Gwen was far beyond earshot.

“So I’ve heard.” Shawn had never noticed how beautiful Kate’s mouth was—when it wasn’t spewing vitriol.

“I think behavior like this is contemptible.” She was speaking so low that Shawn was having a hard time hearing her.

“What?” Shawn moved in a little closer. Kate grabbed hold of her arms to avoid falling on her gimpy ankle.

“I said,” Kate whispered. “This kind of behavior is . . .”

“Is what?”

“Contemptible,” Kate said. “It’s contemptible.”

Shawn could feel little wisps of air against her face when Kate spoke. It wasn’t at all unpleasant. “I agree. They should exercise more self-control.”

Kate nodded. The scent from her hair was driving Shawn crazy. It smelled like summer. She wanted to bury her face in it.

“I don’t know why I keep coming to these,” Kate said. “It’s the same thing every year.”

“Maybe you think you’ll get lucky, too?”

Kate raised her eyes to Shawn’s. “Do you think I need to get lucky?”

There was something vaguely coquettish in the way she asked the question. Shawn now felt like she was the one who was unsteady on her feet.

“No,” she said, tugging Kate closer. “That’s not what I think.”

Kate didn’t try to pull away. “What do you think?”

“I think I’m about to violate about twenty-five conflict of interest clauses.” She inched her head forward and lightly kissed, then licked at Kate’s lips. She heard a low-pitched moan, and realized it was coming from one of them. Or maybe it was coming from both of them. It was hard to tell.

Kate was breathing heavily now. “You know,” she ran a hand up Shawn’s arm and along behind her neck, “there was one thing I was curious about when I finished reading your book.”

“And that was?”

Kate tugged her head down and gave her an incendiary kiss. It went on and on. When they finally came up for air, they were leaning heavily against the door. Shawn’s legs felt like rubber, and she was pretty sure Kate’s did, too.

“I wondered,” Kate whispered as she bit Shawn’s earlobe, “what you could possibly come up with as an encore.”

As soon as Shawn commenced showing her, Kate’s legs gave out, and she dropped to the floor for the fourth time that night. Only, this time, there was a soft and willing debut author on hand to break her fall.

Chapter Seven

“WHERE THE HELL have you been?”

Gwen was pissed, and she wasn’t doing much to conceal it.

The opening session was due to start in less than twenty minutes, and Shawn had only just shown up. She was carrying an extra-large cup of coffee and a bagel, and had a dog-eared copy of Bottle Rocket tucked beneath her arm. She hadn’t eaten any breakfast, so she stopped off at the concession area set up at the back of the Indigo Level Ballroom to scare up something to eat.

She hadn’t had time to do much of anything that morning except grab a speed shower and change her clothes. Fortunately for her, the down elevator was more cooperative, and did not stop on every floor.

“I didn’t get much sleep last night,” Shawn apologized. And neither did you, she was tempted to add.

In fact, Gwen didn’t look any the worse for wear, which was surprising, considering the night she’d probably had. Shawn could see some slight discoloration on the parts of her neck that were visible beneath the scarf she wore.

Ewww. Best not to think about that.

“I called your room and texted you about fifty times,” Gwen continued.

Shawn took a bite out of her bagel. “Why? Did the bar run out of vegan wine?”

“Very funny.” Gwen grabbed her by the elbow and pulled her to stand behind a massive potted palm, causing the several shy types who had been lurking there to scurry away like cockroaches fleeing the glare of an overhead light. The hall was really filling up. There were at least two hundred people milling around, and as many already seated.

“You won’t believe who called me this morning.” Gwen’s mood transitioned from pissed to excited. “Go ahead. Guess.”

“The CDC?” Shawn asked.

“No.” Gwen narrowed her eyes. “Why the hell would I get a call from the Center for Disease Control?”

Shawn shrugged. “Blame the CSI marathon I watched all night.”

“Whatever.” Gwen waved a dismissive hand, then she appeared to catch sight of something over Shawn’s shoulder. Her agitation returned, and she manically straightened her scarf. “Don’t look now, but someone very special just entered the hall,” she said in a low voice.

Shawn rolled her eyes. “Who? Barbara Walters?” She took a big sip of her coffee.

Gwen’s eyes grew round. “How’d you know? Damn that blabbermouth Barb Davis. I told her not to tell you.”

Shawn choked and spewed coffee all over the palm. Gwen barely had time to skip out of the way. Shawn’s coughing jag went on and on, and her eyes filled up with tears. Gwen took the steaming cup out of her hand and patted her on the back until she dislodged a partially chewed hunk of bagel.

Shawn wiped at her eyes. “You’ve got to be kidding me.” Her voice was husky.

“Nope. That’s why I kept trying to find you. Her people contacted me last night. They’ve been following your online feud with Kate Winston, and they want to include you two in an upcoming special she’s doing on gay culture for ABC news.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“No, I’m not kidding you. Yes, it’s happening, and with Ba-Ba herself. She happened to be in San Diego this week, so she decided to come by this morning to catch the fireworks.” She lowered her voice. “I’m counting on you to make sure she’s not disappointed. If this goes well, not only will you be on your way to a mainstream publishing career, Kate Winston could very well end up with a recurring slot on Good Morning America.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Gwen sighed. “Do I need to slap you?”

Shawn shook her head. “I think I’m having an out-of-body experience.”

“Trust me. Anyone who can cough up a wad of masticated bread and shoot it halfway across a room the size of an airplane hangar, definitely is not having an out-of-body experience.”

Shawn groaned. Why was this happening now? A thought occurred to her. She looked at Gwen, who was busy scanning the room, probably trying to pinpoint Ba-Ba’s location.

“Does Kate Winston know about this yet?”

Gwen met her eyes. “I’d assume so. Linda Evans was going to give her the happy news.”

Happy news?

If it was such happy news, then why did Shawn suddenly feel so miserable? She didn’t want to spar with Kate. Not anymore, and certainly not on national T.V. Not after last night. Last night had been amazing. Last night had been incredible. Last night had been full of mystery and innovation—a no-holds-barred practicum on lesbian romance. Last night had been like a tour of the romance writer’s ultimate laboratory—a giant petri dish, brimming with hackneyed clichés and overblown conventions that were growing like wild flowers. Last night had laid waste to all of her sanctimonious protestations that mind-blowing sex never happened on a first encounter.

And last night had also been a testament to how many stains a two-ounce packet of mustard could make on a set of hotel sheets.

“What’s the matter with you?” Gwen asked. “I thought you’d be in transports about this. It’s the break we’ve been waiting for.”

Transports? Shawn thought. I’d like to be on a goddamn transport. Out of here, and away from this whole mess.

“I just need a little time to adjust to the news,” she said instead. “And I’m a little nervous about this session.”

Gwen handed the cup of coffee back to her. “You’ll do just fine. If you feel yourself tensing up, just remember everything the bitch said.”

She remembered, all right. The things Kate said to her last night would cause her toes to curl up inside her shoes.

In fact, her toes were curling up right now.

Gwen straightened. “There she is. I gotta go make nice. You get ready to knock her socks off.” She patted Shawn on the arm. “Make us proud.” She walked off so quickly that leaves on the palm rustled in her wake.

Shawn stood there in a daze.

Oy, gevalt.

“SAY THAT AGAIN?” Kate was certain she’d misunderstood Linda.

Her editor had caught up with her just as she was about to limp into one of the hotel’s four thousand Starbucks cafés. The damn things were omnipresent—about as plentiful as the massive potted palms that seemed to be the hallmark of this joint.

“I said Barbara Walters is here to catch the opening session, and ABC News is sniffing around you as a possible weekend contributor to GMA.”

Kate was stunned. “GMA?”

Linda nodded. “How about that? This feud between you and Shawn Harris has been the best thing to happen to lesbian fiction since Radclyffe Hall got her first haircut. It’s a gold mine, Kate, and it’s going to launch both of you into the national spotlight. And the notice you’re bringing to the entire genre will open doors for lots of others, too.”

“I need coffee.”

“You need coffee?” Linda was incredulous. “This is your reaction? You need coffee?”

Kate looked at her in a daze. “If you want something more dramatic, I could probably throw up on your shoes.”

Linda took her by the arm and hauled her inside the small lobby café. It took her a moment to notice that Kate was walking unsteadily. “What’s wrong with your leg?”

“It’s not my leg, it’s my ankle. I twisted it last night in the gym.” Kate held up a hand to forestall Linda’s further expressions of concern. “It’s not that bad, I promise.”

“Well, shit. Let’s find you a place to sit down. I’ll get us some coffee.”

Kate nodded.

“Try to relax.” Linda glanced at her watch. “We’ve got about twenty-five minutes before show time.”

Kate plopped down on the first unoccupied sofa she came to. She didn’t even bother to brush the ubiquitous trail of crumbs off its stiff cushions.

Oh god. This was not happening. Not now. Not this way.

“Do you want something to eat?” Linda asked. “You do look pretty green around the gills.”

Kate looked up at her. “What?” She had no idea what Linda had just said.

“Food,” Linda repeated. “Do you want something to eat?”

Kate shook her head. “No. Thanks. Just coffee.”

Linda nodded and walked off toward the counter. Kate watched her go.

“Extra hot,” she called out.

Linda stopped and turned around. “Is that it?”

“Venti.”

“Okaaayyy.” Linda turned back toward the waiting barista.

“With an extra shot.”

“Right.” Linda called over her shoulder.

“No cream.”

Linda stopped and faced her.

“Seriously?”

Kate shrugged.

“Anything else?”

Kate thought about it. “Maybe a biscotti?”

Linda sighed. “Okay.”

“But not one of the chocolate ones.”

“Kate,” Linda said with more than a trace of annoyance, “is your goal to get me to throw up on my own shoes? If so, you’re doing great.”

“Sorry,” Kate apologized. “I’m a little off my game this morning.”

“Well, try to calm down. We need to focus.” She glanced at her watch again. “Now let me get us some coffee before we run out of time.”

Kate nodded, and Linda walked off.

Oh my god, she thought. Why is this happening now?

The night with Shawn had been amazing. Surreal. It changed the entire landscape of her life in ways she never would have believed possible. By mutual consent, they had agreed to bury the hatchet—publicly. But now? Now what?

And what did Shawn know about this? Anything? They had only parted about an hour ago, and neither of them had bothered to check their messages. They’d been too . . . preoccupied to care.

And she had a headache, to boot. It was from that damn second bottle of wine they drank. Something horrible that had been in the CLIT-Con welcome basket. Who in the hell thought it was a good idea to buy wine from a vineyard in Indiana?

Her head was spinning. She needed to talk with Shawn. She looked over her shoulder at the counter. Linda was still standing there, bent over the glass cabinet, pointing to some kind of confection.

She pulled out her cell phone and typed a quick message.

Kate Winston

Where are you?

Ten seconds later, her phone buzzed.

Shawn Harris

I’m in the ballroom. I’ve been looking all over for you.

Kate Winston

We HAVE to talk.

Shawn Harris

No shit, Sherlock! Have you heard the news?

Kate Winston

Yes! I’m with Linda right now.

Shawn Harris

What the hell are we going to do?

Kate Winston

The only thing we CAN do. We’re going to have to go through with it.

Shawn Harris

Oh shit. What if I came down with something?

Kate Winston

Like what???

Shawn Harris

I don’t know . . . how about Legionnaire’s Disease?

Kate Winston

Shawn . . .

Shawn Harris

Hey . . . I’m doing the best I can on short notice.

Kate Winston

Right.

Shawn Harris

I mean it!

Kate Winston

Face it, Sparky . . . we’re going to have to go through with it.

Shawn Harris

How? It’s fucking Barbara Walters.

Kate Winston

I know.

Shawn Harris

Okay, genius. What’s your plan?

Kate Winston

I don’t HAVE a plan. We’re just going to have to give them what they want.

Shawn Harris

You mean continue to pretend that we hate each other?

Kate Winston

Yes. According to Linda, the success of the entire lesbian publishing world now hinges on the media circus generated by our feud.

Shawn Harris

Give me a break!

Kate Winston

I think that’s precisely what this is, Sparky: a BIG break—for each of us.

Shawn Harris

Are you sure?

Kate thought about that. Was she sure? It was what they both wanted. They’d talked about it last night, while they drank that nasty Indiana wine. Shawn said that her ultimate fantasy—besides the one or two more esoteric ones they’d already satisfied—was to write a crossover novel that would have equal appeal to a mainstream audience. Kate confessed that her goal was to become a regular columnist for one of the leading media syndicates.

She looked up. Linda was on her way back with a tray containing two cups of coffee and some kind of enormous sugarcoated something.

Kate Winston

Yes. I’m sure. Look . . . Linda is coming. I gotta go.

Shawn Harris

Okay. I guess we’ll find out. Hey, Poodle?

Kate Winston

Yes, Sparky?

Shawn Harris

I had a great time last night.

Kate smiled. She felt like a schoolgirl who’d just been passed a note on the bus.

Kate Winston

Me, too.

Now it just remained to see what they could make of it.

She tucked her phone back into her shoulder bag and waited on Linda.

Barbara Walters. Good god.

Chapter Eight

CRICKET MACBEAN, THE moderator of the Con’s opening session, was a tough, no-nonsense ex-Army nurse who took no prisoners. That’s why Barb Davis chose her for this impossible assignment. Cricket was the editor of a prestigious series of lesbian fiction anthologies. She knew everybody and took shit from nobody. Barb described her as an unrepentant M*A*S*H nurse on steroids, and that made her the perfect candidate to manage a session that was sure to become a raucous, free-for-all.

The hall was packed. Late last night, Con organizers had begged, pleaded, and cajoled their way into one of the hotel’s largest ballrooms after Barb found out that three busses loaded with Sapphic book clubbers were en route to San Diego from Portland—the lesbian mecca of the great northwest. Fortunately, hotel personnel were able to move the “Honoring Your Marriage Vows In Accordance With Biblical Principles” group into a smaller venue down the hall. More than one Hilton employee expressed concern about the wisdom of the last minute change and worried that no amount of signage would be sufficient to keep the two groups separated.

It was anybody’s guess. In any case, it was Cricket’s problem now.

At the crack of ten, she banged her gavel, and the Plenary Session of the Fourteenth Annual Creative Literary Insights and Trends Conference was underway. After some opening announcements the two antagonists were introduced, and the hall erupted into a cacophony of applause, cat calls, wolf whistles, and boos.

Kate and Shawn were seated on opposite sides of a riser located at the front of the giant meeting space. Cricket stood between them. The feisty redhead barely topped the tall podium, but made up for it in attitude as she laid out the rules of engagement.

“Go ahead and get this noise out of your systems,” she shouted over the din. “Because once we get started, there won’t be any more of these outbursts. If you don’t think you can conduct yourselves appropriately, I invite you to collect your crullers and leave.” She stood, stone-faced, until the whooping and hollering quieted to a titter.

Cricket looked out at the crowd over the rims of her half-eye glasses.

“Welcome to our opening session, ‘The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly: Dealing with Negative Reviews.’ Our two special guests are Shawn Harris, author of the bestselling novel Bottle Rocket, and Kate Winston, blogger and book critic for the online journal, Gilded Lily. After brief opening remarks, we’ll get the ball rolling with a few prepared questions. Then we’ll open it up to the audience. There are two microphones up here on stands at opposite sides of the stage. If I call on you, please come forward to ask your question. There will be only one question at a time—no exceptions. Is everyone clear about how this will work?”

There were nods all around the room.

“Good.” Cricket turned to Shawn. “Shawn, if you would be so kind? Step forward and start us off.”

Shawn stood up and approached the center of the stage to a thunderous round of applause. Cricket allowed it to continue for about twenty seconds, then shut it down by slamming her gavel repeatedly on the podium.

Shawn stepped up to take Cricket’s place behind the mike and looked out over the sea of faces.

“Thanks, Cricket,” she said. “And thank you to the organizers of this conference for giving me the opportunity to be here with all of you today. Thanks, too, to our colleague, Kate Winston, for agreeing to participate in this important discussion.” She placed her notecards down on the slanted top of the podium. “Bottle Rocket is a novel about the futility and emptiness of a life without aspirations, and the salvation that is borne of strength and hope.”

With those words, the San Diego CLIT-Con commenced its fabled journey toward myth, legend, and forty-two cases of aggravated assault.

THINGS WERE HEATING up.

The questions were getting more and more fractious, and Cricket was banging her gavel with more energy and frequency. Kate was certain she’d heard the sound of wood splintering during that last round of frenzied hammering.

A frizzy-haired zealot wearing snakeskin jackboots was at the mike right now, demanding to know why Gilded Lily hadn’t fired Kate’s ass for maligning the integrity of one of the “best writers in all of lesfic.”

In fact, Kate would have been hard-pressed to explain that one herself.

As discreetly as she could, she sent Shawn a text message. They’d been communicating this way pretty much since the start of the session.

Kate Winston

What is it with your fans and the funky-ass footwear?

Shawn Harris

Python is very hot this year.

Kate Winston

How the hell am I supposed to respond to this question?

Shawn Harris

Hand her off to Linda. All she’s doing is sitting there in the front row, pretending not to stare at Barbara Walters.

Kate Winston

GREAT idea! Sparky?

Shawn Harris

Yes, Poodle?

Kate Winston

You know what else is hot this year?

Shawn Harris

Enlighten me.

Kate Winston

You are.

Shawn Harris

Oh, gosh . . . Eraserhead. You say the sweeeeeetest things.

Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!

Kate jumped and nearly dropped her cell phone.

Cricket was smacking the podium so hard that shards of wood were flying up around her head like sparks from an acetylene torch. The noise in the hall was getting out of control again. Members of the pro-Kate faction were trying to drown out Ms. Python Boots by banging empty Frappucino bottles against their tabletops, causing the pro-Shawn types to retaliate by pelting the drummers with some of the cellophane-wrapped Starlight mints that sat in bowls on each table.

CLIT-Con was famous for cheap candy.

“This behavior is unacceptable!” Cricket yelled into the microphone. “Take your seats right now, or we’ll clear the room!”

A red- and white-striped mint whizzed by her ear.

“I saw that, Vivien.” Cricket was fuming. “There will be no more of these sophomoric shenanigans, or partisan grandstanding. Do you understand me? Do not request to ask a question or make a comment unless you can behave with dignity and professionalism.” She cast her eyes over the assembly, and the scores of raised hands. “You . . . standing there against the back wall? Do you have something appropriate to share?”

A well-dressed woman, wearing stilettos and black-patterned hose, nodded and slowly made her way to the front of the room. A chorus of catcalls followed her.

Kate Winston

Who in the hell is THAT?

Shawn Harris

Beats me . . . maybe there’s a breakout session on how to improve your drag.

The questioner reached the microphone and held up a thick, leather-bound book.

“I didn’t realize at first that I had stumbled into the wrong meeting room,” she explained. “Although I did wonder why there were so many men with bad haircuts in here. Then I realized that I wasn’t at the right meeting at all, and that this room was filled with sodomites.”

A cascade of boos grew up around her. She just talked louder.

“The Lord sent me here today for a reason . . . to tell you all that Leviticus 18:22 says ye shall not lie with a man as with a woman.”

“You got that right, sister,” someone yelled from the side of the room.

“Order!” Cricket slammed her gavel.

“Not unless he buys my ass dinner first.”

“I said, come to order,” Cricket repeated.

“Don’t knock it until you’ve tried it, honey.”

“That’s enough.” Cricket walked around to the front of her podium. “The next person who speaks out of turn will be forcibly evicted from this hall.” She gestured wildly at two hotel security guards who were stationed near the rear exit.

“Fuck that shit. It’s a free country.”

Cricket strode to the edge of the stage and pointed her gavel at a very large woman wearing ripped jeans and a white t-shirt with a bright purple labrys on it.

“My session. My rules.”

“Kiss my ass.”

“I’d love to, Cinderella,” Cricket replied. “But in your case, that would be an all day job, and we only have the room until eleven-thirty.”

The big bull dyke boiled over. “Fuck you, Loretta Swit!”

She grabbed a bagel loaded with cream cheese off the plate in front of her and let it fly in a fast-pitch throw that would’ve put Dot Richardson to shame. The white-topped disc sailed across the room with pinpoint accuracy and nailed Cricket squarely between the eyes. There was a collective gasp in the hall as the thing hung there, briefly frozen in time, before it slid down Cricket’s face.

Cricket caught the bagel in her hand when it dropped from her chin.

She licked some of the cream cheese off her lips. “Chives,” she said, hefting the half-eaten thing up and down. “Everybody knows that I. Hate. Chives.”

Cricket exploded off the stage like a heat-seeking red projectile and crashed through half-a-dozen rows of attendees to reach her target.

“Incoming!” she roared as she slammed, full-throttle, into her assailant. “This’ll shut you up, bitch!” She smashed the bagel into the woman’s face and smeared the cream cheese all over her.

“Fight!” someone screamed.

“Get this crazy cunt off me,” the woman beneath Cricket hollered.

Two bystanders tried without success to pull Cricket away.

“I will not be insulted,” she screamed.

“They’re attacking the moderator,” someone yelled. “Let’s get ’em, girls.”

The two-dozen women who had been upended in Cricket’s charge slapped and shoved at one another as they tried to untangle themselves from the heap of arms and legs they ended up in.

“Get your damn chair off my foot.”

“Get your damn foot out of my crotch.”

“Get your damn crotch out of my face.”

“Get your damn hands off my boobs.”

“Oh, my bad.”

“Jesus, Viv . . .”

“Sorry.”

The Honoring-Your-Marriage-Vows-In–Accordance-With-Biblical-Principles zealot still had possession of the microphone.

“Infidels,” she droned on. “Lilith’s. Jezebels. Turn from your sick and unnatural paths.”

“Somebody cut her goddamn mike!” Barb Davis had fought her way to the front of the room. “And for god’s sake, get Barbara Walters out of here.” She looked around. “Where are those fucking security guards?”

She cast about for Shawn and Kate, but they were nowhere to be seen. “God fucking damn it. Now we’ve lost our headliners, too.”

She saw Quinn Glatfelter standing next to one of the accordion walls used to divide the space into smaller venues. She was wrangling five women at the same time. They were hissing and spitting like Copperheads. It was hard to tell whether or not this activity was related to the riot . . . with Quinn, you never really knew for sure.

“Quinn,” she yelled over the din. “Quinn!”

Quinn heard her and looked her way.

“Drop the bimbos and come get Barbara Walters out of here.”

Quinn looked confused.

Barb pointed furiously toward the riser where Barbara Walters and her cameraman huddled with Linda Evans and Gwen Carlisle. They all seemed to be arguing about something. Gwen kept grabbing the arm of Barbara’s cameraman, trying to get him to film something at the back of the room, and Linda was shaking her head in obvious disagreement. Barbara Walters just looked . . . like Barbara Walters. Poised, fascinated, and in complete control.

The cameraman just kept rolling. The red light on top of his Sony swung back and forth across the room like a neon metronome.

All Barb cared about was getting the celebrity news anchor and talk show host out of there before she got clocked by a flying chair. She’d signed a damage waiver when they rented the hotel space, and this effing brawl was going to bankrupt CLIT-Con’s coffers for years to come—probably forever. She couldn’t risk a personal injury lawsuit on top of it.

Quinn finally understood what Barb was asking her to do. When she recognized the famous T.V. personality, she nodded and gave Barb a big, toothy smile. With a flick of both wrists, she sent all five of her hostages sprawling. In seconds, she’d plowed her way across the room and stopped at the foot of the riser where Linda and Gwen were vying to direct the cameraman. She saw Quinn say something to Barbara Walkers, who just looked . . . intrigued. Then Quinn grabbed Walters by the waist and tossed her over her massive shoulder in a ludicrous parody of a fireman’s carry.

Barb just closed her eyes and looked away. There was no way this could get any worse.

Six anemic-looking hotel security guards with bad acne and baggy polyester pants were finally picking their way down what was left of the center aisle toward Barb.

Wrong, she thought. It just got worse.

“We’re gonna need some backup,” one of them called out.

“You think?” Barb replied.

“Chair!” They all ducked. A bright yellow bag chair—one of the deluxe models with two cup-holders and a canopy—flew overhead.

“Dude? Where’d that come from?” the youngest of them asked. He looked like Wally Cleaver.

“Jesus Christ.” Barb sighed and walked to a pile of upended chairs. She carefully selected one, righted it, sat down, crossed her legs, fished her Zippo out of her shirt pocket, and proceeded to light up a smoke. The melee raged all around her. She shook her head. “This is like fucking Dodge City on a Saturday night.”

Well, she thought, as she took another long drag off her cigarette, at least they got Tammy Faye Bakker off the microphone. She looked around. But where is that fucking music coming from?

She shrugged and settled back into her chair at the center of the maelstrom, smoking her Camel and listening to the hotel’s lovely Muzak rendition of “The Girl From Ipanema.”

SHAWN AND KATE bolted off the stage right after Cricket decided to use it as a launch pad and huddled behind a cluster of potted palms.

“What’s happening now?” Kate asked.

A chair sailed by and crashed into a table loaded with glasses and pitchers of ice water.

“Shit!” Shawn tugged her closer. “I think this is what’s called a good, old-fashioned brawl.”

Kate ducked as a container of yogurt flew through the palm fronds above her head and landed with a splat on the floor behind them. “Does it occur to you that we never got a chance to answer a single question?”

“Yeah. It seems pretty clear that they didn’t really need us for this shindig.”

“Who knew?”

“I’m actually pretty relieved.”

“You mean because we didn’t have to disembowel each other on stage in front of fifteen hundred of our peers?”

“Shit!” Shawn clawed at something that had just dropped from the air and landed on her head. “What the fuck is this?” She pulled it off and held it up.

It was a bra . . . a very commodious bra.

Kate lifted up one of the cups. It was the size of a soup tureen. “Well. In case of a water evacuation, we could always use this as a lifeboat.”

Shawn was mesmerized. “I think I’m in love.”

Kate grabbed the garment out of her hands and tossed it back into the air. “One preoccupation at a time.”

“Yes, dear.”

“Do you have any ideas about how we can get the hell out of here?” Kate asked.

Shawn nodded. “I think there might be an exit over there behind the . . .”

“Behind the what?” Kate asked.

Shawn didn’t answer. She was staring off into space with her mouth hanging open. Kate snapped her fingers. Twice. “Hello? Anybody home?”

Shawn looked at her. “Oh, you so won’t believe this.”

“What?”

“Look at what’s headed our way.” Shawn pointed at something over Kate’s shoulder.

Kate twisted herself around so she could see what Shawn was talking about.

“Oh. My. God.”

“Yeah.”

“Please tell me she’s not carrying who I think she’s carrying.”

Quinn Glatfelter was headed their way, and she had a woman slung over her shoulder like a hundred-pound sack of cornmeal.

“Is that Barbara Walters?” Shawn whispered.

Kate just nodded.

“Oh, god,” Shawn said. “There goes that mainstream publishing contract.”

Kate closed her eyes. It was too horrible to watch.

“There goes that GMA gig,” she added.

Quinn was making a beeline for a service exit. She was nearly out of the room when she saw something that made her stop abruptly and turn around, her back to Shawn and Kate. Barbara Walters just hung there, calmly, with every hair still in place. She seemed almost relaxed—as if the fact that she was hanging upside down against the back of a BDSM butch biker was nothing out of the ordinary.

Quinn took two steps sideways and removed something that was dangling from a wall sconce, then she turned back around and continued on her way toward the service exit.

“What the hell did she pick up?” Shawn asked.

Kate squinted her eyes. “Oh, god.”

“What?”

Kate looked at her. “It’s that damn dog collar.”

Shawn looked at her in horror. She looked back at the pair as they headed for the service door. Barbara Walters had pushed herself out away from Quinn’s back and seemed to be studying something written on her t-shirt.

“Oh,” Barbara Walters observed, as Quinn carried her past Shawn and Kate. “You use Astroglide?”

Two seconds later, the entire place erupted into an ear-splitting chorus of whistles and bullhorns.

The San Diego Police had arrived, and this party was coming to an end.

Epilogue

“THAT HAD TO be a first date for the record books.”

It was dark and quiet, and the only light in the room was coming from someplace down the hall.

Shawn leaned her forehead against Kate’s. “I know.”

“Never let it be said that you don’t know how to show a lady a good time.”

“I try my best.”

Kate yawned. “I’m really beat.”

“It’s been quite a day.”

Kate smiled. “It’s been quite a damn year.”

“Well,” Shawn tried to pull her closer, “tie a knot and hang on, cause I don’t think it’s over yet.”

“When are you going back to Charlotte?”

“Tuesday. After Gwen and I meet with Simon & Schuster in New York.”

Kate shook her head. “I still can’t believe that happened—especially after the riot.”

“Well, to quote my mentor: ‘I don’t care what they say about me as long as they spell my name right.’”

“Barbara Streisand?”

“Nope.”

“P.T. Barnum?”

“Nuh uh.”

“Lady Gaga?”

“Not even close.”

“Charlie the Tuna?”

Shawn drew back and looked at her in disbelief. “Charlie the Tuna? Seriously?”

Kate shrugged. “Okay. I give up.”

“George M. Cohan.”

“George M. Cohan? The annoying song and dance man?”

“That’s the one.”

“The Yankee Doodle Dandy guy?”

Shawn nodded.

“Oh, god.” Kate threw back her head. “You really are a nerd, aren’t you?”

“Yep. Think you can handle it? I mean, now that you’re going to be this hot, T.V. star?”

Kate rolled her eyes. “I’m not hot, and I’m certainly not going to be a T.V. star.”

“That’s not what they’re saying about you on TMZ.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Viv told me that TMZ was sniffing around to get you to appear on an episode of Women Behind Bars.”

“Viv told you this?”

Shawn nodded. “She also said that Barbara Walters was going to host it.”

Kate shook her head. “Where does this woman get her information? She’s got a faster network than Verizon.”

“Still,” Shawn said, “Barbara Walters ended up being a pretty class act.”

“You can say that again. I never expected ABC to follow through with that weekend gig after what happened at the Con.”

“Are you kidding? That video her cameraman shot went viral in about two seconds. ABC has had its highest ratings week in years.”

“True.”

“And having Ba-Ba wear a ‘FREE THE C.L.I.T. CONS!’ t-shirt on World News Tonight didn’t hurt, either.”

Shawn laughed. “Barb Davis said they’d sold enough of those to cover all of the damages to the hotel.”

“I know. They even had enough coin left to purchase the rights to the riot video from ABC. It’s already number one at the iTunes store.”

Shawn laughed. “So. Is GMA gonna let you film your weekend segments in Atlanta?”

Kate gave Shawn a slow, sexy smile. “And anyplace else I might happen to be.”

“Oh, really?” Shawn kissed her.

“Um hmmm. Anything going on in Charlotte that might be worth looking into?”

There was a loud metallic bang, and the dark room suddenly filled up with bright yellow light.

Moans and groans and cries of “What the fuck?” and “Turn off the goddamn lights,” rose up around them. The big barred door at the front of their cell rolled back and locked into place with a thud so resounding it made the floor shake.

“Rise and shine, ladies,” a big voice bellowed. “Come on . . . come on. Wake up.” A nightstick rapped on the undersides of metal-framed cots. “Let’s get it in gear, girls. You’re outta here.”

“Final-fucking-ly.”

“Now you want us to leave? Why the hell didn’t you let us go thirty-six damn hours ago?”

“I thought checkout time was at ten-thirty?”

“Shut up, Viv.”

“Fuck you, Towanda. And get your stinky feet off my cot.”

“Where’s my damn bolo tie?”

“Anybody up for hitting that iHop we passed on the van ride when they brought us in here? I’m Jonesing for some pancakes.”

“Stow the commentary.” The big-bosomed matron was losing patience. “Just get your pampered dyke asses up and outta here. The WNBA is in town tonight, and we’re gonna need this space.”

“Hey?” Darien Black stood up and pulled on her leather jacket. “How’d we make bail?”

“Yeah,” Viv chimed in. “That D.A. said we’d be cooling our heels in here for at least seventy-two hours.”

“Right,” Darien added. “The other twenty-eight brawlers who got arrested were charged and released in six damn hours.”

The matron snorted. “You didn’t make bail, honey, you just got lucky.”

Kate and Shawn looked at each other.

“Lucky?” Shawn asked. “How, exactly, did we get lucky?”

“Let’s just say that one of your girlfriends held the key.” The matron laughed at her own joke. “The church key, if you get my drift.”

Kate looked around the lockup. “Anybody seen V. Jay-Jay?”

“I’m over here,” came a voice from outside the cell.

A baker’s dozen of the world’s bestselling lesbian authors turned in unison to look at V. Jay-Jay Singh, who calmly sauntered into their cell, sipping on a frosty Modelo.

“Where the hell have you been?” Towanda demanded.

“Now, now. Don’t go looking a gift horse in the mouth, Wanda.”

“Oh, good god . . .” Viv raised her eyes to the dingy ceiling. “Don’t tell me that you got us out?”

V. Jay-Jay smiled sweetly at her. “You wanna tell them, Mavis?”

The big matron rolled her eyes.

“Every Friday night, the boys upstairs play poker. Every third Friday night, they play poker with the night shift crews from four other precincts.”

Shawn knew where this was going. “Let me guess . . . this is the third Friday?”

Mavis nodded. “Yep. And the only thing them boys like more than playing cards is drinking beer. Lots and lots of beer.”

“In bottles?” Kate asked.

Mavis shook her head. “Not usually. But tonight, Sgt. Koslovsky had six cases of designer shit in bottles left over from his daughter’s wedding. There was just one problem.”

“Oh, god.” Kate closed her eyes.

“No opener?” Shawn asked.

“Until she showed up.” Mavis pointed at V. Jay-Jay with her nightstick. “Crazy ass rug munchers.”

“Ladies?” V. Jay-Jay lifted her leg and brought her foot down hard on the seat of a nearby wooden chair. A shower of metal bottle caps rained down on the floor. “Welcome to freedom.”

LATER THAT NIGHT, over coffee, cheese blintzes, and short stacks of pancakes, Vivien K. O’Reilly remarked that this was the first time V. Jay-Jay Singh ever got thirteen women off at the same time.

Thus was born the immortal legend.

The sisterhood clinked coffee mugs, knowing that future generations of lesbian authors would forever refer to them as “The CLIT-Con 13.”

About the Author

Ann McMan is a writer by day, and a closet librarian by night.

She was born in the mountains of Pennsylvania, but spent much of her childhood below sea level in northern Delaware. She now lives halfway between the mountains and the sea in central North Carolina, but dreams of one day relocating to Vermont—where the colder climate might help her keep better.

When she isn’t working, writing, or rereading Pride and Prejudice, she’s cruising the circulation desk of her local public library—hoping to be discovered.

Ann is the author of Jericho, Dust, and Sidecar.