"Look, his last book—a lot of shitty reviews. Overall, three stars. That's not good. Have you read some of the reviews?"
Her ramblings about how Edwin doesn't take criticism well fade into the background as I think about what she's saying. It would be stupid to walk away, but to be honest, I don't know if I can handle him. He's volatile, and seeing as how I idolize him, any condescending remark he makes, well, it cuts my already battered and fragile ego to shreds.
A man settles in across the bar from us, leaning over the bar top and snapping to get the bartender's attention. He takes a quick survey of the bar, his eyes momentarily stopping on me. We hold eye contact for just a moment, but it's long enough for me to pick up on something all too familiar to me—sadness, a sense of being lost. In that brief look, we connect, and I know that he wishes he could be anywhere but here—that he's uncomfortable in his own skin.
"Think about him, how he is," Janine continues on, and I try to focus on her. "Do you know how hard those reviews have been for him? The amount of stress that man is under to have his next book receive good ratings? I’m afraid he’s going to snap at any moment. Really, he’s like a ticking time bomb and…"
My attention veers back to the man now tipping back a beer. His dark gray shirt clings to his arms, his chest. Fuck. His defined jaw is covered in stubble. He must feel me studying him because he nervously glances in my direction as he takes another slow sip from his bottle. I guarantee that man doesn't like attention. I bet it makes him nervous, and I’m almost positive I’m right because attention makes me nervous, so much so that I’ve debated on how I would actually handle it if I were to ever become a famous author. A pseudonym. Never do interviews. Possibly even try to pass as a male—male authors tend to be taken more seriously anyway.
The bartender says something to him, and he smiles. And that smile, with those dimples… well, it pulls me from my worrisome thoughts of how I’d handle fame. As if I need to worry about that anyway…
Janine clears her throat, and I glance back at her with my cheeks flaming. Arching her brow, she shakes her head. "He's in rare form lately because of it, I can promise you that. You, unfortunately, are getting the worst side of him I’ve seen in years. I promise, you just learn how to deal with him, and you will not regret it."
"Yeah… I don't know. I just need to…" My gaze drifts back to the guy at the bar, and I have to consciously force my attention back to Janine.
She turns on the stool to look behind her, shaking her head and laughing before she faces me again. "Just think about it before you make a decision, Miranda." She stands, smoothing out her shirt as she grabs her purse from the back of the chair. "I'm going to go outside and make a call to the publisher. You stay here and…" She nods at the guy in gray. "Get yourself another drink, would you?”
"I really don't—"
"You really do. Unwind some. Take a little while to think it all over. I’ll just be outside on the phone arguing for the next half hour anyway. You don’t want to listen to that carnage, I promise." She gives the stranger at the end of the bar another fleeting glance, smiles at me, then heads to the door.
Fucking great. I watch her walk off, her hips swaying as she snakes between the men crowded around the bar. One wolf whistles, and she flips him the bird.
This entire ordeal is putting me so far out of my comfort zone it's ridiculous. I hate people. I hate crowds. I order two more shots. The bartender places them front of me, not even bothering to make eye contact before he trots off.
I grab one of the shots, rubbing my thumb over the curve of the glass. Worthless… I replay the disdain in Edwin's tone when he said that, and I cringe right before I down the shot, then the next one as I watch that stranger eye me from the other end of the bar. For whatever reason, I keep staring at him, pretending I can be that girl—a girl like Janine—a girl like I was when I met Edwin for coffee. I can be that girl who flirts with a guy and fucks him, knowing it’ll never mean anything. I pretend to be the girl I would write about in my books because deep down inside, I know I'm not going to actually speak to him. Or maybe I will. Few people have ever intrigued me. And he does. That has to mean something…
“Pain is a Gift”—Trade Wind