Let's Be Frank (39 page)

Betty glares at me for my perceived encouragement, but now that she’s here and I’m not as worried about what these chick lit junkies want from me, I can’t help but see how ridiculous the situation is, and I’m starting to have fun with it.

Betty doesn’t appear to be sharing my delight. “You don’t have any business up here, and I’ll be complaining to hotel and conference security for this,” she informs the women.

I put a hand on her arm. “Well, they’re here now, so…” I reach toward the women’s electronic readers. “… hand ’em over. But, please, don’t tell anyone my room number. I really need to get some… stuff… done, and I won’t be able to do that if people are knocking on my door all night. Right?”

They nod in unison.

“Plus,” I continue, feeling a lot more confident and finally finding my Frank feet, “it’s much better if you three are the only ones to get these exclusive pre-conference autographs, don’t you think?”

Lefty’s nodding so hard, I’m worried her head’s going to fall off and roll down the hall toward the elevators. The other two simply giggle and blush and hand me their e-readers in turn.

Emboldened by their success, the woman in the middle thrusts a phone at Betty. “Can you take a picture of Frank with the three of us? Pleeeeaase?”

Betty snorts. “Absolutely not!” She tries to hand the phone back to the woman, who steps away. For a minute, I think Betty’s going to throw the device or drop it on the ground and stomp on it, but she helplessly holds it at arm’s length, shaking it insistently in the owner’s direction, to no avail.

What would Frank do? What would Frank do?

I shoot them regretful winces. “Gosh, guys… I don’t know. It’s been a long day, and—”

“Oh, please?? You look great. You’re so cute! Even cuter in person than in your author photo. Just one picture?”

I consult Betty, who widens her eyes and tilts her head in a
“Don’t even think about it”
silent message. Frank wouldn’t let his manager/agent/whatever boss him around in front of a group of fans.

I pass the phone owner’s newly-signed, pink-covered Kindle back to her and stand between her and Lefty. “Aw, c’mon, Betty. Be a sport,” I tease with a wink. “Just one little picture.”

Betty scowls at me but aims the camera-phone at the four of us and takes a hasty snapshot. “There. Now go.” She commands, practically tossing the device across the hall.

Before I step away from them, Righty sneaks in a hasty peck on my cheek, knocking Frank’s glasses askew. She smells like expensive whale piss… er, I mean, perfume. I hide my surprise at the kiss with a cocky laugh, like this happens to me all the time.

“Thank you for being such a gentleman!” the kisser gushes, moving reluctantly down the hall with her friends, who are tittering their way to the elevators.

Straightening the glasses on my nose, I give her a flirty finger wave before a firm tug on my arm pulls me backwards into my hotel room, and the door slams behind me.

“Oh, man… I almost blew that,” I say with a laugh, wiping lipstick from my cheek while turning to confront a stone-faced Betty.

“Any of them would have been happy to return the favor.”

“What?”

“Never mind,” she mutters, flouncing on the bed. She lies on her stomach, staring out the sliding doors to the tiny balcony, which overlooks the indoor pool seven floors below.

A bit more gently and gracefully, I take up a similar pose next to her on the bed. “Are you mad because I suck at being Frank? I… I… I couldn’t keep in mind that I was him and not me! I’ve been practicing in here, but it’s not the same. I forgot how hard it is to stay in character. And they weren’t like the women at the signings. Those ladies in the hallway were so… so… aggressive!”

“And hot.”

I’m not going to insult her intelligence by denying that, but only an idiot would verbally agree with someone who points out something in such a derisive tone, so I say nothing. When I simply stare down at the pool, she continues, more softly, “And you didn’t blow it. Although… you were probably more enthusiastic than Frank would have been. He’s a loner, after all.”

“True. But you couldn’t tell I was afraid?”

“Afraid of springing a stiffy in front of three strangers?”

I nudge her with my shoulder and laugh. “No! I was too scared for that.”

“Yeah, well, I’m not kidding about complaining to hotel management about this. That’s a major safety issue. There are crazy people out there!”

“What’s crazy is that crazy people would want to do crazy things to someone, just because they’ve read a few books with his picture on them.”

“Yeah, some people need to get a life.”

“Betts…”

She turns her head to look at me. The uncontrollable “stiffy” she accused me of nearly springing in the hallway threatens to make an appearance when I think too much about her lying next to me on the bed, and I lose my train of thought.

“What?” she prods while I try to think of the most un-sexy images possible. Frankie’s refrigerator pops immediately to mind.

I lick my lips, roll away from Betty, and sit on the edge of the mattress. “Uh… Is it already time for dinner?” I pull my phone from my pocket and see it’s only been about ninety minutes since we’ve arrived.

“It can be. I was dozing off when I heard all the noise you guys were making in the hall. Forget sleeping now. I guess I could eat. Oh, in other news, I called the conference organizers and told them you’d like a look around tonight. It occurred to me they may not let people wander around the convention areas, if they’re still setting stuff up.”

“Good thinking.”

She taps her head. “It’s not just a platform for gorgeous hair. And it’s a good thing I asked. At first, I didn’t think he was going to let us, but when I mentioned Frank’s name, he got a lot friendlier.”

“What time is our meeting with him?”

“Eight.”

Again, I look at the time on my phone. “Okay. Let me freshen—er… do some things before we head downstairs.”

While I’m crossing the threshold into the bathroom, she stops me with, “Hey.”

I turn around. “Hm?”

“You handled yourself great out there.” She bobs her head back toward the room’s door. “If you keep that up, you’ll be fine.”

A grin bursts onto my face. I hope it doesn’t look as goofy as it feels. “Thanks!”

“You’re welcome. And what about me? Did I nail the role of the pushy, cranky manager?”

“Oh, that was an act?”

Reaching behind her, she grabs one of the pillows from my bed and hurls it at me while I laugh and sidestep the flying bedding. “You were perfect,” I say more seriously.

She pushes herself into a sitting position, then stands and stretches. A sliver of belly peeks out at me, drawing my eyes inexorably to it. And that’s when I see the unmistakable silver-and-pink, faded stretch marks. Too late, my eyes snap back to her face, which pales, then reddens.

So I do what any brave, mature man would do: I say something about needing to “tinkle,” rush into the bathroom, and slam the door.

Chapter Twenty-Six

We’re such amateurs at this. And we’re never going to get better at it, since this is our last “gig.” But like morons, we chose to eat at one of the restaurants on the resort’s premises, so we hardly had a moment to ourselves at dinner. Betty eventually summoned a manager to try to keep people away so we could eat. By then, though, it was getting close to our meeting time with the conference organizers, so there was no time for talking, only eating. Fast eating. It probably saved us (okay, me) some awkward silences and conversational dead-ends, but it wasn’t good for ingestion or digestion.

I stifle heartburn burps as we make our way from the restaurant to the convention rooms.

On our way past the front desk, Betty slows. “You go ahead. George should be wandering around in there, and he’s expecting you. I need to put the fear of God into someone about security issues.”

I swallow, glad I’m not the desk clerk or the hotel manager, as I watch Betty stride to the counter, her head high, shoulders back. Someone’s about to get the ass-chewing of their life. I’d feel bad about that, but the idea of having gaggles of giggly women knocking on my door all weekend horrifies me enough to assuage my guilt. It’s for the greater good.
My
greater good, granted. But still…

So I don’t have to witness the bloodbath, I obey Betty and follow the arrows on the signs already set up for tomorrow’s events. The first room into which I poke my head contains an endless sea of white cloth-covered tables with authors’ names tacked to the front and stacks of books and swag covering the tables. Ooh… the meet-and-greet room. And there’s my table smack dab in the middle of it all. Awesome. I’m getting claustrophobic just looking at it.

I clear my throat and cough, reminding myself I still have a full day before I have to worry about it, and it will be exactly like book signings. The table will protect me. The flow of traffic will prevent the crazies from loitering too long. It will be okay.

Before I can refute every single one of those naïve thoughts, I scuttle to the next room. It holds a long table on a dais and rows and rows of folding chairs facing the stage. The sign outside the door proclaims it to be tomorrow’s Q&A room. The media will kick things off, but after the first hour and a short break, fans who have bought tickets will be allowed in to ask their questions.

The room is empty, so I walk closer to the dais and stare at the long table, trying to envision myself up there, next to a familiar and very intimidating name. My heartburn flares, licking at the back of my throat.

A full-blown panic threatens but retreats when Betty stands next to me and threads her arm through mine. “So, what do you think?” she asks.

“It’ll do,” I manage, keeping my reply brief to avoid my voice cracking. I stare at the letter “Y” in my seat-neighbor’s first name, my unfocused eyes making it easier to travel to my happy place, far away from here.

Betty approaches the stage and points at the table tent with Frank’s name on it. “You’re right in the middle, the star attraction.”

“Yeah. Goody.”

“You’re in good company, too.” She rattles off the other names I’ve already noticed. “Lots of quality chick litters on the panel.”

Snapping out of my trance and joining her at the front of the dais, I chuckle. “Chick litter? Sounds like waste from barnyard fowl.”

“Chick littists?” she tries again.

“I prefer contemporary women’s fiction author-publisher,” I toss out snootily.

“Oh, lah-dee-dah.”

I laugh at myself but quickly mock-sober. “Really, Betty… you must take this more seriously. This is my craft, my
art,
we’re talking about. It’s not some frivolous drivel to make women—and men—feel all ooey-gooey about the power of love. There’s
meaning
in my words. I’m making important statements about human nature and personal relationships and… and… politics.”

“Politics?”

“Yes. Definitely about gender equality, for starters.”

She rolls her eyes. “Save it for the stage tomorrow, Descartes.”

“Please, Betty, you can call me Frank.”

When she hides a snicker behind her hand, I take it as encouragement to continue my Frank act and continue, “For real, though… I have to sit next to that hack, Yardley Cummins? He claims to drink his own blood, says it puts him in touch with his vampire characters. How’d he get in anyway? I didn’t realize they allowed paranormal romance riffraff in.”

“Everything okay?” a voice at my back asks, prompting a startle of epic proportions.

“Ohmyholyshityouscaredme!” I breathe more than say, whirling on the guy.

“I’m so sorry, Mr. Lipton,” coos the man in the pinstripe suit with the gold name pin that dubs him, “George.” “I didn’t mean to sneak up on you.”

From the corner of my eye, I spy Betty struggling not to laugh behind her fist, but I try to ignore her and regain my composure. “Yeah, well… uh… whatever. We’re fine. Getting a feel for the layout before tomorrow.”

“George Nichols, author liaison.” He extends his hand to me but says to Betty, “Miss Tate.”

I want to punch him for talking to her chest.

Betty shakes George’s hand. “Mr. Nichols. Thanks for letting Frank get a feel for the room tonight.”

“Is everything to your satisfaction?” he asks both of us while still mostly looking at Betty’s boobs. I clear my throat, so he tears his eyes away and blinks at me. “The seating arrangement may not be to your liking, is that what I heard?”

With the sort of agility not usually found in a man his size, George hops onto the stage, walks behind the long table, and stands behind the seat reserved for Frank. He lifts the name card and walks it down a few chairs. “We purposely put you in the middle, Mr. Lipton, to bring as much focus to you as possible, but…”

“Oh, that. I’m the headliner, or whatever… Right?” Blood whooshes in my ears as I remember Betty mentioning something about that in my kitchen after my near-death by omelet. Frank would relish the flattery, if not the attention, I remind myself, struggling to regain my character.