Three Hot Wishes (Fantasy Come to Life - Magic in the Real World Novel) (9 page)

Chapter 17

Four hours later, I came up for air.

Grace hadn't been kidding. Just about everything I'd had published over the course of the last three years had been one-star firebombed to Hell and back.

And it wasn't just that. I'd gotten bad reviews before. It came with the territory, after all. Write something that enough people read, and you'll soon find that the amount of people who love it more than life itself will be approximately equal to the number of jerks who think you're a literary curse. I'd gotten a pretty thick skin over the years, but this...

This was something else.

It was as if dozens of people had decided to bring me down. Here were letters of rage and loathing, reviews that tore everything I'd ever written to ribbons. I clicked on the profiles of the reviewers, and found that, sure enough, the same people had spent the day posting frightfully bad reviews of all of my stuff.

Ms. Harmony
, one particularly scathing review read,
hasn't the foresight or the knowledge of the English language that one needs to craft a story of this kind. She may mean well, but this story and the others like it she has written fails in every way to be realistic. All of the characters she puts on the page are clichéd, hackneyed versions of what they should truly be, and she unknowingly insults all of her readers by pretending that the 'real' world is anything like her fantasies.

Ouch.

And worse yet, they were starting to get people to agree with them... I could already see a couple of reviews that started out with
I thought I'd like this book, since I liked her other work, but after reading a review from WIP_GHOST I couldn't help but view
Love Eternal
with a much more critical eye.

Good God, it was turning into an epidemic. If this went on for much longer, I'd be one of those authors that other authors used as a parable or an anecdote. 'Don't write the same sort of shit that Isabelle Harmony rights. Her readers are on to her!'

Still, I couldn't really say that the reviews were
wrong
. The things they complained about, a lack of grit and realism in the way the male love interest was portrayed, a flowery happily ever after ending that seemed to come out of nowhere like a train in the night, smashing the reader flat and ending the story abruptly, these things were legitimate critiques.

They were also, sadly, the way I'd always thought the reader wanted them to be.

Except...

I frowned, leaning back in the chair, perhaps subconsciously trying to get myself as physically far away from those nasty reviews as I could. Except, if I were going to be honest with myself, I'd always thought my endings happened too fast and the male leads were a touch too perfect. It was lazy writing, but up until this point it had been lazy writing that had let me crank out the number of books I'd needed to end up making a buck in this business.

I didn't want to turn out like Grace, after all. She was retired, having had to work an Evil Day Job all the way through her life, going home to her cats and her keyboard at the end of every mind-numbingly boring, heart-breakingly grueling day servicing the customers of the chain of hotels she worked for. Of all the authors I knew, she'd stayed the most true to what she really
wanted
to write, and as such had taken the longest to find success.

And, when she'd finally found it, the piles of money I'd enjoyed weren't at the end of
her
rainbow...

Hank and Charlotte and I had the right idea. Give the people what they want. Give it to them fast, and give it to them over and over. Light bondage? Here you go. Bodice rippers? We'd churned them out. Modern Westerns? Why, the three of us had probably written a dozen in the space of three months, under a variety of names.

And it had worked.

Or so I'd thought...

I grit my teeth and went back through the reviews, taking notes, stalking my prey, listening to what the bad reviews said as well as checking the reviewer’s profiles, trying to see some common ground between them. I didn't believe for an instant that getting all of these at once was a coincidence. I mean yes,
Love Eternal
had just hit bookstores nationwide, but most of these reviews didn't mention it.

I paused, my pen hovering over my trusty notepad. Actually, these reviews, the really bad ones that had hit me all at once today like a tsunami didn't mention
any
of my books. They'd been left as book reviews, of course, but the more I read them the more they felt like
author
reviews.

Either that, or...

I clicked on the cover of
Lust in the Dust
. It was trash, the first thing that Wellspring publishing had sent to print from me. It had made some money and earned me a contract, but when I looked back on it I felt more than a little like a thief.

Set in a fictional town in West Texas, it consisted of a flimsy plotted love story between a new sheriff in town and a widow doing her best to make the farm she'd inherited into something worth keeping. The bank was after the land, of course, and the banker trying to buy it had a vested interest in making her life miserable. The harder she had it, you see, the closer she got to getting her land taken away, the nearer she was to having to accept his proposal of marriage.

Of course.

Up until today, it had been fairly well received. I'd been given a few three and a half stars, but for the most part people who wanted to say something not-so-nice and simply called it 'one of her earlier works' and moved on with their lives.

Not WIP_GHOST though. No, she'd torn it to shreds. Two dimensional characters, unrealistic plot, no knowledge of Texas or the banking industry as a whole, on and on and on.

The next review, posted less than twenty minutes later though, was different. It was still one star, but ForgottenSoldier said
Isabelle Harmony treats Vince Nash like a piece of dirt. It is appalling to read a story where the heroine takes so long to realize that the one man that's right for her is the one that's been by her side all along.

I shot out of my chair and pretty much ran to my living room. I had a bunch of bookshelves in there, including one that was only stacked with my own books that I'd either brought home from signings for one reason or another or, in the early days, bought and brought home in brown paper bags, like some addict addicted to seeing her own name on the cover.

I pushed most of them aside, looking for
Lust in the Dust
. I was pretty sure I was right, but I had to be absolutely certain... There it was! I grabbed it and flipped through it, knowing that our hero wouldn't take long to make an appearance. What was the old rule?
Put the hero and heroine together as close to the first page as you can.

Well, it had taken me almost ten pages to do that in this one, but like I said it was my first professionally book, so we'll cut me some slack. There he was though, at the top of page nine, white Stetson, dusty cowboy boots and jeans, a long, tall drink of water on a hot summer's day. His gun shone in the sun, and a tumbleweed rolled between him and our heroine's farmhouse as he strode up to the porch. She was the wife of his buddy, you see, and he wanted to express his condolences.

I ran my finger down a couple of paragraphs, skipping the door knock and Gemma putting down a box and wiping the sweat from her face to go and answer it.

There!

"Howdy," he said to her, just like in the movies.

Gemma didn't know what to do. The farmhouse was a mess, but hadn't Jim always said that Texans knew two things - Texas and hospitality. "Hello Officer," she said, leaning forward and pushing the screen door open. "I'm still emptying the boxes, but I think I can find a couple of glasses, if you'd like to come in and have a something. I've got pop in the fridge. Not much, but it'll be cold, at least."

He nodded, taking off his hat with a sweeping gesture. "Folks 'round here call it 'coke', no matter the flavor," he said, stepping past her. "But that sounds like a treat I won't turn down no matter how you choose to name it."

Gemma followed him into the kitchen, unable to hide the fact that the sheriff clearly knew his way around the rooms of the farmhouse.

"Sorry," he said, once he saw the look on her face when he went straight to where he was going, past the maze of rooms he could have wandered into instead. "Your husband and I went way back. I practically grew up in this house. His momma raised me like her own, most days." He extended a hand. "I'm Hank Spence."

And there it was, in black and white. I'd originally called him Vince Nash, just like the reviewer had said, but David, in his first official act as my editor, had convinced me to change it. He said Vince Nash sounded like a race car driver. I'd agreed and renamed him after Hank from the Smut Slingers as a little inside joke, since the love interest was night and day different to my flamboyant, crazy friend.

So, how did my anonymous reviewer know that, and had it been an accident or a message when they'd left it in my bad review?

Chapter 18

The answer, I kept telling myself, was simple. ForgottenSoldier had to be David. Who else would know about the name change and use it against me?

And WIP_GH? I circled the last two letters with my pen furiously. GH.

Gina Huxley, the little minx muse who had started all of this at the cafe yesterday.

It was dark outside, but I felt as if the sun were shining, as if there were bright beams of light shooting through the windows and lighting up the dark corners of my home. I grabbed my phone and dialed David. I didn't even bother to look at what time it was because I didn't care. I hope I woke him up. I hope he never slept again, after what he'd done, going behind my back and stabbing me with a dozen shit reviews of books that
he'd
helped me put into publication.

"Hello?" he said, his voice more than a little bleary.

"That's all you've got to say for yourself, is it?" I raged. "Hello?"

"Beth?"

"Of course it's Beth, you jerk. I'm calling your mobile phone, so don't try and tell me you couldn't have just looked at the screen and known who was calling, so stop playing games. I've had
enough
games to last me a lifetime right about now, so the sooner you cut through the bullshit and be straight with me, the better it'll be for both of us."

"Beth, it's three in the morning..."

Inwardly, I flinched. That
was
pretty late. Too bad, though. I was already on the line, and I was too pissed off to call him back at a more convenient, not to mention civilized time. "I don't give a damn what time it is."

I heard him sitting up, most likely in bed. There was a pause, and then his voice was much more clear as he put on his professional hat and attempted to deal with his crazy writer client. "Beth, what's this all about?"

"You know exactly what I'm talking about, so don't try to get out of it by acting all innocent." I wanted to add
You went online and bashed my books, our books, because you're too damn gutless to just say what you've got to say to my face
, but I didn't. Not over the phone.

No, when I hit him with that I wanted him to be in front of me so that I could see his reaction to the words in the flesh.

I was so angry that I was shaking, and when I looked down at my hand I saw that I'd bunched it up into a fist so tight it took a force of will just to relax. Once I'd coaxed the hand into opening, I saw little crescents of blood cut into the palm from where my nails had done some damage.

David hadn't answered yet, but I could hear him there on the other end of the line, breathing slowly. Calmly. Infuriating though it was, I'd rather that than have him hang up on me. I needed him to be a man and tell me the truth.

"I'm coming over," he said.

"Fine."

That surprised him. I could tell he'd been expecting me to put up some sort of fight, but when he next spoke at least I didn't hear regret in his voice. When most people make some bold gesture or showy declaration, they're secretly hoping you'll turn them down.

"Good," he said, and he sounded like he meant it. "I'll be there in ten minutes."

And then he was gone, ending the conversation and hanging up the phone before I could come to my senses and tell him to forget it.

I was still livid, but I spent the next few minutes preparing my case. I brought up the review that mentioned Vince Nash again as well as a few of the others and printed them out. Once they were done, I calmly grabbed one of the red pens that were scattered around the house for me to review my manuscripts with and used it to carefully, methodically circle every place where I felt he or Gina or one of his conspirators, if they weren't in this on their own, had slipped up and given themselves away with insider knowledge of my work.

Then I went back into the living room and grabbed a copy of every book I'd ever written and lugged them back into the bedroom, setting them beside the laptop in a big stack next to the printed out reviews.

"There," I said, feeling more and more like a lawyer preparing for a showdown in some high stakes trial with each passing minute. "Exhibits A and B."

By the time the doorbell rang I'd collected my thoughts. I strode to the door and opened it with as much courtesy and professionalism as I could muster.

David was there, and the look of concern in his eyes was irksome, to say the least. He thought of me as nothing more than a tempestuous child. No, it was worse than that. I wasn't even a person to him. I was just some golden goose who had to be patted and coddled and humored, lest I stop laying eggs that he could polish into something of value.

"Thank you for coming," I said, regardless of the fact that I didn't know if I meant it anymore. When he'd suggested it, I'd been all for a knockdown drag out confrontation, but the last ten minutes had drained me of some of my fire. I was still angry, but I didn't think that he'd tell me the truth when I accused him of placing the reviews, which meant I was about to burn a bridge for little to no gain.

Oh well
, I heard that inner voice whisper like a snake,
that'll hardly be a first for you.

"Is everything okay," he asked, stepping inside as I motioned for him to come in out of the night. He was wearing a polo shirt that showed off tanned, toned arms I wasn't expecting on a man of his occupation, though just when I started to let myself admire the square-jawed honest good looks of him I saw his gaze sweep the room, clearly looking for signs of contraband.

"I'm not drunk, if that's what you mean," I answered, deadpan.

It was true. Somehow, I hadn't had a drink for hours and hours, and more to the point I wasn't even missing it. The thrill of creation and the fearful, possibly dangerous implications had driven thoughts of booze right out of my head.

"Good," he said matter-of-factly, sitting down on the sofa without waiting to be invited, leaning forward and putting his hands on his knees as if he were ready to leap up at any moment. "Now sit down with me and tell me what's going on."

"Happily," I said, feeling myself getting fired up again. He wasn't smug, not at all, but I was going to wipe that nurturing, caring, how-are-you-sweetheart-and-how-can-I-help look off his face regardless. Except...

Except the laptop and the books and the printouts were in the bedroom. I debated leaving him in here and going and grabbing them all, but it the end decided that
he
should come to
me
.

"Follow me when you're ready," I said, hurrying into the bedroom to make sure I hadn't left my bra hanging off the bedpost, intent on triple-checking that Logan Mercado hadn't scattered something manly and telling and embarrassing to one of the four corners of the room. Once I'd made certain that wasn't the case, I turned around to go back and get him, annoyed that he'd taken so long to follow me in.

My heart skipped around in my chest for a second and then banged loudly in my ears. My breath caught in my throat. I tried to say something. I could feel my mouth working, but I wasn't hearing any words come out.

David was there, in the doorway to my bedroom. He'd taken off the polo shirt already and undone his belt for me, though he'd left his pants on for the moment. He was much hotter than I'd ever given him credit for in the past, and for the briefest of moments I felt myself slipping. It was as if I were on the slope of a mountain, and the descent had already begun. I could fight it, sure, but the end result was going to be the same anyway, so why not just sick back and enjoy the ride?

I was about to go to him, to let the stupid misunderstanding, this simple and poorly communicated reason I'd wanted him to come to my bedroom in the first place turn into the story of our first time, when I had a striking, almost painfully illuminating thought.

You know Beth
, I heard myself say in a voice that I was more and more coming to think of as Isabelle Harmony's voice and not at all my own,
this is exactly the sort of scene you'd write in one of our books, isn't it? Just imagine it. The reader knows both sides of view. She knows David will think Beth means to seduce him in her own awkward way. But poor, hapless Beth is too angry and too tired and maybe still too buzzed from one of her earlier binges to see that the things she says can be taken more than one way. So here we are, right at the moment when our heroine has to decide which way the love story goes.

"What am I doing?" I asked myself, though I think I was really asking Isabelle Harmony.

You're not handling this well, is what you're doing.

"Beth?" David asked, the look of hopeful contentment evaporating from his face, replaced by the concerned look one person A surely gives person B when person B is knee deep in a stroke. "Can you hear me?"

"What happens next?" I said out loud, my voice sounding panicked even to my own ears. "What do I do?"

This is where you end the scene, dummy. Leave them wanting more
.

My keys were in my purse. Before David could react I grabbed it and ran out of the room, making a beeline for the front door.