Backup Plan (Boys of Silver Ridge Book 1), page 2
“Tell me more about Kellie,” Helen says, and the audience eagerly agrees. “How did you come up with such an interesting character?”
My lips pull into a smile, genuine this time, because I can talk about my characters all day long. They’re all me in some sense, just a little less neurotic, even the ones who fight demons on the regular. I’ve put myself into each and every one of my characters in some way or the other, and I stand behind creating realistic and relatable characters one hundred percent, which I know caused waves at last year’s Comic Con.
I have a degree in sociology. I grew up wanting to be a social worker and didn’t study English for years like some of my peers, who look down on me for said lack of degree. But I’ll look out at the audience and tell them with confidence that you either have what it takes to write or you don’t, and wasting years studying “the craft” won’t make up for your lack of talent.
I’ve pissed off my fair share of wealthy parents by saying just that, but I stand by it. Anyone can get a fancy degree if you can wrangle up the money. Creativity can’t be taught. You can learn how to unlock what you already have, but if you don’t have it then you don’t have it.
Squeezing my eyes closed, I refocus my energy on the live interview, telling myself I’ll get a burger—a real one, not that vegan patty shit—if I can pull this off. Deep down, I know I can. I’ve done tons of interviews just like this one, and I love talking about my characters. A rush goes through me, and I reach for the glass of water on the coffee table in front of me. I take a careful drink, always afraid I’m going to dribble water down my chin or drink it the wrong way and spend the next three minutes coughing.
Never in my life did I think taking a drink of water could be this stressful, but welcome to show business. I’m able to drink without choking, drooling, or spilling water on the table when I set the glass back down, ready and excited to launch into a full conversation about Kellie, the leading lady in my paranormal series.
We take a few questions from the audience, and we’re getting close to a scheduled commercial break, signaling that I’m nearing the end of my interview, thank goodness. It’s always been a little difficult for me to keep my eyes on the host or the audience and not get distracted with what’s going on backstage, with the things I can see, but you have no clue about when you’re watching a show.
“Before we go,” Helen says, seamlessly lifting her own glass of water to her lips and taking a drink like a pro. “I think we all are dying to hear about this.” She smiles, flashing perfectly straight, white teeth. “The romance,” she says, and the crowd cheers again. My stomach tightens and I smile, suppressing the fact that she got me. “Who inspired Marcus?”
I can talk about feminism, kick-ass-take-no-shit female leads all day. But ask me about love? Hah. This is where I’m exposed, where it’s obvious I’m a big fat fucking fraud. I’ve been in relationships before, all ending the same way: epic failure. I know nothing when it comes to matters of the heart.
And the truth could put a damper on my career as a romance novelist. I write about true love. Soul mates. First kisses and transcendental lovemaking. Of being brave enough to follow your heart. To fight tooth and nail for that person you know you’re meant to be with.
But the truth of the matter is I’m still hopelessly clinging to a ghost of my past. It’s pathetic, I know. But the heart wants what the heart wants, no matter how stupid it is.
Chapter Three
Chloe
“I’m not going to lie,” Karina starts, sitting back in her leather chair. Her jet-black hair falls in perfect waves around her pretty face. “That was rough.”
“I didn’t think it was that bad,” I counter, internally wincing. We just got done watching my interview from this morning. I might have cringed more than once while watching. I looked aloof, and you could tell my heart just wasn’t in it. Because it wasn’t.
“I’ve seen worse,” my publicist agrees, brushing dog fur from her ivory-colored suit jacket. “Never from you, though. What’s going on?” Her brown eyes pierce mine, waiting for a response—an honest response. She’ll keep her gaze trained on me until I crack, and I love and hate her for it. She’s petite and girly but is ruthless when it comes to her clients. We started working together when Nightfall got optioned for film and has gotten me an impressive amount of sponsorships and exposure since then.
“I don’t know,” I say with a sigh. “I feel…off.”
“Does this have to do with the shitstorm that happened on Twitter a few weeks ago? We resolved that. Do not bring it back up.”
“No, I hadn’t really thought about that until now, so thanks.” Said shitshow was the result of too many mimosas that led me to respond to some asshole on Twitter saying how disappointed she was in me for including LGBTQ characters in my books. She was trying to get her conservative “mom friends” to share a petition to get my show taken off the air because it was a “bad influence” for kids. Not to mention I’m going straight to hell for writing about vampires and witches.
My show just got renewed for a new season, and I know the season after that is in the bag already too. I wasn’t worried about that but was just fed up with assholes like her. As if it’s not hard enough for the LGBTQ community already… My fans rallied with me, and the comments went from trying to nicely educate this woman to threats and digging up personal information about her and her family, which got publicly posted. While my own comments were a little over the edge, I didn’t cross any line, yet I was seen as the ringleader for the rapid responses that followed.
I’ve always had a good reputation in both publishing and producing, and the fact that I’m not a drama-llama has worked in my favor. It didn’t help that only two days after said Twitter shitstorm, I went on a date with the son of a movie producer who got a little handsy, repeatedly tried to slide his fingers under my dress while at the table of a crowded restaurant, and then called me a prude when I told him to knock it off. I threw my drink in his face and walked out, and yes—that part got caught on camera by the paparazzi, but not him touching me without consent. It was a big his-word-against-mine mess, and with the threat to get lawyers involved, he issued a public apology but then days later Tweeted a list of all my ex-boyfriends, saying I was obviously the issue and there must be “something wrong with me.” It’s so fun to have all your failed relationships scrutinized publicly on social media, and as much as I hated it, as much as I tried not to let it get to me…it did.
Because there I was again, lonely and doubting myself. Maybe there really is something wrong with me. Maybe I really am too weird, too dark, too lost in my own head for someone to handle.
“You’ve been going nonstop,” Karina goes on. “Normally, I’ll keep pushing you because I know you can handle it. But maybe it’s time to take a break. Get out of the spotlight for a while and catch your breath. You haven’t gotten very far with the next book in this series, have you?”
I shake my head. “Not really,” I say, trying not to cringe. I have half of the first chapter written and keep fizzling out the second I sit down to write. I’ve been super busy the last month too, with book signings, interviews, and collaborating with the show runners for next season. “I haven’t had much time.”
“Exactly, and I just had a conference call with your agent and editor this morning. If you can get the first draft done a month ahead of schedule, we’ll be able to line up a three-week-long tour in Europe. For you and Charles. He’s in if you’re in, and we can schedule it perfectly with his break between filming.”
My face lights up. Charles Baldwin is the mega movie star who plays Marcus, the vampire lead in my book-turned-TV series. He’s one of Hollywood’s biggest heartthrobs, has a reputation of being a suave playboy, just crossed thirty-million Instagram followers, and was named the Sexiest Man Alive last year.
He’s also my on-again, off-again boyfriend, but the whole thing was set up by Karina, who’s his publicist too. Our relationship sparked interest in the two of us—and Nightfall—perfectly timed when the show was announced to the world. We “break up” often, needing to uphold Charles’s playboy reputation and keep his female fans pining over him. Being seen with him made me recognizable, something I wasn’t quite used to before. As an author, my name was my claim to fame, not my face. But now I’m photographed, pictures slapped all over TMZ and social media, tagged as “Charles’s ex” like the only way to identify me is by who I used to “belong to.”
It’s strange, faking a relationship with someone. And by faking, I mean literally faking every single romantic part of said relationship. Because Charles is gay, and it breaks my heart that he’s been advised to keep his sexuality hushed out of fear it will hurt his career. I’ve encouraged him to come out, but he’s not ready, and I respect that. He’s one of my very best friends now, and our tight-knit bond of platonic friendship is what sells our fake relationship so well.
Touring Europe with Charles will be so fucking fun. I can probably convince Farisha to sneak away for a week too. She’s a sucker for anything European.
“Can we make it so we have at least two days at Disneyland Paris?” I ask, hiking my brows up.
Karina rolls her eyes. “Charles asked for the same thing.”
“Yes!” I pump my fist in the air. “I knew I could count on him.”
Karina laughs. “Fine. You can get a few days in Paris to yourselves. But only if you get this book done ahead of time.”
“I’ll get it,” I say as if it’s no big deal at all. Because, you know, there’s no pressure in not only writing the highly-anticipated eighth book in a popular series but getting it done a month before I originally planned on finishing. “I’ll take a staycation somewhere quiet, lock myself in a room and write nonstop.”
“Where are you going to go?” Karina asks. “Bali again?”
I think about it for a few seconds but shake my head. I’ve been struggling a bit with getting this book started, and I know what I need to do: go back to the place that inspired this book, back to the real town my fictional one is based on. I’ll walk through the woods and will write by the lake. If any place is going to inspire me, it’s where it all started. “No, not Bali.” I look up at Karina. “I’m going back to Silver Ridge.”
Chapter Four
Sam
“You’re overthinking it.” I cast my line into the water and let my eyes fall shut, face bathed in the warmth from the sun. The boat gently rocks back and forth, and it would easily lull me to sleep if I were to sit down. Finishing a string of twelve-hour shifts does that to me.
“That means shit coming from someone like you,” Jacob deadpans. “You don’t think. At all. You’ll fuck anything in a skirt.”
“I have standards,” I toss back, trying to act offended.
Mason lets out a snort of laughter and slowly reels in his line.
“You’re worse.” Jacob sets his fishing pole down and turns to mess with the boat’s radio, which isn’t picking up any signal this far out on the lake. Country music crackles through, and the fucker leaves it.
“If getting some on the regular is worse, I’ll take it.” Mason reaches for his beer. “And Sam’s right. You’re overthinking it. Go out with her. It’s just one date that’ll lead to one night, well, if you can be the least bit competent for a few hours. And lord knows you need to get laid. I’ve been home for all of five hours and am already sick for your crab-ass attitude.”
“I don’t do one-night stands,” Jacob immediately counters, eyeing both me and Mason. “Unlike you two.”
Mason looks at me, rolling his eyes. “I’m not entirely sure he even does people anymore at this point,” he whisper-talks. “Maybe there’s a reason he went into veterinary medicine. All those late-night calls to horse farms…”
“Fuck you, man.” Jacob throws a handful of bait at the back of Mason’s head and I laugh, always enjoying passively egging my younger brothers on like this. But the truth is we’re all so fucking glad to be together again because it doesn’t happen very often. Jacob stayed in Silver Ridge and is the small town’s only vet, and Mason and I left the first chances we got. But this place will always be home for all of us, and we’ve all been looking forward to this weekend more than any of us want to admit.
Rory, our baby sister, is coming home this weekend as well, along with her husband and their newborn son, Adam. I haven’t seen my nephew since the week he was born, and I need to make sure Rory’s husband is still treating her well. I take my role as older brother seriously, as I always have, and will cut throats and throw punches without a second thought when it comes to my sister.
“If you don’t want to go out with Annie, then don’t,” I say with a yawn. My line bobs down and I wait a beat, secretly hoping I didn’t catch anything. Fishing isn’t my favorite thing in the world, but we grew up doing this. I like being out on the lake with my brothers more than I actually like trying to catch a fish, and we put back most of what we catch anyway.
Dad started taking me out here on a rickety-ass boat when I was the only Harris kid yet to be born. Mom hated it, and I still remember being three years old and Mom putting blow-up water wings on my arms along with a multi-colored life vest. I couldn’t put my arms down—just like that kid from A Christmas Story—but in the opposite season.
Dad’s not out here with us today, though; he’s anxiously waiting for Adam to arrive at the house. There’s no doubt both Mom and Dad will point out how they only have one grandchild, and it’s the youngest of the bunch who settled down, got married, and popped out a kid first.
Mason and I already took bets on how long it’ll take Mom to remind me that I’m the oldest, the one she expected to get married first, yet here I am, single once again.
Though I’m not complaining.
There’s another tug on my line and I jerk it back, waiting half a second to see if I caught anything. The line doesn’t move again, so I slowly reel it up, somewhat thankful the bait is gone. Resting my pole against the side of the boat, I heft into one of the seats, warmed by the sun, and grab a beer from the built-in cooler.
The boat is only two years old, and was a much-needed upgrade from the old hunk of junk Dad insisted still “ran just fine,” despite us getting stranded in Lake Michigan for five hours during a storm until the Coast Guard could come out and tow us in. I bought this new boat for Dad on his birthday two years ago, and while it’s a bit over the top for a birthday gift, I figured it was the least I could do after my parents footed the bill for me to go to medical school and become a doctor. I had it paid off in only a year, and we’ve already got our money’s worth out of this thing.
We’re on Silver Lake today, much smaller than Lake Michigan, and the breeze coming in over the water is hot and sticky.
“Or go out with her,” Mason counters. “Wine and dine her, fuck her good, and then ghost her.”
“You’re despicable,” Jacob quips, leaning over the boat railing and looking down into the water. He won’t say the real reason he’s on the fence about going out with this girl is because he’s still bitter over his last relationship ending with his girlfriend cheating on him after two-and-a-half years together. Only Mason and I know he’d gone out looking at engagement rings the week before things blew up in his face.
“Tell her from the start you don’t want anything serious,” I suggest. “That’s what I do, and it’s worked out so far.”
“Yeah, it’s worked out well.” Mason rolls his eyes. “How many times have you and Stacey broken up and gotten back together?”
“Four,” I say with a shrug. We started dating a few years ago, and we get along just fine. But fine is all I can describe us as.
The sex is fine.
Her company is fine.
Everything is so fine there’s no substance to it. She agrees with almost everything I say, and I don’t actually know what she really likes or doesn’t like, even after three years off and on. If I want to get Mexican food, she does too. If I want to watch hours of murder documentaries, she does too. It sounds ideal, I know, and I fumble every time I try to explain why having someone just blindly go along with me is off-putting.
It would be one thing if she enjoyed the murder documentaries, or got excited to watch football with me, but she doesn’t. She’ll just sit there, looking bored as she stares at the screen of her phone. Physically, she’s there with me, but she mentally checks out the second we get together. No, she doesn’t actually enjoy any of that, and instead it feels like she’s doing it to appease me so she can get something out of it in the end…which she usually does.
I spent the weekend watching sports with you, take me shopping now?
“It must be good pussy to keep going back,” Mason notes.
I shrug. “It’s okay.”
“Just okay?” Mason’s brows rise incredulously. It’s the first time I’ve so much as hinted that things between Stacey and me aren’t hot and heavy. I’ve had a reputation to uphold, but honestly, I’m just tired right now. “Time to move on.”
“I plan on it,” I say, not going into detail that we were together just two months ago. I had a particularly rough shift at the trauma center and burn victims are some of the hardest to treat and to see.
It’s worse when said victims are children…burned by the result of evil, vile parents who inflicted the burns as a form of punishment.
A brother and sister were airlifted to us, and we lost the three-year-old girl. I put the five-year-old boy in a medically induced coma, and we didn’t know the extent of the brain damage until he was stable enough to wake up.
