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Now, kiss. No, that’s not right. It’s too early to kiss. Maybe my main characters, Maggie and Reed, needed to eat something. I rubbed at the growl that emanated from my own stomach. Maybe I needed to eat something. Fictional characters didn’t really need food.
I’d been immersed in my latest manuscript all day, refining the bachelor auction scene, and I was pretty sure I hadn’t eaten since the previous night. Maybe the day before? Cooking something awesome for myself at least once per week helped compensate for the days I forgot to eat altogether or only managed to eat a few slices of toast. Toast. Sure. ‘Cause I was healthy like that. The orange Cheeto dust mocking me from the crevices of my keyboard told a different story. One never to be spoken of. Writing was a capricious beast, and I had learned the hard way that if I broke my flow to eat, I could lose my train of thought and never find it again.
Writing my latest book had been going well; a little too well if my stomach rumblings were any indication. I’d been freelance editing since graduating college with an English degree and writing indie romance full-time under the pen name Virginia Rothman for about ten years, with some success. It helped that a small trust from my grandparents gave me a cushion to get started. I still had some regular editing clients but devoted most of my creative efforts to romance. It was freeing to quit writing what I thought I should enjoy and embrace the genre I’d always loved reading. Even if I kept it mostly secret.
I stretched in my office chair and spun around to appreciate the view of the Puget Sound from my apartment window. I was surprised to find waning sunlight streaming in as the last rays dipped below the Olympic mountains. My writing binges typically lasted a full two days, not a measly one and a half. I must be slipping. A glance at my phone alerted me to three missed text messages.
Matteo: Hey, we still hanging out tonight? 8 at your place?
Jimmy: Have you eaten, or shall I pick up a pizza for tonight?
Jimmy: You’re not responding. Pizza it is.
I smiled. Jimmy knew me too well. He was the only one of my friends who knew the truth behind my career choice. His acceptance had come with merciless teasing about my lack of romantic game in real life, but that was Jimmy. Matteo and some of the other guys I’d met after high school thought I was a freelance editor full-time. Which I was ... but I also wrote my own books. I didn’t know why I didn’t tell them the truth; we had all matured past the point where they’d think the words “breast” and “cock” were funny. Then again, they knew how little actual experience I had with the fairer sex, so they’d think it was hilarious that I was choreographing love scenes and trying to bring them to life on page. My box of plotting Barbies needed to stay hidden under my bed.
I didn’t need the high school ridicule for reading romance resuscitated. “Chase Hoffman the Loverman” was dead. It was a stupid nickname, but the ones that stuck usually were. “Loverman” had actually been one of the kinder ones. Writing made me vulnerable enough and was part of the reason I used a pen name. I didn’t need old high school tormentors tracking down my books and spamming the reviews. No need to unearth any ghosts of nicknames past.
My female pen name was how I blended. It kept me from being a curiosity or a freak. Anonymity made a fantastic security blanket. I was content to fade into the background and let my writing speak for itself. It was much easier to be myself and write what was in my heart when I could keep my life private. Safe.
Hiding behind a pen name gave me a shot of confidence in my early writing career. Writing about female desire was foreign territory in a lot of ways, and I didn’t want to expose myself to extra scrutiny and ridicule as a male author. I knew of several men who wrote popular male/male romance but in male/female romances, men were more likely to be celebrated as models on the cover rather than as the author. It didn’t help that Google considered the most famous male ‘romance’ author one I categorized as fauxmance. The death of a main character or leaving out a happily-ever-after might make for a gripping love story, but the algorithm needed work. Readers demanded and deserved a happily-ever-after.
I was shaken from my reverie by my doorbell. Crap. Matteo and Jimmy were here already. I glanced around my apartment and ran a hand through my shaggy blond hair. I needed a haircut. Again. My apartment was a mess, but they wouldn’t mind. The guys were used to my clutter when I was on deadline. Also, when I wasn’t on deadline. Mostly, the disorder was a sign I was breathing.
I shuffled to the door in my jeans and T-shirt, glad I’d at least remembered to get dressed today. Giving my armpits a sniff, I was thankful that my shower regimen was still on track. I’d learned the hard way to set a daily alarm for that one. No one wants to hang out with a stinky author.
Throwing open the door, I was greeted by the sweet, sweet scent of pepperoni, mushrooms, and sausage. Jimmy was one of my closest friends for a reason. He got me. More specifically, he got me pizza. He knew to bring food when I was on a writing binge, and he knew not to expect a response when he texted.
I was probably a crap friend, but I tried to make up for it in other ways. Like never hitting on his hot sister. That wasn’t a real sacrifice because we grew up together. Andi had seen me in my awkward phase, and let’s be honest: it was all an awkward phase. High school. College. Adulthood. She’d had a front row seat for every embarrassing moment.
Andi was the quirky badass you read about in paranormal romance. Snark for days, silky skin with a smattering of freckles, long dark hair, and a sense of humor that allowed her to put up with me on the rare occasions we all hung out. Her sense of humor and fun had inspired my latest main character, but I doubted Jimmy would recognize Andi’s traits if he ever read the book. We all had blind spots, and he still pictured his little sister in braids with scraped knees, not as a grown woman balancing a career and the possibility of passion.
As I took the pizza boxes from his large hands, Jimmy Torres was revealed in all his glory. If by glory, you’re cool with a lanky thirty-something in slacks and a crisp button-down shirt rolled at the sleeves to reveal strong forearms. Short, dark hair, brown eyes, and a jaw that could be used to chisel statues accentuated one of the funniest, kindest men I knew.
Noticing his hero potential was a hazard of the trade. I was always cataloging and thinking of how I would describe my friends on the page. Jimmy had leading man potential for sure. He’d love that opening. I could see him chatting up women, casually mentioning that he was the inspiration for a best-selling romance novel. He’d turn that into dating gold.
“Hey, Jimmy. Thanks for bringing dinner. Not sure when I last ate,” I acknowledged with a grimace.
“That must mean the writing is going well though?” he asked, glancing around the hazard zone that was my apartment.
“Yeah, but my deadline is also closing in. I’m looking forward to wrapping this book and taking some much-needed time off. What about you, how’s work? You fight any good fires lately?”
Jimmy gave me his best sober firefighter-face. He could rock that look like no other, with his closely shaved head and built body. “No, man. There is no good fire. Would you believe we got a call for a seventy-year-old grandmother who was high as a kite today? She fell and her caregiver couldn’t get her up again. I asked her what she’d taken. Gummy bears. It was marijuana gummy bears, and she claims they help with her glaucoma, but still, seriously? Helping grandma on her gummy bear high is not good for my street cred.”
He shook his head in disgust, and I did my best to hide my grin. I was glad that he was helping stoned grandmas. I worried about his safety every time I heard about a major fire in Tacoma. Assisting high grannies didn’t sound as hazardous in comparison.
We moved into my small kitchen and loaded plates and grabbed beers before settling in on the couch to eat and talk while we waited for Matteo.
Jimmy and I managed to finish off both pizzas before our friend arrived. He knocked and pushed open the door with the familiarity of years of friendship. Stocky and dressed in jeans and a vintage Atari T-shirt, Matteo struck the balance between geek and chic with his trendy haircut and glasses. He looked every inch the gaming programmer, and he’d already inspired a hero that met his match in my first friends-to-lovers book.
“Aw, man. You had pizza without me. Alyssa made lasagna tonight, but it was vegetarian and packed with Swiss chard. I’m craving pepperoni like you wouldn’t believe.”
Jimmy smirked. “Sorry, bro. That’s what you get for being all married and shit. You get the Swiss chard.”
Matteo nodded with pursed lips. “Yeah, but I also get all the lady love. What do you have again? Oh, that’s right—your hand.”
I snort-laughed and Jimmy shoved my shoulder. “No comment from you.” He looked around my apartment and tilted his head at a pile of abandoned clothes in one corner. “When was your last date again?”
I shrugged, and he nodded knowingly.
“Exactly. I’m not the only one sleeping alone with all hands on deck,” Jimmy said.
He put his hands up and shook them at me like tambourines. I groaned and shoved him back.
“Knock it off. The only hands I want to see are on controllers.” Jimmy chortled at my unintentional euphemism. “Yeah, I heard it after I said it. I want to get some gaming in before you two clock punchers have to bounce.”
We spent the rest of the evening trash talking while we careened around the Mario Kart track, trying to best each other. It was a welcome break and distraction, but I knew my looming revisions would be waiting for me when the guys left.
After they went home, I opened Twitter. Part of promoting my books was having a web presence as Virginia Rothman. I wanted to be as truthful with my fans as possible, but I chose not to share the identity behind my pen name. Most of my social media posts were about my writing, favorite authors, or food recipes. I kept things as authentic yet professional as possible. No interacting beyond a few surface likes. It was safer for my career that way. Other authors may be able to share everything online, from funny kid stories to personal fails, but that wasn’t me. Secret squirrel tendencies won out over any desire to share.
My online persona was predictable and book-focused, but I was wary of putting more of myself out there. I didn’t need people coming for me in my mentions and attacking my choices; I wasn’t built to brush off that kind of conflict. If I couldn’t tell my closest friends about my writing, then I sure as hell wasn’t exposing myself to a bunch of strangers.
My latest turkey burger recipe had seemed safe, and it had received several comments and likes, including one from @TamraRN who had made the same dish. It was nice to know I had a menu buddy this week, and her burger was a definite upgrade from the sad grilled cheese she posted for her birthday. Something about her first post had called to the loner in me. I couldn’t resist responding in solidarity.
The more I thought about @TamraRN, I wondered if she really was a nurse and if so, would she be up for helping me with research for my next book. Her profile didn’t reveal much, other than a love of romance. I’d been playing with an idea for a surprise baby plot involving a nurse and a bartender. Then again, it might morph into another friends-to-lovers plot if I wanted to avoid angering my mother. As she often liked to remind me, she didn’t spend thirty years as a high school health teacher to have me playing fast and loose with birth control, even in fiction.
Reaching out to Tamra for help felt like a huge risk. So much could go wrong. But good research was integral to my work, and Tamra’s posts struck a kindred chord in me. It wasn’t that long ago that I subsisted on grilled cheese and peanut butter sandwiches. Contacting her might be the spark I need to bring my next book to life.
