Page 3 of The Write Track
1
ONE
PRESENT DAY
“Ah, luxury.” I sipped my cognac with exaggerated glee and smiled at the woman across the table from me.
Hayley Clifton looked less than impressed. “You’re such a tool,” she muttered, tucking a strand of her blond hair behind her ear.
I grinned. My favorite thing about Hayley was that she didn’t hold back when stating her opinion. I appreciated bluntness. “You love me, and you know it.” I winked, and it probably would have come across as flirty to somebody else. Not to Hayley, though.
Before she could respond, a woman moved closer to our table. Hayley and I were having a late lunch at Arnie’s Tavern, which was one of the many restaurants at The Landings, my new home on Skidaway Island just outside Savannah, Georgia. When my best friend, Brody Bates, had moved into the community, I’d called it bougie and ridiculous. But I’d quickly come to respect the finer aspects of the community—meaning I enjoyedthat I could get almost anything without actually leaving the neighborhood. That included a great meal and a solid cocktail.
I smiled at the woman, unsure what she was after. Her focus was on Hayley rather than on me, so I had to parse things out. Hayley was a lesbian, so maybe the woman had picked up on a certain vibe and wanted to flirt with her. I was always open to watching Hayley flirt. She was the most awkward woman in the world when it came to potential romance.
It turned out to be something else.
“Are you Hayley Clifton?” the woman asked, nervously glancing at a table where three other women sat.
Hayley nodded. “I am.”
“Um… Hayley Clifton, the author?”
Ah, there it was. The woman—and likely her friends—were fans of Hayley’s wholesome brand of romance writing. It always made me laugh that a lesbian was writing clean romance, but Hayley wasn’t a fan of swearing or sex scenes. As boring as I found it, she made a solid living.
“I am.” Hayley’s smile was hard to read. She tended to be shy in social settings. When it was a meet-and-greet—multiple authors interacting with a lot of fans—she was okay because she could take regular breaks. That meant the focus wasn’t entirely on her. This scenario was different.
I decided to help her out. “I’m an author too,” I volunteered, unleashing what I knew to be a devastating smile on the woman. I’d been told, on more than one occasion, that women found my smile to be one of my finest features, second only to my butt.
Yeah, I know how good looking I am. I try not to be a creep about it, but I’m not afraid to use my appearance to my advantage when the opportunity presents itself.
“You are?” The woman looked me up and down. “I don’t recognize you.”
“Do you recognize all authors?”
“Well, no. Just the good ones.”
I sent an amused look toward Hayley, who appeared to be relaxing, at least somewhat.
“She’s got you pegged,” Hayley said on a half-laugh. “You’re right. He’s not a good author.”
“Hey!” I jabbed a finger in her direction. “I’m trying to be helpful.”
Likely because she knew that was true, she sighed. “This is Nathan Cooper. He writes horror books.”
“Oh.” The woman looked taken aback.
Apparently, the word “horror” didn’t fill her with warm and fuzzy thoughts. That was fine. My readership was mostly male, although a solid twenty-five percent was female. Hayley’s audience, for comparison, was ninety-nine percent female.
Statistically, women read more than men, not only on an individual basis but on a volume level too. Some women readers—Hayley’s audience, actually—sometimes read three to five books a week. She didn’t get to cash in on the people who wanted sex in their books—and there were a lot of them—but she had a solid following of readers who invested in her as an author. My readers tended to invest in my stories, not me. Although I did have a fan group on Facebook that talked about how hot I was. Not that I regularly peeked in there or anything.
Fine. I peeked at least once a week. Who could blame me?
“I was wondering if I could run back to my house and get a book for you to sign,” the woman said to Hayley, clearly forgetting about me. “I only live five minutes away. If you were still going to be here…” She seemed uncertain. “I don’t want to interrupt your lunch with your boyfriend or anything.”
Hayley and I burst out laughing in tandem.
“He is not my boyfriend,” Hayley said once she’d recovered. “I barely let him be my friend.”
