Alexandre slammed the magazines down on the table, knocking over a water glass that soaked them both.
“Putain de merde,” he cursed with a grin. “I have ruined your stories, Holden, and now you cannot do your reading.”
“Cheers to that,” I said and gulped down another swallow of champagne.
I’d had zero intention of reading my own work aloud anyway. LikeMs. Watkins had taught us to do in another lifetime, I wrote fictional stories with heavily autobiographical elements and then slapped them with the pen name Gordon Charles. Once a story was on paper, it was out of my consciousness. Purged. Revisiting it wasn’t on the agenda.
More champagne was ordered, the guests mingled in small groups, and the party showed no signs of stopping though the restaurant had closed hours ago.
“May I join you?”
“If you must.”
The American moved gracefully into the chair beside me. He wore a brown houndstooth suit and an antique Rolex strapped to his wrist. He looked like the world’s wealthiest librarian.
“Elliot Lash,” he said, offering his hand. “I’m an agent for Amanda Boyle Literary. You’ve heard of us?”
He was being cute. Anyone halfway paying attention in the literary world knew that agency. They handled some of the biggest names in fiction, most of whom were currently riding bestseller lists or being nominated for Bookers and Pulitzers.
I smiled sweetly. “Doesn’t ring a bell.”
Elliot glanced down with a small chuckle. “I’ll get straight to the point. I’d like to represent you.”
“In court? I have no pending lawsuits.That I’m aware of.”
“Mr. Parish—”
I waved a hand. “No,I’llget straight toyourpoint. You read my stories that I—a no-name nothing—sentunsolicitedand yet managed to have published in the biggest literary magazines in the world, and now you want to take 15 percent of my piddling profits. Sound about right?”
Elliot leaned over his thighs, a glass of beer in his hand. “Speaking of nothing names, why Gordon Charles?”
I frowned at his sudden change of topic. “Ever readFlowers for Algernon? My pen name is a play on the main character, Charlie Gordon.”
Elliot’s eyes went a little vacant as he sought to remember and thenlit up with recognition. “Oh yes. The story about a man with extremely low intelligence who undergoes an experiment of some sort. It turns him into a genius, but the experiment fails, doesn’t it? He slips back, losing everything he’d gained. Very sad.”
“He falls in love,” I muttered.
“Sorry?”
“When he’s smart, Charlie falls in love with a teacher but has to leave her when he becomes stupid again.” My finger ran along the lip of the glass. “I gave that book to someone once. He thought I was implying thathewas Charlie, the stupid one. Turns out it was me all along.”
My eyes fell shut under a barrage of memories. River at his shop, pinning me to the wall with his body, his eyes dark and hooded, his lips parted…
I brushed the memory away and nodded at the Swiss man.
“Do you know who that is? The Basquiat-looking gent with the perfect…everything?”
“That’s Jean-Baptiste Moreau,” Elliot said. “He does remind one of Basquiat, doesn’t he? Fitting. He’s an artist too.”
“You know him well?”
“We run in a few of the same circles.”
“I’d like to get to know him too. In the biblical sense, if you catch my drift.”
Elliot’s eyes widened behind his glasses. “Are you asking me to be your pimp?”
I frowned. “Isn’t that what an agent is?”
