Istare in dry-mouthed, sweaty-palmed horror as the Red Unicorn settles into his chair, fixing his blue-gray eyes on me. Words come out of my mouth, that much I know. They must even be somewhat coherent, because no one interrupts to ask me why I’m babbling, or tells me to get to the point already (and the “no one” in this scenario is clearly Matilda).
But even for a million dollars, or one of the Hemsworth brothers’ phone numbers, I could not repeat back anything said in that first minute or so after the Red Unicorn entered the room. My mind is racing, trying to figure out how and why the Red Unicorn is sitting in on my writing group.
Logically I can piece together that he must have seen the flier on the library’s community board. But why now? Whythismeeting, when I’ll be reading aloud my first full-on smut scene, in which the hero is only a thinly veiled replica of him?
This feels like it must be a punishment, for becoming a layperson maybe, or eating too much refined sugar. My mother warned me against both, and here I am, making my atonement.
Finally I realize I can stall no longer: “So, without further ado…The Knight Librarian.”
There’s nothing to do but to read from the pages. I can’t change anything last-minute; my writing group has already read the excerpt and will notice anything but the minutest of details being altered. I briefly consider trying to read Axel’s hair as blond instead of strawberry blond (thank God I didn’t make it full-on auburn, at the very least), but realize that will probably draw even more attention to the detail.
So, sick to my stomach, I read.
“With their bodies pressed together, Rosamund found she had a hard time focusing on her fear. Something new was building inside of her, as she stared into his…blue-gray eyes.” What an idiot. Why couldn’t I have just made them blue? “Something she had never felt before, not like this. Certainly not at the hands of the bumbling Wilfred.”
This line earns a laugh from the regulars of the writing group. Their early notes were that poor Wilfred was too unbelievably inept to be an effective rival to Axel, though Kathleen has weirdly developed a crush on the underdog character and insists she’s rooting for him to win Rosamund’s heart in the end.
“Axel’s throat bobbed as he swallowed heavily, making Rosamund wonder if maybe, just maybe, he felt something, too.” Why did nobody tell me how terrible this book is? I will just have to leave the room as soon as it’s over, move to Guam, and never return. “As she shifted, and felt the growing proof of his attraction pressing against her thigh, Rosamund no longer had to wonder.”
The group gives a supportive burst of noise, some clapping, others whistling. Matilda, through a mouthful of muffin, calls out, “Finally!”
Buoyed by this response, I continued reading through Rosamund’s and Axel’s nervous but heartfelt declaration of feelings, leading up to the frenzied kissing that results in clothing being meticulously removed. More whistling, some foot stomping.
This is actually sort of fun, I realize as I lose myself in the pages. I would be enormously enjoying myself if it weren’t for…
The Red Unicorn. I’ve been studiously avoiding his gaze, trying my best to pretend he isn’t there, but my rebellious eyes dart to him on their own, at precisely the wrong moment: “…building toward a frenzied climax,” I stammer, then swallow.
His face remains impassive, his watchful eyes trained on me. I grip on to the podium, swallowing again as I stare down at my pages. “At last, Axel clapped a hand over Rosamund’s mouth to keep her gasps of pleasure from reaching the ears of the mobsters on the other side of the door. A moment later, he followed after her, tumbling into ecstasy. Satiated, spent, Axel half collapsed on top of Rosamund, pressing his chest against her bare breasts, their two hearts synchronizing and slowing together.”
Enthusiastic applause follows, and I gather my pages back together, grateful to have something to occupy my hands. I exercise all of my willpower to keep my gaze from returning to the Red Unicorn, hoping this will keep me feeling professional, confident. This ismywriting group; these are my friends. I shared a story from my imagination, and any resemblances to persons living or dead is entirely coincidental. If he assumes otherwise, that just proves he’s arrogant—even if he happens to be right.
First comes the round of compliments, in which the group members tell me what they like about my writing. Then comes constructive criticism. I pull out my pen, ready to take notes.
Deb thinks the pacing is a little too quick, and they can take more time removing their clothing. Frank thinks the voice is too passive in some areas, and I ought to use a thesaurus since I repeat words too frequently. (Darn you, whimper!) Barb wants there to be more tension, with the mobsters lurking on the other side of the door, and Florence wants a little more buildup. Kathleen doesn’t have any major issues, just wishes there was more Wilfred.
No one points out that Axel seems to have a striking resemblance to the mystery man who let himself into the room moments before I started reading. Just when I think things are wrapping up and that I’ve somehow, miraculously managed to escape from Dante’s second circle of hell unscathed, the Red Unicorn shifts.
He clears his throat.
A silent, reflexive prayer escapes my thoughts.Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death…
Florence shushes everyone. “I think the handsome, mysterious newcomer wants to say something.”
The Red Unicorn glances at her before fixing his gaze back on me. I resist the urge to press my eyes shut in the hopes that this will render me invisible. This is the moment, I’m certain, that he’s seen straight through me, and I will be outed as a perma-virgin.
“Where did his gun go?”
Of all the things I feared the Red Unicorn would ask me, this is not one of them. For a very brief moment, I wonder if he’s using a euphemism for Axel’s penis, but that doesn’t seem likely. “Sorry?”
“You mention Axel is wearing his service weapon at the beginning. Then about midway through when they’re”—the Red Unicorn shifts slightly—“tearing each other’s clothes off, you don’t mention him removing it and setting it down. So when she’s ripping off his pants with her teeth?—”
“The gun would go clattering to the floor and let the mobsters know they’re hiding in the back.” Deb nods her agreement. “Well spotted.”
Surely this can’t be all. Surely I cannot get off this easily. (No double entendre intended.) “Okay. Great. I will make sure Axel sets it on the shelf before”—I feel my cheeks pinkening—“Rosamund removes his pants. Thank you.”
It is maybe the longest exchange the two of us have ever had in the several weeks that the Red Unicorn has been coming to the library. My gaze catches on his for a moment and holds. I wonder what he thinks of my pages, beyond the detail of the gun. He was paying attention, that much is clear from his comment. But what does he think? Did it…stir him in any way?
I don’t have too long to dwell on the thought, because Barb starts going over the details for the next meeting, coordinating everyone’s schedules and arranging for Frank to send out his pages. All the while, I do my best to pretend to be engaged, though I half worry, half hope the Red Unicorn will leave just as silently and mysteriously as he arrived, before I have a chance to…what? Talk to him? Ask him if he thinks Rosamund should moan or whimper when Axel’s tongue laps her nipple through her lace bra?
