“Okay, here it goes. I’m a romance author,” she confesses.
My eyebrows shoot up into my hairline as I take in her admission. “Like sex? Do you write porn, Britton?” I ask in a teasing tone.
She hums before laughing. “It’s called smut, LoneStar,” she corrects me. “Yes, and no. My stories are more about the couple fighting against the odds and coming together. I like the grit and the angst. Yes, sex is an important part of relationships, I’m not discounting that nor am I demeaning the authors who make it a necessary part of their characters’ foundation. But for me, if a couple’s story is based solely around that carnal chemistry, there’s no depth to who they are as individuals or as a couple. That’s just my personal take on it, but kudos to those who can make it work along with the details of the story, it’s just not how I do it. I want my readers to fall in love with my characters, I want them to celebrate alongside them as they face challenges and come out the victors, not needing their vibrators to ease the ache between their legs. If they need that, they can hit up one of the pornographic streaming sites to ease that itch.”
“But doesn’t sex sell better than the standard romance book?” I ask, curious about what she’s against it.
“Readers have various tastes. They’re eclectic, smart, and like to shake things up. They’ll read a book full of raw passion, then switch gears and find something that pulls at their heartstrings. It’s why I love what I do. All of us authors are unique in the way we tell stories, we can let our imaginations run wild. Some of us narrate the stories and some of us tell it from our characters’ point of view. I’m not only an author, though, I’m an avid reader so I know how it is to be drawn to one genre then finding another one that makes my soul sing.”
“Do you read books that are sex based?” I inquire, wanting further insight into her as a person and understanding her profession.
“Yes,” she admits. “Just because I don’t write a sex scene in every other chapter, doesn’t mean I don’t enjoy reading them. Some people have a knack for writing them, and some don’t. I fall in the second category. I’ll give one, maybe two, in my books, but there’s so much going on with my town and the people in it that it’d deter from the story I’m trying to tell.”
“Like what? What do you have going on that’s so important that the man isn’t getting his dick wet on a regular basis?” I ask, taunting her.
“You want a list?” she asks, her laughter ringing through the receiver.
“Would be interested in knowing how you can write an entire romance book without the couple getting down and dirty more than once or twice,” I respond.
CHAPTER
NINE
Britton
This isone of the funnest conversations I’ve had in a long damn time. It’s not often I get to talk to people who know me, the real me, not the moniker I use on social media to talk about what I do and why I do it. “Let’s see, in one of my series, they’re dealing with a serial killer. In another, there’s a kidnapping ring where they’re auctioning off people like they’re livestock.”
“What?” he splutters out the question. “How do you even begin to research those topics?”
“You’d be surprised what information is out on the internet, LoneStar. I even happened upon a real site where they were selling people of different ages, genders, and skin color while researching that subject on my computer for the series. I turned what I found into the authorities because I was so disgusted and appalled that I couldn’t let it stay online so people could bid on living, breathing, human beings without doing something about it. My conscience wouldn’t have allowed it. I had to be proactive.”
“It would’ve eaten you alive,” he states, knowing me well enough to say that. “Nobody with any sort of moral compass could’ve left that alone without reporting it.”
“The internet is a scary place to navigate sometimes,” I admit, hating that there are really individuals out there that make a profit off others in such evil-minded ways.
“Tell me about what you’re working on now?” he asks, changing the focus of our chat onto one that isn’t so depressing.
“I’m working on something that’s completely different to anything I’ve ever published. It’s based around a fairytale, but more realistic. I have both supernatural and paranormal themes going on.”
“Aren’t they the same thing?” he inquires.
“I guess that depends on how you look at it. I told you, I’m imaginative. When I break it down in my mind, supernatural beings have magical gifts such as witchcraft, psychic abilities, and things along those lines. Paranormal is full of shifters, skinwalkers, and such. But when they work hand-in-hand, they become supernormals.”
“You made that up on the fly,” he chokes out, laughing like a hyena. “Supernormals. You’ve created a new phenomenon.”
“I did,” I concur. “You have to admit, it’s a snazzy word.” I’m sure somewhere out there in the universe, somebody’s used that name to combine the two entities, but it feels good to take the credit if it makes him laugh out loud like he is now.
We continue talking, me telling him about the premises for my work in progress, and him telling me about the comedic things happening around the clubhouse. All in all, it’s a good talk andthe more we chat, the more comfortable I begin to feel about coming back and facing him after what I did.
Over the last few days, I’ve been receiving calls that are unidentifiable. At first, I thought they were spam or robo calls so I didn’t answer, but today, after the tenth time of them calling me in a row and blowing my phone up with their annoyingly intrusive calls, interrupting my work time, I broke down and accepted it.
“What?” I bark, irritated beyond belief.
If someone needs to hide who they are when they dial my number, I don’t have to answer with a mediocre amount of respect. Heavy breathing greets me, and it causes shivers to dance along my skin. I hold it between my ear and shoulder, listening for any detail that may help me uncover who it is. But there’s nothing outside of whoever’s releasing air into the phone.
“Listen, creep. Stop fucking calling me. You’re disturbed and need psychological help.”
I hang up and go into my settings, banning incoming calls that don’t have a verifiable name or a visual number associated with the caller. Once I’ve taken care of that, I put my phone back onto the cushion of the outside swing and continue working on my scene. Not even three minutes later, it starts all over again.
