AllFreeNovel
Share Us
"No interviews."
"Okay, we'll wait on that. I'll start with booksellers and librarians. They love hot male authors and, trust me, their standards aren't that high. Author-attractive is a whole different scale."
He rose. "No tour. No interviews. No booksellers. No librarians. It's in my contract. If you have a problem with that, please speak to my agent."
#
Patrick walked along the corridors of the old lecture hall, in search of the son he hadn't seen in three years. Three years since Seanna flounced off and left their fifteen-year-old to fend for himself on the streets of Chicago. Then Gabriel himself had vanished, only surfacing long enough to contact his great-aunt Rose and assure her that he was fine. As for his father? Well, as far as Gabriel knew, his father--whoever he might be--was long out of the picture.
Last month, while Patrick was traveling, Gabriel had shown up in Cainsville. Just appeared on Rose's doorstep as if returning from a summer vacation. Oh, and by the way, I've finished high school and I'm starting college next week. Gabriel had lived on the streets for three years, and yet managed to stay in school without raising any alarms while earning both the grades he needed and the tuition fees for college.
A remarkable boy.
Fae compulsion and charm had won Patrick his son's schedule, and he was making his way toward the lecture hall when he spotted him.
He's grown.
Patrick rolled his eyes at the thought. Terribly cliche. But also true. Gabriel had always been tall for his age and too thin for his bone structure, all elbows and knees and jutting shoulders. Now he'd fulfilled the promise of that build.
Gabriel had to be six-foot-four and over two hundred pounds. He strode down the hall like a linebacker with a ball, other students scrambling out of his way. Unruly black wavy hair. Strong features. Square face. Pale skin and pale blue eyes. He looked like a Walsh, which meant that Patrick suspected his new young publicist might not use the adjective "hot" to describe his son.
The eyes didn't help. On Gabriel, those Walsh eyes were almost freakishly pale. Right now, they were fixed straight ahead. He steered clear of other students as much as they steered clear of him. No companions st
rolled at his side. No classmates hailed him in the hall. No one even offered a smile or a greeting. And, yes, perhaps Patrick had wished for more, but this was the Gabriel he knew. On his own. Happy to be left there.
Gabriel slowed and steered right just a little, putting him on a trajectory with a gaggle of older students, laughing and talking together. Pulled to them in spite of himself? A subconscious longing for that kind of camaraderie? Or just envying their upper middle-class attire, the expensive sneakers and designer jeans contrasting with his thrift-shop clothes.
Gabriel continued in their direction, moving faster, closing the gap. While there was room to slip past, he walked right through the group, weaving and dodging, not making them step aside, just politely moving through. Then sharp movement rippled through the group, one boy jostling another, who shoved him back with a, "Watch it!"
Patrick smiled. Gabriel continued through the group unnoticed and, sure enough, as he moved past them, his hand slid into his back pocket, depositing the money he'd picked from one boy's pocket.
"Well done," Patrick murmured.
He watched Gabriel walk away and thought of going after him. Making contact. But the moment had passed. Gabriel was swinging into his classroom.
Another time, then. Patrick was going to take that step. Make contact. Forge a relationship. Not as Gabriel's father, of course, but as something. His son was back, and this time, Patrick would be something to him.
#
A week later, Patrick received an urgent message from his agent. Lisa had done an end-run around him already, going straight up the chain of command to his publisher. She'd discovered a loophole in his contract. While he didn't need to tour or give interviews or meet with booksellers, he was apparently obligated to attend any local events honoring the literary merit of his work.
Patrick's agent took responsibility for the loophole, but it wasn't her fault. They both knew the clause was there, and Patrick had told her not to bother fighting it. He wrote paranormal romance. The chances of him getting an award for literary merit were about the same as the chance of the sun colliding with the earth tomorrow. What they hadn't counted on was Lisa. She'd found--and likely bribed--some obscure Chicago literary society to bestow an award on him next month.
Patrick could rail at that. But he was a bocan. Tricks were his stock in trade, and all he could say to this particular one was a genuine "well-played" to Lisa. She'd won this fairly, and he would comply.
Patrick's publisher wanted to send a car service to pick up him for his big ceremony. While Patrick was never averse to arriving in style, there was no way in hell he was giving out his home address. That was the point of having a post-office box.
So he drove himself to the event, and he would admit to an ego-prick when he arrived to find himself not at some grand theater, but a small, ancient community center in a less-than-stellar neighborhood. The center didn't even have a parking lot, probably because few of its patrons would have cars.
One advantage to being fae was that he had no problem walking through that neighborhood. Even dressed in a smart jacket, pressed trousers and expensive loafers, he sauntered down that dark sidewalk, his jaunty gait almost daring predators to come sniffing. No, not almost. He was daring them. And they responded. They crept out from their alleys and their recessed doorways, and he'd turn and look straight at them and smile . . . and they'd retreat to await more promising prey. It was the smile that did it, the flash of teeth and glitter of not-quite-human eyes, igniting a fear deep in the gut, the age-old fear that had once kept peasants in their homes at night, whispering about the fair folk and the traps they laid for the unwary.
It was a lovely game, and by the time Patrick reached the community center, he was in high spirits. High enough that when Lisa appeared, jogging down the road in her high heels, he greeted her with a smile of genuine welcome.
"Oh my God, thank goodness I caught you," she said. "I tried to call, but you'd already left and . . ." Deep breaths. "Okay, okay, I caught you in time. They want us to go in the back, so you aren't swept away in the crowd."
He perked up at the word "crowd" and strained to hear them, picturing people streaming through the front doors, the auditorium filling with hundreds of excited readers, strumming with anticipation, eager to hear his words, to have him sign their books . . .
The street stayed silent. There was no crowd. Deep down, he knew that. If he were a literary writer, they'd stream in for an evening of highbrow entertainment. If he were a mega-seller, they'd crowd in to catch a glimpse of their bookish version of a rock star. But he was a guy who sold enough genre fiction to make a good living and hit a few bestseller lists, and while he might put butts in chairs for a signing, his readers wouldn't come out for an award ceremony.
