Page 25 of Haunted Spurs

But we all know how the internet works. For every person ready to support you and cheer you on, there's always some asshole hiding behind a keyboard ready to spew unprovoked bullshit.

As I scrolled, I inevitably stumbled across them. "She lost her touch, her latest endings are weak"; "She's a classic washed-up author who just wants fame now, which is why she's doing a reality show"; "She's such a failure she moved back to her tiny hometown," and one recurring comment that made my blood boil: "Jim was right about her, she's a bitter bitch."

And speaking of which, who the fuck is this Jim? An ex-boyfriend? An old manager? I have no idea, but I do know that I wish he were standing in front of me right now so I could explain a few things to him with my fists.

I’m pissed off on her behalf.

I have no idea if Selene is the kind of person who reads every single review, or if she obsessively Googles her own name to see what people are saying online. But I know what it feels like to be judged by people who don't know the first thing about you, and I know that beneath that armor of sarcasm and grumpiness, she's hiding an entire world. I'm a fucking fan of hers. And one way or another, I want to be there to show her my support. Even if it just means standing in the back of a coffee shop.

The atmosphere is cozy and intimate.

The couches and chairs are arranged in a horseshoe. In the center, Sebastian Devereaux is reading a passage from Selene's novel out loud. There's an almost religious silence among the girls in the club.

And then her eyes lock onto mine. She’s just realized I’m here.

Selene is sitting in a leather armchair. Her back is stiff and straight against the cushions. The expression on her gorgeous face is completely unreadable—a wax mask. I can't tell if she's tense, anxious, annoyed, or happy right now.

But I do know one thing. The exact second she sees me, when our eyes meet over the crowd, her expression shifts. It's an imperceptible change, but it's there. The tension in her shoulders eases by a fraction of an inch. The hard line of her jaw suddenly seems... softer.

And so I do the only thing I’m good at in situations like this. Play the jackass.

I raise a hand, tip my Stetson for a second in an exaggerated, theatrical gesture, and grin at her—a huge, bright, beaming smile that clearly says: I’m here, and I’m cheering for you.

For one eternal second, Selene fights herself. And then she loses.

A smile—less microscopic, less imperceptible, and less restrained than her usual hints—unmistakably lifts the corners of her lips, and I instantly become the happiest “new cowboy” on the entire planet.

I swear, I could pop a bottle of champagne right here. I could jump onto the nearest table and start tap dancing. I feel an almost uncontrollable urge to hang a giant banner right across Main Street that says, in massive, glow-in-the-dark letters: I MADE SELENE DUSK SMILE.

I might even get a commemorative pin made to stick on the brim of my Stetson, just so I can proudly carry this monumental achievement around Elm Hollow.

But if I did that, I know for a fact that Selene would murder me, and then use my bloody corpse as gruesome inspiration for the main kill in her next gothic novel.

So I try to keep my enthusiasm in check.

No, that's a lie.

I'm gloating on the inside.

9

Scary Movie

Selene

New-cowboy: You were great at the book club!

Me: So glad to hear it. You have no idea how important your approval is to me.

New-cowboy: You're being sarcastic, aren't you?

New-cowboy: Yeah, you are... I can see your eye roll from here.

New-cowboy: But you know what else I see? The corner of your mouth tugging upward

Ding-dong.

I stare at the light wood door in front of me and seriously evaluate my options. Option one: leave the bottle of Pinot Noir I'm holding on the welcome mat, turn on my heel, and flee into the night. Option two: clutch the bottle tight, take it home, and drink the whole thing by myself straight from the neck until I forget the last few days ever happened.