Heartsville 01 - Bookmarked (Piper Vaughn) (2 page)

Mark inclined his head. “True.” He might’ve launched into super-fan mode that day, but Shepherd… talk about an overreaction. Mark regretted not giving the guy a piece of his mind.
Childhood baggage rears its ugly head.
He could only blame all those years of listening to his parents argue before his mom packed up her car and took off. Now he avoided conflict like the Wicked Witch of the West avoided sprinklers.

When people first met Mark and encountered the full power of his sunshine-and-rainbow-fart personality, as his ex-boyfriend had called it, they tended to assume he’d had some idealistic, Beaver Cleaver upbringing. But for most of his life, it had been just him and his dad, Bruno, struggling to make ends meet. His father had kept a positive outlook and passed it on to Mark. He’d supported Mark’s dream of opening up a bookstore even when so many around the nation had closed. Every day Mark wished he could do more for his dad. Instead, it was Bruno helping him, as he’d always done.

He couldn’t lose Bookmarked, for both their sakes. If he could get Shepherd to agree to a signing, his first signing
ever
, it might just be the key to saving the store. Mark had no doubt the readers would line up around the block. And once more people knew about Bookmarked, he could implement some of his other ideas to increase their day-to-day business. But first, he needed something big, something to put Bookmarked firmly on the map.

“I’m going to e-mail him,” Mark said, lifting his chin.

Adam nodded his approval. “Go get him, tiger.”

Two

The following morning, Mark sat at the computer in his office, his fingers poised above the keyboard. It hadn’t taken long to find contact information for Shepherd. His well-organized website included several options: e-mail, PO Box, agent address, and his blog, which appeared to be dedicated to writing tips and book recommendations. He updated regularly but aside from that had zero social media presence. Mark wasn’t surprised. He couldn’t imagine grave, taciturn Shepherd composing witty tweets or worrying about creative hashtags.

Now Mark was on draft number three of the e-mail. He’d already trashed two messages as he agonized over how to phrase his request. If he kept nitpicking, he’d be stuck at his desk all day long, but he couldn’t shake the apprehension. He didn’t want to embarrass himself in front of Shepherd a second time, though the barrier of the Internet did bolster his courage.

“Screw it.”

Mark deleted the four lines he’d already written, set his fingers to the keys, and started typing again.

From:
[email protected]

To:
[email protected]

Dear Mr. Knight,

My name is Mark Werner, and I own Bookmarked here in Heartsville. In an effort to draw more book lovers and business to our fair city, I’m planning a signing weekend at the beginning of October. I intend to invite several local authors, both indie and traditionally published. I’m writing to ask if you’d be interested in being our featured author on Saturday the 3rd. I know you don’t ordinarily do signings, but with so many bookstores closing over the last few years, I’m sure you recognize the importance of Bookmarked to Heartsville. We’re a tight-knit community, and since you yourself have used the store as a writing space in the past, I was hoping I might be able to convince you to make an appearance. I’m sure your fans would be thrilled at the chance to meet you, and we at Bookmarked would consider it an honor to host you.

Please let me know at your earliest convenience.

Thank you.

Mark typed his name and reread the e-mail. Did it sound too desperate? Too flattering? Had he crossed the line into outright brownnosing?

Before he could second-guess himself again, he hit Send.

As the confirmation message popped up, tension cramped Mark’s stomach. He sucked in a shaky breath and tapped out a restless beat on the surface of his desk. It wasn’t only the fear of rejection that made him nervous. The very fate of Bookmarked, his livelihood, hung in the balance. Shepherd’s agreement could be what he needed to salvage the business. Or at least give it a much-needed boost.

Exhaling slowly, Mark shook off the the worry and stood.

It was done. Maybe Shepherd would shock him and say yes. At worst, he’d refuse. Then, onto Plan B… as soon as he actually came up with a Plan B.

Mark had kept the store afloat for five years. He’d find a way to save Bookmarked, with or without Shepherd Knight.

For now, he’d give his pessimistic attitude a necessary kick in the ass. He had work to do. He didn’t have time to wallow. The fall display in the children’s section wasn’t going to set itself up.

Straightening his glasses and pasting on a smile, Mark left the office.

****

Two weeks later, without any reply from Shepherd, Mark’s resolve abruptly abandoned him.

What the hell was Shepherd’s problem? How rude could he be, to not even acknowledge Mark’s e-mail? If he didn’t want to do the signing, fine, but out of politeness, he should’ve written back to decline the invitation. Apparently the man hadn’t come across the definition of
common courtesy
in all his years of writing. Maybe Mark should send him a “pro tip” about e-mail etiquette. Or maybe civility in general. Shepherd clearly lacked in that arena.

Mark huffed and dismissed the idea. No, he didn’t need to resort to passive-aggressive pettiness. He hated that sort of drama. This situation demanded a more straightforward approach. Shepherd might be able to ignore an e-mail, but if Mark could get him on the phone and appeal to his sense of compassion—well, if he
had
any—then maybe….

Head tilted, Mark considered the computer screen. Could it be as easy as doing an online search for Shepherd’s number?

Well, what did he have to lose? With a shrug, Mark brought up the website he needed. A few keystrokes later, he’d found an S. Knight with a local number.

There were probably dozens of “S. Knights” in Illinois. Hell, Shepherd Knight might be a pseudonym. His real name could be Rudolfo for all Mark knew. But it wouldn’t hurt to try. If a stranger answered, he’d apologize. No harm, no foul.

Mark picked up the handset on his desk and dialed the number. It rang four times before a low, gruff voice said, “Hello?”

“Uh. Yes, um….” Mark cringed. What a brilliant opener. “May I speak to Shepherd Knight?”

“This is.”

Mark cleared his throat. “The author of
The Drake Chronicles
?”

A long beat of silence. “Who’s asking?”

“Mark Werner. You might not remember me, but—”

“I remember,” Shepherd interrupted. “How’d you get this number?”

“You’re listed.”

“Fuck,” Shepherd muttered. “I’ve told them three times to take that down.”

Mark rushed on before he lost his nerve. “Mr. Knight, I’m calling to—”

“I know why you’re calling. I just can’t understand why you can’t take a hint. I’m not interested in your book signing. I thought you’d figure that out when I didn’t reply to your e-mail.”

Mark’s body flashed hot and cold. He wanted to hang up, shy away from the confrontation, but desperation forced him to continue. “Mr. Knight, I really hope you’ll reconsider. As I said in my message, I’m sure you’re aware that privately owned bookstores are closing down every day. It’s a constant struggle with these online giants and their discounted prices, but you have to admit, there’s nothing quite like the experience of browsing in person and being able to hold the book in your hand, of smelling the paper. It’s—”

“I don’t care about your little bookstore, all right?” Shepherd snapped. “It’s a buyer’s market. If you can’t handle the competition, you’re in the wrong fucking business.”

Mark’s mouth dropped open. For a moment, he was too stunned to speak. His hand jerked, pure instinct driving him to slam the phone into its cradle, to avoid the conflict, but before he could give in to the temptation, his mouth started running. “Seriously?” he asked, high and sharp. “Why do you have to be such a dick? I’ve never been anything but polite to you. This is the second time you’ve treated me like shit, and I really don’t deserve it. So just a tip for future reference: you can say no without being an asshole. Good-bye.”

Mark replaced the handset without waiting for a reply. Eyes stinging, he removed his glasses and tossed them on the desktop. He pressed the heels of his palms into his sockets and blew out a shuddering breath.
Jesus. What a disaster.
He wouldn’t even have attempted to call Shepherd if the stress wasn’t killing him a little bit more every day. And now he’d called his favorite author a dick
and
an asshole. Not that Shepherd hadn’t earned it, but still.

Fuck my life.

He’d thought their last encounter had humiliated him. That was nothing compared to this. Mark wished he could go back in time and stop himself from dialing Shepherd’s number. More than that, he regretted letting his temper get the best of him. He didn’t usually resort to childish name-calling. But he’d never been treated with such blatant rudeness, and it hurt more coming from someone he’d admired for so long.

Most authors he’d met were gracious and humble, eager to meet their readers, discuss their work, and bond over the shared love of books. The thread of common interest tied them all together. But maybe it was better not to know the real person behind the name. Then he’d never run the risk of being so disillusioned again.

Disappointment lingered on his tongue like a bitter aftertaste. Still, he should’ve been the better man. Should’ve thanked Shepherd, hung up, and let that be the end of it.

If there’d been any hope of convincing Shepherd, it was long gone.

Damn.

Three

Few things made Mark happier than a pumpkin scone and a huge mocha latte. He smiled to himself as he snagged one of the corner tables at Market Café, the coffeehouse a few doors down from Bookmarked. Vanilla glaze coated his upper lip and cinnamon swirled across his taste buds as he sank his teeth into the sweet, crumbly pastry. For one blissful moment, Mark forgot about the disastrous conversation he’d had with Shepherd Knight. The one that’d been playing in his head on an unbroken loop for the last seven days.

God bless pumpkin-spice season. My favorite time of year.
It was the little things in life. Mark couldn’t even find it in himself to feel embarrassed about his porn-worthy moan.

Someone laughed beside him. “Should I come back later?”

He looked up to see Aaron, the owner of Market Café, watching him with amused green eyes. Aaron arched his brows, and Mark shook his head, quickly swallowing his mouthful. He grinned at Aaron. “Sorry. I got carried away. These things are awesome.”

Aaron chuckled and took the seat across from him. “They’re our biggest seasonal seller. We have a hard time keeping them in the case.”

“For good reason.” Mark wiped his sticky fingers on a napkin and took a sip of his latte to wet his throat.

“So you wanted to place an order?” Aaron pulled a small notebook from one of the pockets on his apron. “The first weekend in October, right? Sorry to cut straight to it, but we’re short-staffed today. Clara is down with the flu.”

“Oh no, it’s fine. I have to get back soon anyway.” Mark knew all about being short-staffed. He practically lived at Bookmarked. “Yeah, we’ll be hosting signings all weekend. I’ve already got a few authors booked, and I thought it’d be a good idea to have some sort of refreshment table. Coffee, water, juices. Sandwiches, muffins. That sort of thing.”

Aaron scribbled something in his notebook. “Well, we can definitely handle that. How many people are you expecting each day?”

Mark gnawed at his lower lip. He’d been trying and failing to think of a conservative estimate all morning. It might be feast or famine, depending on how many people responded to the posts he’d made on Bookmarked’s various social media accounts and the fliers he planned to print and distribute around town. He also intended to hit up a few reader forums in the next day or two. Last-minute events weren’t the norm—it made travel harder for out-of-staters—but desperate times. He couldn’t afford the luxury of delaying the signings to build more traction. Not when a month of bad sales was all that stood between him breaking even and being forced to dip into his own meager savings to cover overhead expenses.

Mark sighed inwardly. He should’ve acted when he first noticed sales declining. They’d never been phenomenal, but for a time, he’d had more than enough business to be comfortable. He’d felt in his bones the situation would turn around eventually. Now he was paying the price for that blind optimism. Wouldn’t be the first time his things-get-better attitude had come back to bite him in the ass. Probably wouldn’t be the last either. It wasn’t his style to view the glass as half-empty.