Stirred (9 page)

“@SeanBennett
  THX for making the worst day ever that much better IOU <3 :)”

Satisfied, I stashed my phone away and snuggled in for what I prayed would be a dreamless night’s sleep, but knew would most likely not be.

“Fuck my life,” I sighed and closed my eyes.

The next morning, I woke to an empty house. Declan was off playing golf, and Ian had left a note, informing me he and his girlfriend, Gracie, were spending the day kayaking on Lake Union in Seattle. Relieved I wouldn’t need to put my game face on first thing, I dusted off the pot of coffee, grateful Ian had brewed it rather than his father. Declan preferred his coffee weak, even in the dreariest months, something I could never understand.

I used the remote to turn the local TV news on low, wanting the company, but not the annoyance. I much preferred to get my news via the Internet, so I grabbed my iPad from the counter and sat down at the kitchen table to sip my coffee and see what had transpired overnight. It didn’t take long to get my fill of gang shootings, terrorist bombings, and the threat of pandemic disease.

“Wonderful. How ‘bout Facebook, instead,” I mumbled to myself, quickly disappointed when it didn’t prove any better. Not that I was surprised. The social media site had slowly evolved into a toxic dump full of hate-filled vitriol and shameless self-promotion, not that I could blame anyone for that last point. I was guilty of the same from time to time.

“Okay, maybe not,” I muttered with a grimace, adding, “Let’s try Twitter then,” as I opened up the app. I preferred Twitter anyway. Less personal. Not as dangerous. And I could promote to my heart’s content. Or my publisher’s anyway.

The whole tooting-my-own-horn thing was a somewhat contentious issue with my publisher. They wanted me to expand my platform, reach out and “touch my fans,” they’d said, start a discourse, all of which I was more than willing to do, but, unfortunately, too often, some of those fans took that notion of touching a bit too seriously, so I’d started pulling back a little.

While I loved bantering back and forth with readers, I didn’t appreciate those who thought my book was somehow a personal reflection of my own lifestyle. Didn’t they realize that I, as a novelist, wrote fiction? Giving my “fans” the benefit of the doubt, my new rule was
three-strikes-you’re-out
. Meaning, with the exception of the dreaded dick pic, which warranted immediate dismissal, if I’d warned them regarding their first two strikes, after the third come-on, proposition, or stalkerish move, they were out. Gone. Blocked.

Uh, buh-bye. I don’t need your bullshit, pal.

Especially now that I had plenty of my own.

I will admit though, interacting with most of my readers was a real joy. Writers never tire of hearing that someone enjoyed their book. Hell, even the not-so-great critiques were awesome from time to time, as they, one, meant that they’d bought the damn book at the very least, two, had probably read it, and three, their feedback was often quite valuable and taught me how to improve my craft. And that was never a bad thing.

“Neither are these retweets,” I said aloud as I checked my Twitter feed. “Gotta love those RTs.” I smiled as I counted over two hundred from yesterday alone.
Not too shabby, Eden.

I tweeted my appreciation right back, a laborious chore, but well worth it.

Free advertising
, I reminded myself, then clicked on the profile of the follower who’d tweeted me last night, noting he’d been busy retweeting almost every single post I’d made over the last two days. He’d even sent out a couple of his own, praising my debut,
Joust
, as he read through the night.

“Why, thank you, Mr. Bennett,” I said and chuckled as images of Donald Sutherland, father to Keira Knightley’s Elizabeth Bennett, danced in my head. “Wow,” I added, sitting up a little straighter.

His tweets were not the ordinary and oft seen call-to-action—
you gotta
read this book!
They were direct commentaries on the story. It was rare for readers to engage and actually discuss my book, except to say they loved it or whatever. Of course, those were great, too, but my whole body buzzed like a live wire with the prospect of debating content. And the points he’d brought up were some of the very reasons I’d written the book in the first place.

Scrolling through, his first tweet made me smile…

“@EdenMacLaird ~ No rape, bondage or sex slaves & yet still titillating. Imagine that! #KeepingItReal #amreading #Joust #DarkEroticRomance”

The next had me sighing in relief…

“@EdenMacLaird ~ Happy to see June & Remi don’t fall into insta-love. #KeepingItReal #amreading #Joust #DarkEroticRomance”

And the last made me giggle…

“@EdenMacLaird ~ WTF She doesn’t swallow? At long last, erotic romance with class! #KeepingItReal #amreading #Joust #DarkEroticRomance”

Actually, it made me spit out my coffee as I outright belly-laughed.

“Oh shit!” I cursed and ran for a towel to clean the spray off my tablet. Once the touchscreen was spotless again, I settled in, deep in thought, wondering how best to respond to my newest, and rather audacious, fan.

“@SeanBennett ~ THX! Glad U approve, though I’m surprised U read #DarkEroticRomance, being a guy & all - ENJOY ;P”

I tittered in excitement and laid my iPad down flat, telling myself I wouldn’t sit and wait for a reply. What I would do, however, was prowl through his profile.

“Okay, who are you exactly, Sean Bennett?” I asked aloud as I began to poke around. “
Third-year law student
. Cool. And at the U-Dub, too. Nice. Means you’re smart. Obviously. I mean, look at your tweets to
me
.” I smiled at the small boost to my ego and read on, my heart skipping at the rest of his profile. “
Triathlete
. Wow.
Devoted son & brother.
Aw, that’s sweet.
Owner of a broken heart
? Hm. Wonder what happened there? Probably just a gimmick to pick-up chicks.”

I scrolled through some of his older tweets, mostly commentary on current events, Major League Baseball, and constitutional law. I clicked on a few of the links he included in his more acerbic posts.

“Ah, an idealistic progressive.” I shook my head, sighing at the luxury of the highly-educated youth. “Just wait ‘til you start paying taxes on that wad you’ll soon be earning, Mr. Sean Bennett…
Esquire
.” I emphasized at the end.

My finger slid up and down the screen, moving from one post to another, but for all his treatise on social issues, there was very little personal content. Taking note of his obvious disdain of America’s obsession with selfies, I figured he’d post very few photos of himself, but, scrolling through his myriad of twit-pics, I could find none at all, not even his avatar, which was simply a logo for the San Francisco Giants.

There was one third-party crowd shot of him at what appeared to be the finish line of a triathlon. He was pushing a sporty wheelchair with a young child in it. I squinted hard, trying to discern what he looked like, but he and his companion were at an angle to the camera and too far away to see much detail. He was fit, I’ll give him that. Compared to the crowd around him, he was tall, broad-shouldered, well-defined, and very lean. His hair was a bit shaggy, but then he’d just run a marathon, so…

“Geez, Eden, get a grip. He’s a kid, for God’s sake,” I scolded myself.

Well, sort of, I thought a moment later. Young, yes, but still a man. And rather hot, too. 

“Ugh!” I groaned and pushed my tablet away. “It’s not you. It’s everything that happened last night. With Declan and Reely, with that guy at the bar. It’s messing with your head, Eden. They’re all messing with your head.” With my fingers at both temples, I stood and walked over to the double-wide fridge.

“You hungry, Minka?” I asked when my kitty sauntered into the room with a plaintive cry. “Yeah, me, too, baby. Let’s see what we have.”

While Minka mewed and weaved a figure eight between my ankles, I rummaged through the shelves, pulling out a foil pack of day-old grilled salmon for her and a strawberry yogurt for myself. I laid a tiny portion of the fish down on the floor then dove into the yogurt like it was my last meal on earth. Come to think of it, I hadn’t eaten at the bar last night, unusual for me. No nachos or guacamole. No sopapillas or churros. Then I recalled why and instantly lost my appetite.

This husband-cheating-with-my-best-friend thing might prove to be the best diet yet, which really pissed me off, because I dearly loved food. Disgusted, I threw my half-eaten yogurt away and was just about to go take a shower when my iPad pinged from the kitchen table. I walked over to silence it and saw the Twitter notification—not a tweet, but rather a direct message from one Sean Bennett.

“You are bold, Mr. Bennett, I’ll give you that,” I said and swiped to retrieve the DM.

Sean Bennett:
You don’t think a guy can appreciate erotic romance, dark or otherwise?

I stared at the blue text bubble next to his Twitter avatar, excited he’d had the balls to personally engage, but unsure if it was wise for me to respond. He appeared intelligent, if a bit sardonic. Innocuous, yet challenging at the same time. But was he dangerous? While I welcomed public repartee via tweets, direct messaging was something else altogether. A little too personal for my comfort, but this guy had aroused something in me. I’m not sure what…
or
why. Maybe it was last night’s incident in the men’s room, or perhaps it was a base desire to get even with my husband. Either way, that young hottie in the bar had planted a seed I couldn’t help nurturing.

My head screamed at me to simply delete the message, while my gut urged me forward. There was no evidence this Sean Bennett person ever engaged with the purpose of anything other than witty discourse, to challenge an adversary. He knew damn well he was smart and liked to exhibit as much. And I was not one to run from a debate. So I thought about it then typed in my response…

Eden MacLaird:
I think men are more visual & appreciate images over words on the page.

I bit my lip and stared at the screen, wondering if he was standing by, waiting for my reply like I was his. That’s when it hit me, how ridiculous I was acting, so I clicked off the app and was just about to set the tablet aside when notification of his answer popped up. I couldn’t help but grin, though my finger shook slightly as it swiped it away and opened the message.

Sean:
As I appreciate YOUR image, but some of us goons can glean a visceral response from words on the page, as well. We aren’t all Neanderthals.

I sucked in a short breath. Where had I heard that before? I couldn’t help but wonder…

Eden:
Have we met? You remind me of someone.

I braced for his answer.

Sean:
That would be a very lucky someone, and I’ve never been especially lucky.

I let out my breath in relief, but perplexed as to why. I suppose I didn’t want to have to ban him so soon, worried he might be a stalker. But that posed another why in my mind, like why I even cared.

“Because he’s smart. And interesting,” I argued with myself. “And why shouldn’t I, anyway? It’s not like Declan cares.” Pissed I was getting all mopey again, I decided it was time to cut this short.

Eden:
You’re too smooth, Mr. Bennett. Sorry, gotta go. Nice chatting. Enjoy the book.

I sent my last message and had nearly signed off when a reply lit up the screen.

Sean:
I’ve offended you. My apologies. I deal with facts & state things as I see them.

I sat and gazed at the screen, feeling guilty over my abruptness. Again, not sure why. But what I did know was, I didn’t want to end our conversation. Thinking about all the things I’d given up for Declan, I decided it was time I did exactly as
I
wished for a change, and if that was cultivating an online relationship with an intelligent, educated young person who just happened to enjoy my book and appreciate my looks, well, so be it. There wasn’t anything wrong with that, and I felt certain there was nothing to fear.