CHAPTER ONE

 

At around one o'clock, my book-signing reached another lull. The tiny crowd had dwindled to nothing. The customers passing the bookstore from that point on headed straight for the food mart for hot dogs, cheese nachos and crunchy onion rings.

No biggie, really. I was used to lulls. Since this was my first book-signing, I hadn't really known what to expect. I wasn't a best-selling novelist, so I hadn't expected CNN or Fox to show up. My first three novels hadn't done very well in the five years they'd been out. Though my fourth, Shock Wave, had done much better when it first came out, I held out little hope for its appearance on the New York Bestseller List.

I'd been writing professionally the last fifteen years. Since graduating from college with a degree in Web Design, I figured I could juggle my writing career with my own home software business.

For the last ten years, I've been moderately successful. I spend my mornings at my computer, web-designing for my online customers. I spend my afternoons and evenings writing suspense stories featuring a colourful leading character named P.J. Tibbs, who drinks too much, falls for the wrong women and always ends up being chased by mobsters, dope dealers or nasty street scum.

Like my first novel, Stone Cold Mannequin, Shock Wave is set in Miami, where Tibbs has gone to see his sister, Lorna, who's been having trouble with her ex, a dope peddler and part-time psychopath. Tired of living with a man constantly being hounded and beat-up by the mob, Lorna has moved on with her life. She's met the man of her dreams--a club owner much like Rich Blaine in the 1943 movie Casablanca--and no longer wants to be reminded of anything or anyone from her past.

Lorna's ex, Hector "Magic Fingers" Salazar, has other ideas. He has heard about her new life and would like to get his hands on her new boyfriend's assets. He finds out where she lives and begins calling her at all hours, using his charms to win her back. After several weeks of this, Lorna is ready for meds and has no idea how to get Salazar out of her life. Dick Lain, her new love, is a nice, honest guy. She doesn't want him to know about her problems. She doesn't have the money to pay someone to kill Salazar. And she certainly doesn't want to go back to her old life.

Out of sheer exasperation, she calls her brother P.J. and begs him to do something to fix this. P.J., an adrenaline-loving guy who was once a sniper for the Navy SEALS, immediately flies down to Miami to help his sister. A man of many talents, P.J. enlists the help of a few old friends now operating a massage parlour. Luring Salazar and two of his top men, the women orchestrate a fake murder that exposes Salazar and sets him up for a scam that brings in the FBI, putting him and his henchmen away for a long time.

My P.J. Tibbs books were selling copies, but not enough to put me in the same category as the big guys, who had summer beach homes in Tampa or Cocoa, a BMW or Ferrari sitting in the garage, and didn't have to waste their time with another job to buy groceries. My computer job enabled me to buy groceries, keep my second-hand Honda serviced, and make my mortgage payments for my three-story condo in Winter Park. I didn't have a beach house yet, but I was always hopeful.

At least I didn't have to worry about most of my money going out for alimony. Both my ex-wives were doing much better now than they were during our marriages. Alyssa, a former model, went back to her old profession and met a commercial advertiser, who decided to use her marketable assets in a highly successful soap campaign. Alyssa's armpits were the featured "stars" in the commercials. I couldn't blame the guy at all for wanting to use them. Alyssa always had sensational armpits.

Renee, my second wife, had fallen into a similarly rewarding situation. A former stewardess, she'd gone back to the skies and in no time hooked up with the manager of a large banking institution based in London.

Both women were now extremely happy in their new lives. They'd even sent me birthday cards, letting me know just how happy they were. Of course, this bit of news bothered me at first. No guy wants to be reminded of his failures, particularly when they involve matters of the heart. And none of us wants to face the realization that we're no longer the centre of a woman's universe.

However, when I finally came back to my sense and recalled how incredibly high-maintenance both women were, I realized just how lucky I was that they were no longer in my life.

The bookstore at the Winter Park Mall, in order to cash in on a local celeb, sponsored the book-signing for Shock Wave. Although I was local, I'd never considered myself a celebrity. Celebrities are almost like politicians. Although most are not nearly as bad or as greedy, they're invited to shindigs all the time. They eat for free and fly for free. If they're congenial and say they use a certain product, they'll also get free gifts. They might also be paid a lot of money for saying the right things at the right time to the right cameras.

I'd never been invited to eat for free in my entire life. Nor had I ever flown for free or given money or a gift for saying I used a specific product. I'm a published author, but I'm also small potatoes.

In between my P.J. Tibbs novels, I write other kinds of books. These books are the ones that make me the real money. They're the kind of stories you don't normally discuss in mixed company, or among people who are dressed up in formal ware and walk around twirling their brandy snifter while quoting Shakespeare. They're the kind of books men read when they're horny and want to imagine beautiful women and all sorts of strange things they'd like to do to them. For some reason, the audience for these kinds of books is much broader and more tolerant than the audience for suspense novels. But who am I to question this? I'm just the guy who writes them. Fortunately, my audience likes to read what I write.

Because I have a different audience for these books, I don't use my real name. I use my real name--R.L. Harris--for my P.J. Tibbs suspense series. I use my pen name--T. H. Long--for my Bondage Biker Babe series of BDSM books.

 

At one-fifteen, I decided to take a well-deserved break from the continued lull.

The lull had actually started nearly half an hour earlier. However, I've always been an optimistic sort of guy, blaming the total absence of autograph-seekers on the lunch hour and the fact that the crowded parking lot had made people half an hour late for their lunch.

At ten minutes after one, I scanned the bookstore one last time and declared the lull official. Claire, the skinny, white-haired bookstore owner and organizer of the book-signing, had already left my side. She'd said something about checking her emails and voicemail. I watched her sneaking into her office as soon she passed the counter. About two minutes after she closed her door, the smell of onion rings and grilled chicken drifting strongly out of the room through the bottom gap in the door told me she'd retreated to her office for more personal reasons.

Though Claire wasn't exactly the first female who'd deliberately lied to me, I still found myself hurt and a little betrayed by her abrupt exit. As a writer, I clearly understood the weaknesses of human beings. I just didn't understand a person's compulsion to lie for the most ridiculous reasons.

Since I hadn't eaten since breakfast, I decided to leave my post for a few minutes. I needed some strong coffee. I also wanted to find an eatery that served something other than cheese nachos, onion rings and burgers. At the moment, I wanted something classier, more expensive and more substantial. After all, I was a published novelist engaged in his very first book-signing. Why should I slip out for a few moments and grab something on the run when I deserved to be waited on, preferably by a skinny young babe who might recognize a local celeb by the special glimmer emanating from his aura?

A good argument if there ever was one. Even so, I'd promised Claire I'd stick to my post till three. Just because she'd deserted me didn't mean I should lower my own standards.

But since I didn't have the time to find a classy place, I decided to suck it up and grab something on the run. I could always find something stylish later on, once I left the mall and wanted to celebrate my first signing.

To be clear, I'm not the world's most highly-principled man. You don't reach the ripe old age of thirty-five these days by doing a good Honest Abe on a full-time basis. You might be honest in the very beginning, when you're young, on your own for the first time, and still cling to certain ideals you learned in high school. Hell, you might even keep your principles even after several years of being lied to, ignored, and rejected. But in the end, you'll find much more fun and much less stress by saying hell with it and just letting yourself go.

In this case, I was thinking more along the lines of building my audience. I figured it would be in my best interests to sign as many books I could. The longer I stuck around, the more people would see me.

My gut fussed even louder as I got up from the table. A few potential customers wandered around the store, drifting over toward the best sellers. None of them approached my table or even glanced my way. I hate snobby people. But rather than call them names and accuse them of not having the good taste to check out my stuff, I simply put them down as deadbeats and concentrated on my immediate task.

The fast food mart was just halfway down the hall, then down the next hall, past Frederick's of Hollywood. Since I've always been a good multi-tasker, I could find something somewhat digestible at the fast food mart and check out an interesting item or two--also somewhat digestible--in the Frederick's display window--on my way back to the bookstore.

I turned.

A fabulous, hot-looking young babe was walking right over to me.

My immediate reaction was to stop gawking.

I was a published author, for God's sake. Acting dignified came with the territory. It had been years since I'd acted like a babbling shithead in the presence of a gorgeous babe. I had no intention of reverting back to that level of insanity. Especially in a bookstore, standing in front of a table stacked with hardcover first editions of my latest novel.

Think high-class...

I took a deep breath and told myself to act my age ... and regain my former air of sophistication ... and close my mouth and wipe my chin...

I also told myself that once I recovered, I should look at this girl as if she was an actual living, breathing person ... and not just a hot-looking piece of ass.

But it was extremely difficult.

For several reasons.

The first and most important, of course, was that she really was a delicious, hot-looking piece of ass. Tall and slender in her blue shorts and red tank top, she had the kind of legs you'd expect to see in a Nair commercial. Her boobs were large and round, their nipples mashing forcefully against the material of the tank top. Her honey-blond hair plunged past her shoulders, bouncing like heavy golden springs as she moved. Her cornflower-blue eyes seemed too large for the rest of her fine-featured face. Her lips were thick and pouty, begging to be kissed.

It's the type of mouth a man wants to see sucking his dick or kissing his balls.

I was ashamed to admit it, but regarding this female as an actual person instead of a hot piece of ass would be like gazing at a delicious cut of charbroiled steak without imagining a juicy piece of it melting in your mouth.

"Are you the novel guy?" Her voice was soft and high-pitched--a little-girl's voice. It was the sort of voice that, if heard on the phone, would prompt you to ask to speak to her father or mother.

This was no surprise. She looked to be no more than eighteen or nineteen.

"That's me." I tried my best to concentrate on those beautiful blue eyes. I quickly discovered how difficult and unpleasant that was. My eyes kept wandering. I let them feast on that glistening curtain of gold, then those delicious, pouty lips. Then, of course, my gaze lowered, settling on that perky pair--first the right one, then the left, then both at the same time, although that was kind of impossible, considering their size. But when I tried looking at her face again, my focus instantly dropped, this time to her tanned, shapely legs.

I'm not only a leg man, but also a boob man and an ass man as well. Despite my original plan of maintaining my dignity and treating her as a living, breathing person, I wanted to ask her to please turn around. I wanted to see her ass. I knew I was being presumptuous by assuming that since the rest of her was perfect, her ass would also be perfect, but I'd never before seen a woman with perfect tits and perfect legs having anything but a perfect ass.

But even though I was able to keep my mouth from salivating, I couldn't help imaging this luscious beauty stripped and spread-eagled naked to the bed, a penis gag shoved into that gorgeous mouth, my own dick pumping her hot, wet pussy.

This girl didn't know it yet, but she'd just provided me with the perfect victim for the next chapter in my series, Bound Biker Babes.

"I'm up here," she said suddenly.

I snapped out of it. "Pardon?"

She pointed to her face. "Wanna look at my face for a sec?"

Shit. She'd noticed.

But that really was no surprise. A blind person would've noticed.

"I was. Am. See?" I pointed to my eyes and instantly realized I'd gone right back to junior high, when I first discovered my dick could be used for things other than just peeing.

"Now you are. Before, you weren't. You were looking at ... these." She pointed to her perky pair.

"I'm okay now. Really. And sorry about that." I shrugged. "I had one of those ... moments."

Her eyes grew. "Are you all right?"

"Depends on who you ask. I'm a guy. You know. Stupid?"

"You're cute," she said, smiling. "For a novel guy."

Reluctantly I forced myself to concentrate on reality. My present image of this girl--stripped naked, then bound with leather straps and suspended by chains--would have to wait. "Am I the first novel guy you've ever met?"

"In person."

What did she mean by that? "I don't exactly get what--"

"I've seen a few on TV."

I nodded.

"They're usually on those stations no one watches? The ones with the news? Or late at night, when everyone's sleeping and they've got that Larry King guy on, asking all these weird questions about things no one cares about."

"None of these novel guys do anything for you?"

She giggled. "Can't do much for me when they're on TV, can they?"

I strongly suspected I wasn't in the company of a nuclear scientist. However, everyone knew that a woman looking like this one could go through life with just a couple of working brain cells and still achieve more success than the average oil tycoon. I'd long ago learned to reserve my snap-judgments for more deserving people, such as politicians and divorce attorneys.

Besides, her last comment actually made sense.

"You've definitely got a valid point."

She blinked. "Really?"

I wanted to laugh. Apparently this girl wasn't accustomed to being told such things. "Really."

"Cool."

You would've thought someone had just told her she'd won the Lotto.

But it didn't take her long to recover. In seconds she was looking around and frowning. "Where is everyone?"

"Everyone?"

She shrugged. "The line of people waiting for your autograph. Isn't that what a book-signing is?"

"Usually."

"Like when?"

"Like for a best-selling novel guy..."

She looked me over.

Though it wasn't exactly an unpleasant experience, it made me uneasy nonetheless. Guys like me aren't accustomed to being so closely examined by babes like this one. I was far from ugly, but I'd learned long ago that the best-looking babes always went for guys wearing Gucci, Baroni, and Rolex.

My polo shirt and off-the-rack slacks reeked of non-wealth.

"You're ... not a best-selling guy?" she asked softly.

I gestured to the empty table. "Doesn't look like it, does it?"

She stared at me as if I'd just told her I had a fatal disease. She probably expected me to be in the same class as King or Grisham. She'd undoubtedly come here to meet someone famous so she could go back home and tell all her friends. I expected her to turn around and leave the bookstore.

I've seen all sorts of disappointing behaviour in my thirty-five years.

She just smiled and gave me another quick examination. "I guess I don't have to stand in line, then, do I?"

"You ... actually want an autograph?" I was surprised.

"Sure. Why not? I ... have to buy a copy, though, don't I?" She suddenly looked troubled.

"I'll tell you what. I'll give you one."

"Really?"

"My treat."

"Cool. But they're so expensive, aren't they? I mean--"

"I get them for a lot less."

She nodded and looked troubled again. She was obviously trying to absorb all that.

Suddenly I had to know. "You actually read suspense novels?"

"I read a lot of stuff. Suspense, spy, fantasy, horror, romance... You don't write romance, do you?"

"Not really."

She gestured to the table. "Is suspense all you write?"

I shifted uncomfortably. I didn't think it would be proper to tell this girl what else I wrote. Especially in a bookstore. Sure, we were alone, but I was confident that at any moment, everyone would be finished with their lunch and decide to rush me in droves.

When you're a writer, your imagination constantly tells you strange things.

"I write other stuff..."

"Like what?"

I shrugged.

She lowered her voice. "Don't tell me you write those..."

"Those?"

"Porn."

So much for wanting to remain proper. I had to remind myself that kids grew up much faster nowadays.

I smiled sheepishly. And nodded.

"My sister and I read those all the time. We collect movies, too. You really write those kinds of books?"

"It gets rid of all my hostilities and does a lot for--"

She giggled. "I know."

"You do?"

"Sure." She shrugged. "You're a guy, right?"

"Last I looked, I was."

"You're funny. What sort of porn?"

I checked the office to make sure Claire hadn't come out yet. Claire didn't seem like a prude, but she kept her hair tied in a bun, wore ankle-length skirts and left the top button of her blouse buttoned. I know that isn't a clear indication of a woman's sexual orientation, but I always chose to stay cautious in such matters. That was a sound policy to maintain when you were dealing with women. Anyway, you just never knew about folks nowadays.

When I decided the coast was clear, I said, "B&D."

She laughed. "That's what we like."

"We?"

"My sister and I. Cool, isn't it? You writing stuff like that and all? My coming here and meeting you? Us hitting it off?"

"We're hitting it off?"

"Sure. I think so. At least, I know I am."

"You're hitting it off by yourself?"

She laughed. "You know what I mean, silly."

"I guess. But I'm really not silly. Not all the time, anyway. This is a special occasion, I guess."

"Really? What's the occasion?"

"You."

"Me?"

"Don't men usually act silly around you?"

"All the time. I'm used to it, though. Both my sister and I are."

"Still want my autograph?"

"Sure. Why not?"

"I'm acting silly."

"It's all right. Besides you, I don't know any real novel guys."

"Just imaginary ones?"

She punched my arm. The contact made my dick stir. "You really are cool. Not like any of the other novel guys I usually see on TV."

"Those guys are different."

"Why is that?"

"They're all rich and successful."

"You're not?"

"Not what? Rich? Or successful?"

"Yeah..."

"No."

"That's a shame."

"I think so, too. So does my publisher."

"Why are the rich, successful guys so ... so--"

"Boring?"

"Yeah."

"Since I don't know any of them personally, I'd guess they have to maintain an air of dignity and sophistication."

She frowned. "Ewww. Gross."

"Tell me about it."

"Promise me you won't get that way when you're successful."

"I promise. Now. Would you like that autograph?"

"Sure. Let me go find my sister."

"Will she want an autograph, too?"

"Probably. She likes suspense stories--as long as they have lots of sex in them. Yours do, right?"

"How'd you know?"

She blinked. In a low voice she said, "Since you just told me you write B&D, you'd have to put a lot of sex in everything else, right?"

Rather than explain to her the differences between legitimate fiction and pornography, I decided to take the coward's way out and just agree. Besides, I didn't want to get into a serious discussion about anything else with her. This was one hot, sexy babe. I know I was probably being unrealistically optimistic, but I couldn't help it. My imagination had broken free and was running loose again. It told me this encounter might actually go somewhere.

"Right," I said.

"You didn't lie to me, did you?"

"Would I do that?"

"You're a guy, right?"

"We've been through this before."

She shrugged. "Guys lie."

"I guess you got me there."

"They lie about everything. Don't they?"

"It depends."

"On what?"

"Who they're talking to."

"Say they're talking to me."

"Then they'll lie. A lot."

"Why is that?"

"They figure a lie or two might get them something."

She didn't reply.

"Am I right?"

"Depends."

"On what?"

"If I like the guy."

"I'm really glad we've just had this enlightening discussion."

She blinked. "Me, too. But I'd better go see what kind of trouble my sister's gotten into. I'll be right back." She spun around and hurried out of the store.

I watched that glistening golden mane as it bounced and jumped all over her back. Then, finally, I caught a really good glimpse of her ass.

I'd been right in my original analysis.

It was absolutely perfect.