DRAWN (22 page)

          After a while, Shelley excuses herself to meet fellow agents but not without reminding us to attend the dialogue both Jace and I have to attend at eleven later.

          Jace sniggers when his gaze falls to the book with the pretty pink cover I’m holding. It came from one of the marketing booths owned by self-published authors hoping to switch to traditional publishing or increase their sales by getting agents or agented clients like me to review their works.

“Taking your, ah, research to the next level, huh?”

          Confused, I flip the book to check its front cover again. “It’s an Alice in Wonderland retelling,” I say. “What’s so---” Then I see the red cursive letters spelling AN EROTICA NOVEL FOR FANS OF MENAGE A TROIS, and I immediately put the copy back, flushing. I feel like I’ve just shouted out to the world – again - how sex crazed I am.

          One of the booth’s presenters sees what I’ve done and immediately heads toward our direction. “No, it’s okay. It’s completely free.” She returns the book to me with a smile. “You’ll love it, I promise. It’s going to make you feel so hot you’d want to have sex with the first guy who comes to your door.”

          “Uh, thanks,” I mumble, flushing even harder when she hands me a tiny foil package as book swagger. Custom-packaged condoms. Seriously?

          “Don’t forget to blog about it!” the other girl yells in a friendly reminder as we walk past her. 

          Jace waits just enough for us to be a safe distance away before laughing again. “Now you can teach a thing or two to Himura.”

          I can?

          I mean, I can’t.

          Because I’m not reading that!

          Well, okay, I’m just going to skim it a little, for inspiration.

          When the time for the dialogue on Shelley’s list of orders comes, Jace and I throw ourselves in one of the comfy last row seats.        A quarter of an hour passes and Jace and I are in grave danger of nodding off while listening to a bestselling graphic novelist talk about his “rise to stardom”. Honestly, his ho-hum soliloquy should have been retitled as the “rise of his ego”.

          Oh, well. This should just give me more time to think about Yuki. I still haven’t gotten to drawing Yuki in office attire - and in
megane
mode! My fingers start to itch and I’m near to hyperventilating at the thought of Yuki’s
manga
counterpart having a part-time office job in the next chapter.
Megane
means eyeglasses in Japanese and it’s also an essential “accessory” for
bishounen.
For this look, I’ll make sure to emphasize that intriguing cruel twist in Yuki’s lips, especially as he commands me to kneel, and take him---

          “What are you thinking?” Jace whispers.

          “My…
manga
?”

          Jace takes one look at my blushing face and snickers. “You’ve got it bad, my friend.”

          Several taps on the microphone, followed by ear-splitting static, stops me from protesting the truth.

          “Will the two young kids at the back please step out of the room if they’re not interested in learning about their craft?” Bloody Graphic Novelist Sod says loudly from the panel.

          Ha! What panel? This was supposed to give us a broad understanding of how graphic artists may take different paths to achieve their publishing milestones, but so far it’s only the bloody microphone-hogging sod I’ve heard speaking.

          “Let’s ditch this,” Jace whispers and doesn’t wait for an answer, already creeping away – but not before he gives Bloody Graphic Novelist Sod the finger.

          My parents haven’t raised me to be the ditching type – or the finger-flipping type for that matter - but this time I’m going to make an exception. With the ditching part, I mean.

“I am telling you, dear folks, those two
won’t
make it.”

          Arsehole.

          After that, the rest of the day thankfully goes smoothly, even the ones that required – heaven help me – frightfully thick books and blank writing pads. The conference officially ended its first day around five and the three of us hit the beach over an hour later.

          The beach scene in Miami is a lot like what we have at West Palm Beach – just a hundred times everything. Twinkling artificial lights and neon signs from beachside clubs and restaurants make the moon look like a low-watt fluorescent bulb. The beach is just as crowded as it was during the day, and speakers blaring out music from hip-hop to house give everyone an excuse to bump and grind against each other. No need to ask each other’s first names, thank you very much.

Jace is wearing the skimpiest swimming shorts I’ve ever seen on a guy outside a TV or movie screen while Shelley looks a lot more demure and less of a man eater in her flirty floral dress and espadrilles. After a quick shower, I’ve decided on a purple long-sleeved beach cover-up over my bikini, loosely tying its edges in a ribbon, and matching it with denim cutoffs. I can’t
not
wear a cover up, thanks to Yuki’s bloody awful hickey.

          The thought has me fuming again – what if it was Kelly and not Shelley who had spotted it first - even though I’m just the tiniest bit thrilled he’s also showing signs of
possessiveness
. It must be because he loves me, right? Just unconsciously? These are rhetorical questions, by the way, so I totally don’t need any ugly honest answer to them.

          Shelley again drifts away from us as soon as she bumps into old friends – one that includes an uber hot-looking glass-wearing editor from Simon Pulse – and leaving us once more to fend for ourselves. She is officially one of the worst chaperones in history.

          “Let’s grab a bite,” I tell Jace when my stomach starts making embarrassing noise.

          We choose a Jamaican stand that plays reggae music, offers cocktail tables for guests dining in, and has a mini-stage at the center. Once the waiter’s served our orders, I ask, “So, how are you and Liz?”

          Jace’s strained smile tells me more than I want to know.

          Shite.

          “Jace---”

          He winces. “It’s okay, Chariot. It’s not like you don’t know how much we fight.”

          He’s right. And they do, often, mostly because Liz thinks he’s being childish about wanting to become a graphic novelist.

Jace takes a huge bite of his patty, slips a couple of fries into his mouth, and gulps down beer like there’s no tomorrow – all at the same time. The fashionable, cool, and suave Jace is nowhere in sight. Now I know he’s really heartbroken. 

          “I also know how quickly you two make up.” It’s my best shot at comforting him.

          Jace grunts.

          After a while, he shouts, “Chariot?” The bar’s in full swing, the stage overflowing with people dancing and grinding. The tables are packed, and every once in a while you’d hear someone laughing like a drunk hyena or retching like someone who’s just swallowed rat poison.

          “Yeah?” I shout back.

          “How do you know if a person doesn’t or can’t love you?”

          “Umm, is this some kind of plot question?” Jace’s glare has me backtracking right away. “Oh, okay, you want me to be your love guru---all right, all right stop glaring at me. I can’t think when you do that.”

          “Just answer the fucking question,” he snaps.

          “Then stop glaring!” I chew on my lip. “I don’t think you’d like my answer.”

          “Why not?” Jace asks, his mouth full.

          I can’t answer him right away, distracted at the way Jace’s gobbling down his patty. The Jace I know does
not
gobble. He’s the only one I know who can make eating a ketchup-dripping hotdog sandwich look like he’s eating tuna tartare or some other fancy-sounding food. What the bloody hell did Liz say to him, anyway?

          “Chariot?”

          “You’re really not going to like my---”

          “Just fucking tell me,” he growls.

          I’m not offended because I know I’m not the one he’s angry at. But I am sad, for Liz and him since they’ve been together for so long. “You just
ask,
Jace.” I respond to his wide-eyed, jaw-dropping look of shock with a helpless shrug. “I told you, didn’t I? You’re not going to like my answer.”

          “Yeah, I just didn’t think it would be that shitty.”

          “It’s like the Bible says,” I begin.

          Jace groans. “That’s such a copout. You’re a religious teacher’s kid.”

          I agree with him, but it’s his fault for asking me. He’s been in love far longer than I have.

          Jace is still shaking his head.

          I grin, saying, “Ask and you shall receive.”

          He lets out a loud groan.

          Just to tease him more, I add, “Matthew 7:7.”

          Jace groans a second time. “I need a beer.”

          We talk about all kinds of stuff after that, but never again about what really mattered to him. When he’s downed his third beer, Jace loses the last pieces of his fashionably cool self, joining a burping contest that a local champagne producer is sponsoring.

          I take a video of it because I’m a very nice girl. Well, okay, it’s because I’m a fairly smart girl and it’s always a good thing to have leverage when you need it.

          “Congratulations,” I say with a grin when he comes back to our table, third-prize bottle of expensive champagne in his hand.

          Jace burps. “Let’s drink this shit.” He asks for fresh plastic cups from a bikini and apron clad waitress.

I gape when the waitress returns with the cups and he squeezes – squeezes! - her behind while thanking her with a wink. I wait for her to, I don’t know, maybe slap Jace or threaten to sue him for sexual harassment, but all she does is wink back and say she gets off at three.

With the burping contest over and the free champagne all out, most other people have left. The music has also been turned down several notches, and the somewhat silent ambience reminds me of the quiet evening beachside walks Yuki and I have enjoyed at Key West.

“You are so drunk,” I say after sipping my cup of champagne. Since my whole family often gets invited to all sorts of high-society functions in Kelly’s campaigns, I’ve gotten quite used to drinking champagne and I’ve a fairly good idea of what my limits are for it.

“And I’m so dumped.”

I almost spew out my champagne. “
Dumped
?”

“Yeah. I needed to get drunk before I can admit it.”

“I’m so sorry, Jace.” What else can I say?

The bitter smile on Jace’s face makes me want to cry. It’s hard for me to see someone as outrageously funny and confident as Jace looking the opposite of everything I know him for.

“I’m still trying to figure out if I’ve been dumped because she can’t or doesn’t love me.”

I frown, confused, unable to figure out what he exactly he’s saying. “Why can’t Liz love you?”

He shakes his head. “I wish it was can’t. You see, I don’t really need to ask Liz to know that it’s not that she
can’t
love me. If she can’t love me, it means that she does but something’s holding her back. But if she doesn’t – she doesn’t.”

It takes me a while to answer. “You are
so
deep when you’re drunk, Jace.”

“I know,” he says sourly. “It’s so fucking embarrassing I’m glad I’m drunk.”

He wags a finger in front of my face. It’s supposed to go left and right, but it just keeps going to the right. “Word of advice, Chariot. Don’t do what I did. Don’t make your Jap perfect just because you love him.”

“I don’t---”

“No more BS, Chariot. Sorry, but I’m drunk so I say it as it is. You obviously love him. I’ve never seen you obsessed over a guy.”

It’s because he’s a god. A god!

Or at least that’s the lie I used to tell myself.

“If you pretend he’s perfect, it’s just going to hurt more when you realize he’s not.”

I wait for Yuki to call or text me until the wee hours of the morning, but he doesn’t, the arse. I wake up the next day bleary-eyed, tired, and irritable.

          In contrast, Jace looks disgustingly happy over breakfast, with no signs of a hangover even though he must have gone through six bottles of beer and half a bottle of champagne last night. And, yes, he’s back to his elegant and fashionable self, wearing some kind of matching pinstriped outfit that should have looked ridiculous on a teenager but doesn’t, blast it.

The boutique hotel Shelley’s booked for us is just within walking distance from the convention center, and I see a lot of familiar faces in the ground-floor banquet room as I take my buffet plate to our table. Everyone’s talking and laughing, most of them in pitching mode already, and I feel like throwing up at how effortlessly eloquent they all sound.