Total pages in book: 135
Estimated words: 132933 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 665(@200wpm)___ 532(@250wpm)___ 443(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 132933 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 665(@200wpm)___ 532(@250wpm)___ 443(@300wpm)
I’m going to get better at my craft. I have to.
“Your brother doesn’t share that quality with you,” Charlie says, a bit under his breath. Not sure if he meant for me to hear. From my backpack, I tug a thick binder, the newest chapters from Human Him, Cosmic Her, a story in my ongoing Thebulan series.
He procures another binder from the safe and we do our usual hand off. I take the edited manuscript, and Charlie places the new un-edited chapters into the safe.
A quick peek at the papers, I see almost every page is marked in red. Charlie edits for grammar mostly. Sometimes consistency. Like if a character is wearing a latex body suit in a scene and then suddenly three pages later, he’s wearing armor made of indestructible metal, Charlie will jot a note about the contradiction. Those consistency notes are less frequent but even more helpful. If I don’t fix it, people on Fictitious will leave twenty comments just about the same error.
Two years ago, I had a small following. Now a few hundred people read my work on Fictitious, and with the growing number, the urgency to improve weighs heavier on me.
Staring at the red ink, my stomach sinks, and I push the binder into my backpack with these shitty feelings. Be gone!
“You sure you don’t want me to pay you?” I ask him. So far, Charlie has been doing this on a voluntary basis. And I have more than one ongoing fic that he edits for me.
“With what money?” Charlie asks casually, but there’s the normal bite to his voice.
“My money.”
“I’m not taking money from your trust fund.” He brushes a hand through his thick, golden-brown hair. “It’s like stealing from Aunt Lily and Uncle Lo…” He considers this for a second like maybe he will take my money. Then he rolls his eyes. “Keep your money.” He stares harder at his phone. He’s usually pretty much like this around me. Short sentences. In a hurry. But he never makes me feel like I’m an embarrassment.
“Did you like it?” I wonder, zipping my backpack closed. I’ve really refrained from asking that question to Charlie. I haven’t wanted the answer. I don’t know what’s changed.
Maybe the fact that I want some positive assurance after seeing all his corrections.
He clicks something on his phone, half-paying attention to me. “It was okay.”
Okay?
Just okay. I feel ready to puddle into the floor, but I remain standing somehow.
“I have to go,” Charlie says quickly. His eyes flit to me. “Same time next week?”
“Yeah. Thanks.”
He quickly departs from the apartment like he has somewhere to be. Maybe I had been holding him up. I sling my backpack over my shoulder and walk through the living room down another hallway, coming to the last door on the right.
I hear the faint sound of an audiobook. “‘His time of fearing death. Stoop, Romans, stoop. And let us bathe our hands in Caesar’s blood. Up to the elbows’…” I give the door a good knock, and the audio, likely Shakespeare, cuts off.
Seconds later, the door swings open, revealing the mischievous gentleman of gentlemen. One out of two of my best friends.
Eliot Alice Cobalt stands at six-foot-four with windswept brown hair and broad shoulders. If he were a constellation, he’d be Leo Minor. Little Lion. Loyal, dauntless at heart, and the one who’s grown to look most like the lion who bore him. He has his father’s fashionable style and fit build.
His lips lift in a devilish kind of smile. “You didn’t tell me you’d be in Hell’s Kitchen today.”
“You like surprises.”
“That, I do.” He swings his door open wider for me. I slip through, noting that his desk has been ravaged by paperback copies of plays and various stage props. But his bed swallows most of the room. A thick canopy in deep burgundy fabric drapes over the ornate four-poster bedframe, like something from a gothic.
Crimson Peak is one of his favorite films. But so is 10 Things I Hate About You.
I wedge myself around the bed and plop on the leather club chair near the corner. My favorite spot. The window and reading nook are behind me, and an antique lamp casts a warm glow over my head. “Where’s Tom?” I ask, opening my laptop on my knees.
“Picking up lunch from that new Mediterranean place down the street.” He takes out his phone. “I’ll tell him to grab you a bite. You want anything in particular?”
“I’m good. I ate earlier.”
“Chicken shawarma it is.”
I smile and flip open my laptop. He usually orders extra just in case. And usually, the just in case refers to his own hunger levels. But I always like when he asks. That’s the thing about Tom and Eliot, they don’t forget to include me.
“What are you up to?” I peer over my screen.