Splinters of You (Retired Sinners MC #1) - Anne Malcom Page 0,18

he was interesting enough to warrant eye contact. Which was why I saw his eyes widen in shock and glee.

“You’re Magnolia Grace?” he asked, almost shouting.

I winced that I didn’t have the foresight to use a pen name. Even though it had been years, and millions of people asking that same question, I hated the way it sounded, the way it looked on the covers of my books.

It was too soft.

It seemed like I made it up. Like I’d researched the best combination of pastel-sounding names that would appeal to mass audiences.

I’m sure my mother did that research. On what would make me sound like the daughter she had always wanted. The one who wore florals, forgot feminism happened, and whose only purpose in life was to procure a husband.

Needless to say, we were both disappointed.

“The one and only,” I gritted out.

He clapped his hands. Like full-on, giddy school girl that the fucking quarterback asked to prom, or her pregnancy test was negative after letting that quarterback score a touchdown prom night.

Then he all but ran off.

I couldn’t be so lucky to have him hate my books and decide to leave me be. No, he returned quicker than I would’ve thought capable of a man his age, with an armful of books and a sickening smile.

I hated smiles. Seeing people happy.

It was so boring. Predictable.

I liked it when I saw people grimacing. Crying in the street. Fighting with their boyfriends in fancy restaurants. It was honest. Made me wonder about their lives. Who they were, what made them interesting.

Any idiot could smile.

“I wonder if you wouldn’t mind signing these?” he asked, gesturing with his eyes to the stack of books he was holding.

My books.

Every one I’d ever written, with some alternate covers, the rarer ones, ones I’d said yes to even though I’d hated, too timid to argue with my publishers. Needless to say, I rectified that as soon as my backbone turned to stone. Those books were worth thousands now.

Fuck.

I’d look like a total bitch if I said no. And while I didn’t mind seeming like a total bitch to fame chasers and the rest of the mouth breathers on planet earth, this was a reader. A real one. One that cared about the titles of my story rather than my social cache. I could see it now, with that slight maniac glint to his eye. There was a menace in him I could relate to.

“Sure,” I conceded.

The smile went higher and he set all the books down, retrieving a pen from his front pocket.

I stared at the well-worn covers on the table. They weren’t pristine, new prints. Some were ripped, others had coffee rings on them.

“I do apologize for the state of them,” he said quickly, noting my gaze. “These are my personal copies, some of them at least. I mainly sell secondhand books here, the odd new print of a must-read author like yourself. I do like collecting books, but also the stories of people that owned them.”

Fuck.

I was really beginning to like this guy.

“Who should I sign it to?” I asked instead of acknowledging anything he said.

“Charlie,” he replied quickly. “The newer copies just generic, if you don’t mind? I know a few of your hardcore readers would love to come in and purchase a few. In fact, I’m sure they’d be scrambling to offer me an organ or a firstborn once they find out it’s signed.”

I nodded, adding a couple of personal inscriptions to the well-worn copies. A lot of my readers had taken to having me “insult” them on a signed copy. I had no idea where this trend started. Maybe with some nitwit that was rude to me at a signing my publisher forced me to attend…before. I’d had a short temper that day, and had said something along the lines of “Jenna, you’re an asshole.” Instead of being insulted, she was charmed, posted the inscription on social media, and boom, some kind of movement was born.

My younger readers gagged over that shit.

I didn’t think Charlie or my older demographic would.

That’s what got me to the point I was currently at. I was somewhat of an anomaly. I didn’t have a narrow target audience. I wrote for the weirdos and sickos, sure. But a lot of mainstream people sucked up my work. Soccer moms. Sorority girls. Geeky guys. Jocks. Dads. Grandmothers.

My agent said it was because no one could really put a finger on who I was, and to a point—in this environment,