Page 4 of Snow Storm

Harley

“I don’t got this.”He murmured the words under his breath, but one of the mods looked up at him when he spoke, and he frantically checked to see if he had a hot mic.

He didn’t.

He was either louder than he thought, or he was just being paranoid. Which seemed increasingly likely. The venue was crowded. The bookstore had a conference room on the third floor, which was sold out, and they overbooked, so it was standing room in the back.

Ethan actually did manage to get them to shave off a little time, so now he had to talk for forty-five minutes instead of an hour. But he didn’t think those fifteen minutes were going to feel like much with how overwhelmed he was already.

He wanted to crawl into a hole and not come out until everything stopped feeling like the walls were closing in on him.

He knew public speaking would always feel terrible, but normally, he could handle it.

He didn’t bother asking why right now was different. He knew why. He still felt a pit in the center of his chest from losing his dad, and he was stuck wondering how many people in the room knew that he and his ex had split. Harley had neverreally bothered with social media. He was obligated to post three times a month, and earlier on, it had been easy to show a glimpse of his life with Darren.

But his ex had started to balk every time Harley asked for a selfie, and he’d seen a few comments asking where Darren was. He never answered, but he knew there were people out there who watched for gossip.

And fuck, he wasn’t sure what he was going to do if someone asked. Darren had socials, but Harley hadn’t been brave enough to check them, so he had no idea if he’d posted anything about their split. If the world knew, it wouldn’t be the worst thing. It would save Harley the trouble of having to tell the story. But if they asked…

He was screwed. He’d make a mess of it, and rumors would fly, and then he really would have to start looking for a cave in the middle of nowhere.

“Water?”

Harley almost jumped out of his skin as he turned to see his agent. Ethan was hovering just to the right of the table where Harley’s books were displayed, holding a water bottle out toward him.

“Thanks,” he murmured, taking the bottle from Ethan.

His agent looked unfairly calm and poised in his button-up and trousers. Harley was in jeans because the fabric of slacks made his balls itch, no matter what kind of briefs or boxers he wore. And he had a very soft thermal Henley, which was the only thing keeping out the cold. He felt a little frumpy with his beanie-mashed hair and wind-chapped cheeks, but at this point, he chose comfort over anything else.

And at least he’d managed a shower, so he didn’t smell like takeout and unwashed sheets.

“Okay, so, the mods have a list of off-limits questions. The reader names were drawn by lottery, and everyone’s alreadybeen pre-vetted and had their questions and comments approved.”

That made him feel a little better. “And I don’t have to do a reading, right?”

Ethan pulled a face. The bookstore had wanted him to read one of his steamy passages, but he felt like he was going to burst into flames at the thought. When he protested, Ethan had tried to strong-arm him, but it was probably the look on Harley’s face that had him giving up the fight.

“No, but I’m going to hear about this later. I—oh shit. They’re starting. Good luck. I’ll be right outside.”

“Everyone, please give a warm welcome to…”

“Oh fuck. Here we go.”

“Watch the mic,” Ethan warned before dashing offstage and heading for the side door.

Right, right. The fucking mic. He bit his lip and managed a small smile as the lights brightened over where he was sitting.

“…R.J. Ruiz!”

The applause was thunderous, sinking deep into the center of his sternum. His ears began to ring, and his eyes watered as he walked past the doorway and up the three steps onto the portable platform. It bowed under his weight, though he knew it would hold, but he hated the feeling of not being stable.

Smile, he told himself. Smile and wave.

“Thank you,” he said when the applause began to die down. His mic was on, making little scratchy sounds against his shirt as he moved. He made his way to the center of the stage, where a chair was waiting, and he sank down. He wished more than anything he could be more charismatic instead of an anxious mess about goddamn everything, but he was who he was. Instead of getting fired up at the attention, he wanted to evaporate into mist.

Where was an old-school Bram Stoker vampire when he needed one?

“Thank you. I’m excited to be here to talk to you all today. Are you ready to get some questions answered and some books signed?”

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