Page 16 of StoryTeller's Tale

To be honest, neither can I. My shoulders rise to ear level as I try to explain it to my housemate. “It’s so close. It’s an opportunity I can’t miss. It’s only two hours away!” To me, it’s a sign that the gods have meant it to be.

“A rock concert, sure, I could understand that. But authors?” She rolls her eyes dramatically. Then frowns. “It’s so unlike you, Sheri.”

She’s right. It is. But it’s time I started pushing myself, grabbing life and doing something with it instead of letting it simply sweep me along.

I’d grown up not knowing things weren’t quite right between my parents until I was old enough to realise how different our family was. Other people’s parents talked to each other, maybe kissed or showed signs of affection. My mom? Well, no one could please her, least of all me or my dad. They probably should have gotten divorced years earlier, but I was sixteen before my dad had enough and moved out.

Whether it was the shock or coincidence, Mom was diagnosed with an aggressive form of cancer. Dad never returned, despite how ill she was, or that eventually I had to leave school and become her full-time nurse. In those final months, she’d softened, and we’d settled into a relationship that meant, despite some of the hard truths she’d left me with, I was devastated when she was gone. A girl misses her mom whether she was the best in the world or not.

It was then I found out she hadn’t changed her will, and because they’d never gotten around to making their separation legal, everything had gone to my dad. A man who, at last, returned home.

Having lost a parent, regaining one and staying in the house where I was brought up seemed comforting, until he quickly remarried and brought a stepmother, and stepsister home.

I’d run the house when my mom was ill, but now I was pushed to one side. Furnishings changed and soon the place no longer resembled where I’d grown up. My new sister, one year older, had a privileged place in the house. She was the favourite and could do no wrong, while I, who hadn’t finished school because I’d been home playing nurse, was stupid, had no future, and was just a weight to be carried, or that was the view of my stepmom.

My dad wasn’t blind, he could see what was going on. He’d even apologised to me. In his words, I was young and had my whole life ahead while he deserved to grab some happiness while he still could. And happy, yeah, that’s what my stepmother made him. She was completely different from my mom. Ultra-nice to him, while being as cruel as she could get away with to me.

I thought it would be nice having a sister, but hey, lucky me, I ended up with one who was everything I was not—slim, pretty, full of confidence oh, and a total bitch to go along with it.

Obviously, I didn’t last long. I stayed for a few months before discovering my stepsister in bed with my boyfriend. That was the last straw.

Desperate to get away from the home where I was no longer wanted, I answered an ad for someone to share the rent in a rundown apartment. By then, I’d had a waitressing job and could just about afford what was asked.

Until I was sixteen, I thought my life was in a neat little box, but one blow after another had had an impact. Rather than outgoing, I became introverted. I went from a child who thought they were wanted, to someone without parents or roots. A psychiatrist would probably say I not only feel unloved, but unlovable. But my life isn’t how I originally planned it, nor what I want. My housemate is okay, but the total opposite to the person I am myself. But we gel together, agreeing on the major elements, such as the importance of keeping our hovel clean, tidy, and as nice as we can make it. Perhaps how we’re not up in each other’s business has helped us get along, and the three years have passed fairly smoothly since I moved in.

As real life had knocked me back, I escaped to a fictional world, reading voraciously, picking through the genres until I settled on one I liked. Now, I devour books about motorcycle club romance as though they were going out of fashion. In every spare moment I’ve got, I’m to be found with my head in a book, dreaming of being part of the world that exists in the minds of the authors who fascinate me. What draws me to the trope are the ideas of brotherhood, that MCs are a mismatched family, where people who might not otherwise find a place are welcomed and accepted. And above all, the loyalty that binds them, and the raising of their fingers to the blind following of citizens’ rules. Justice is delivered swiftly, no need to take wrongdoers through the courts. No chance for a fork-tongued lawyer to sweet talk a jury and get a perpetrator off. Or sisters that steal your men.

The books I’ve read aren’t sweet, and they are so often about the underdog. They are full of violence, swearing and sex. They’re not sweet romances. They’re ugly and raw. The men though, are protective, and one hundred percent into the woman when they find the right one. Oh, how I dream of finding a man like that, who only sees me.

Dreams. Just dreams. In real life, no such man would be attracted to me, not when there were people like my stepsister around—intelligent, witty and pretty.

I also doubt any such men really exist. The words that I read paint a rosy picture of life in an MC, while the reality is very different. There’s little chance of me ever coming across anyone like the bikers who populate the pages of my books, however much I wish I could.

However unrealistic, something about that created world has caught my imagination, and I read little else. A little Mafia, perhaps, which is like swapping leather for suits. Sometimes in a complete turnaround, I’ll read about heroes in uniform. But it’s the MC books I always return to.

Agatha, who I share the small apartment with, can’t understand how I read so much. She’s an extrovert and my complete opposite, going out and having fun, while I stay home with my books.

She’s shaking her head at me now. “You do realise this signing will be full of women? There won’t be unattached men for you to find.”

I can see why it wouldn’t appeal to her, but I don’t give a damn. The kind of men that attract me are far safer to remain within the pages of the books that I read. If I met a leather-clad hero in real life, I wouldn’t know what the hell to do with him. And, as I’ve found, flesh-and-blood men are likely to end up in bed with someone else.

“I’m going to meet the authors,” I tell her primly. “And I’ll have fun.”

Though she rolls her eyes, I know that I will. When I heard that a big signing was coming to my home state again, this time to Houston, I did something spontaneous, being one of the first readers to splurge my meagre savings to buy a ticket. Then I watched the announcements, growing more excited each time one of my favourite authors was announced.

Knowing Agatha would laugh at me, I’d prepared in secret, stitching patches onto a denim jacket so I could fit in, putting away what pennies I could to buy a couple of signed books as a souvenir. While I don’t expect to actually buy many books, the main reason for attending the signing is to fangirl over, and meet with, my favourite authors, and of course, meet new ones who might capture my interest and lead to more reading material in the future. Of course, I know, when I meet the authors of the books that I love, I’ll be tongue tied and awkward.

As an introvert, my life is lived vicariously through stories in the books that I read. I’m no beauty, I’ve not got a model’s figure, and I’m clumsy as fuck. The heroes are sufficient boyfriends for me. They’d never cheat. And the women are the people I’d love to be surrounded with in real life.

As the day of the signing approaches, I realise perhaps there was more pleasure in the anticipation, as my nerves start to make themselves felt. The only thing keeping me going is the camaraderie in the online readers’ group. I’m far from the only one having nerves about attending their first signing or worrying about being starstruck.

The day has arrived. I wake up early, dress carefully, and apply makeup sparingly. Knowing I’m no raving beauty, I don’t bother too much with my looks. After giving myself a pep talk, I go to my car that I’d already refuelled and give it a quick status check. Yup, I’ve got my phone and wallet in my purse, and that goes into a backpack with spare room for any books.

My hands shake as I turn the key and get the engine running, and I steady myself with a few deep breaths. I set out to start my two-hour journey, a little bit proud of myself. Today is taking me out of my comfort zone, and if I do this, I’ll feel I can conquer the world.

The drive goes smoothly, and soon I’m navigating through Houston. My GPS guides me unerringly, and, swapping lanes when told, I find it relatively easy to navigate the big city. Eventually, I’m turning into the driveway of the hosting resort, and easily find the parking lot.

Mentally giving myself a pat on the back for arriving safely, I again steady myself with deep breaths. After giving myself a short uplifting lecture,you’ve got this,I exit the car, taking more time than necessary to make sure the locks are engaged, pausing and looking back twice to check the position of the telltale mirrors. Satisfied, I progress slowly toward where the signing is being held.

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