Chapter 3: Dissensions in the Ranks

Teri

I was just finishing a call with Stellar Reads, working out how to fix the clusterfuck, when Mike’s atrocity of a purported van pulled up. There was, of course, no parking right in front of our house, but wonder of wonders there was a space in front of the neighbor’s. Any other day, I’d’ve appreciated his amazing luck. Today, I was all about the It’s About Fucking Time.

I looked around at the fuckton of boxes, piled willy-nilly across the porch, and gnashed my teeth again.

Dana hopped out the passenger seat and opened the side door. I didn’t hear what she said, but Mike shooed her off with a sharp word. She spun away and headed up the front walk, while he worked on getting his wheelchair out by himself. Great—dissension in the ranks. Just what I fucking needed.

I frowned as Dana climbed the front steps. “What the fuck is up with you guys?”

She reached the top step, held up her index finger, and swiped it to one side. “Later—we’ve got three more important things to do first.”

Three? What the fuck—?

Dana hopped onto the bench along the front railing, turned to me, and cupped my cheeks with her firm, warm hands. “First,” and she drew me close enough to kiss, “good morning, Teri-my-love.” And then she gave me a good morning kiss—a slow, sweet kiss with just a touch of tongue. Way sweeter than her usual fuck-me-now banger. Despite my anger, it made my hands and scalp fizz.

When we broke, my hands were on her hips, just holding them.

She pulled back enough we could look each other in the eyes—blue sparkled above a little half-smile. “It’s been pointed out to me that I don’t spend enough time romancing you guys,” she whispered.

I was, well, gobsmacked—no fucking clue what to say.

Fortunately, no response was required. “Second,” Dana went on, “help Mike up here so he can greet you too.”

He’d gotten into his chair on his own and was rolling up the walk. I started down the steps. Dana hopped down and headed for the front door. “Gotta pee—all that boba tea.” From inside, I heard, faintly, “Hi, Sam.”

I ignored that. I get along better with my older sister than I used to, but often ignoring her still is the better answer.

Besides, my boyfriend looked cranky—not as cranky as I felt, of course, as I was righteously angry, but pretty cranky for Mike. “Thanks for coming,” I told him.

“Of course,” he scoffed, as if offended I doubted him.

I got on one knee beside his chair and leaned in to kiss him. He set his wheel brake just before my arms pulled him closer and my lips met his. His kiss was just as passionate as Dana’s had been sweet—it was as if they’d swapped lips. I wasn’t feeling passionate—or that kind of passionate anyway—but I did appreciate it.

When we finally broke, he grinned. “Good morning, girlfriend.”

Okay, that helped too. I was starting to see Dana’s point about task priorities. Slow down, deep breath, less panic. I could manage less panic, with my steadies. Not less anger, not yet, but I was going to fucking hold tightly onto my rage till I could rip our distributor’s account manager a new one. Or two new ones.

The moment I finished backing Mike up the front stairs, something I’ve gotten quite good at thank you very much, Dana popped out the front door. She looked around the porch, hands on hips, at the tumble of open cardboard boxes, each filled with books, interspersed with piles of more books.

“Third,” Dana announced, “tell us what needs to be done. After we’re done, then we can go on to number four.”

I was unpanicked enough I caught her stressed word, what it meant—don’t dictate the how, they’ll figure it out. Or rather Dana would, and quickly organize an efficient plan of attack. I took a breath—she was right, dammit. Okay, first, we had to sort the books. My books.

Well, one-third mine, as I’m one-third (with my collaborators Cal and Zoe) of Raina Bronson, the listed author of these here paperback editions of the Downstar Runner series. Said copies that were supposed to have been shipped to Stellar Reads Bookstore in Kansas City. Many of which came off the press in unacceptable condition and apparently never inspected.

“Right.” I took a breath. “Every book needs to be checked for printing problems—cover misaligned, text cut off on a page, smudges or ink spots, and so on. The good ones need to be shipped to the bookstore that’s handling our signings at the con. The bad ones need to be shipped back to the distributor for credit or replacement from them or the printer—exactly where, that’s on me once I get ahold of our fucking account manger. For each volume, there’s six of ‘em, we need total counts of good and misprinted, and also check how many actually shipped versus the order.” Against an invoice that was ... somewhere around here. I took another breath, feeling the panic rising again.

“Right,” Dana agreed, getting her get-things-done face on.

One minute later, she’d sorted out three work areas and places to stack good (left side of the porch) and bad (right side) books, and had me distributing heavy boxes and temporary book piles to each area.

Two minutes later, we were all sitting down, spot-checking for obvious issues—cover and spine alignment, then a slow fanning through for obvious problems.

Three minutes later, I realized she’d efficiently gotten me too busy to panic, or even to notice how we were split.

Wait a sec—why were we split? I glanced at Dana, next to me, then at Mike, at the other end of the porch. He didn’t have his cranky face on, or—wait, those eyebrows were creased. Dana appeared completely focused on her task in hand, leafing through her next book. But I knew those two well enough: whatever they’d been ‘working out,’ they hadn’t finished. They’d broken off anyway, to come help me. On the one hand, that they’d come warmed my heart a drop—on the other tentacle, that they’re fighting chilled it.

I tucked that away for the moment. Later, as Dana said. Clear this deck first, so we could move on to that. Which meant—aw fuck, that meant that it was something big.

No, stop that—focus. I put my current book, the omnibus of volumes 1-2-3, into a pile of its good sisters. So far, I’d had to reject only one of these, which was heartening.

Not heartening was Dana not working. She was looking at the back cover of Triple Games. Yup, total irony from an insane universe. That book meant so much to me because the central relationship was a triad like ours—that I’d taken lead on writing, because it was based on ours—that I had put my heart into—and that she’d never once looked at. Never once asked about. Never once wanted to know about. And that hurt—no, it fucking hurt.

Maybe it’d been a mistake to ask for her help. Fuck.

Dana was turned away, so I couldn’t see her face, but that sound—a soft, almost inaudible sigh. What...?

Even when I’m angry at her, I can’t stand to see her hurt—I never have. Even screaming in frustration, I protect this little girlfriend of mine. This girlfriend of my heart. Swallowing was hard. I took a chance and asked. “What is it?”

Somehow, I managed to keep my voice soft.

She half-turned, so I could see the side of her face. It was—sad? She didn’t look at me—and she always looks you in the eye. “It’s just, I would, one day, like to read this. It looks good.”

I—she—this—

From the far end of the porch, I heard a muffled smack. A familiar sound. Mike facepalming? I didn’t check—I couldn’t look away.

I finally whispered, voice nearly cracking, “You would?”

Dana looked up at me, finally, searching for something in my face. She swallowed and nodded.

In the distance behind me, Mike growled out, “Just ask her already!”

Brief confusion—who was he telling to ask what? Before I could decide, Dana did for us. “May I? I’ve been hoping for ages that you’d let me into that part of your life.”

She—she wanted to—she thought I—this—

I wanted to smack someone silly, but I didn’t know whether her or me. Though of course no physical slapping—gotta keep my strength under control. Instead I pinched the bridge of my nose. “Dana,” I started, eyes closed. “Why...?”

I heard the shushing of Mike’s wheels on the wooden floor as he pulled up beside me.

“Teri,” he said, exasperated, “do you remember your reaction when she figured out your secret author identity?”