Alexandre grabbed two magazines and lifted them in his other hand. “To Holden—oh, pardonnez-moi, to Gordon Charles. The first writer to have stories published in the New Yorker and the Paris Review at the same time!”
Cheers went up, glasses were raised, and the room toasted to my success. The American—a pale, wiry guy with strawberry blond hair and glasses—met my eye with a look that said he had an agenda.
Too late, my friend. Basquiat B. Jordan is tonight’s dessert.
Or so I hoped. I glanced at the Swiss man and was pleased to finally see a flirty smile dance over his lips. Tonight, I’d get lost in those lips, that mouth, and every other part of him—in my continued quest to erase River Whitmore from my body’s memory.
If only…
None of my old tricks—alcohol and meaningless sex—were working when it came to River. Each night spent in a desperate clutch with someone that wasn’t him only imbedded him deeper into my sense memories. Despite fleeting moments of pleasure, my skin and cells and sinews cried out for him. My fucking heart screamed for him, a never-ending howl that refused to be silenced by alcohol or the sweaty, writhing bodies of strangers.
But I’m no quitter. I reached for more champagne and shot the Swiss man a wink.
Alexandre slammed the magazines down on the table, knocking over a water glass that soaked them both.
“Putain de merde,” he cursed with a grin. “I have ruined your stories, Holden, and now you cannot do your reading.”
“Cheers to that,” I said and gulped down another swallow of champagne.
I’d had zero intention of reading my own work aloud anyway. Like Ms. Watkins had taught us to do in another lifetime, I wrote fictional stories with heavily autobiographical elements, and then slapped them with the pen name, Gordon Charles. Once a story was on paper, it was out of my conscious. Purged. Revisiting it wasn’t on the agenda.
More champagne was ordered, the guests mingled in small groups, and the party showed no signs of stopping though the restaurant had closed hours ago.
“May I join you?”
“If you must.”
The American moved gracefully into the chair beside me. He wore a brown houndstooth suit and an antique Rolex strapped to his wrist. He looked like the world’s wealthiest librarian.
“Elliot Lash,” he said, offering his hand. “I’m an agent for Amanda Boyle Literary. You’ve heard of us?”
He was being cute. Anyone halfway paying attention in the literary world knew that agency. They handled some of the biggest names in fiction, most of whom were currently riding bestseller lists or being nominated for Bookers and Pulitzers.
I smiled sweetly. “Doesn’t ring a bell.”
Elliot glanced down with a small chuckle. “I’ll get straight to the point. I’d like to represent you.”
“In court? I have no pending lawsuits. That I’m aware of.”
“Mr. Parish—”
I waved a hand. “No, I’ll get straight to your point. You read my stories that I—a no-name nothing—sent unsolicited and yet managed to have published in the biggest literary magazines in the world, and now you want to take fifteen percent of my piddling profits. Sound about right?”
Elliot leaned over his thighs, a glass of beer in his hand. “Speaking of nothing names, why Gordon Charles?”
I frowned at his sudden change of topic. “Ever read Flowers for Algernon? My pen name is a play on the main character, Charlie Gordon.”
Elliot’s eyes went a little vacant as he sought to remember and then lit up with recognition. “Oh yes. The story about a man with extremely low intelligence who undergoes an experiment of some sort. It turns him into a genius, but the experiment fails, doesn’t it? He slips back, losing everything he’d gained. Very sad.”
“He falls in love,” I muttered.
“Sorry?”
“When he’s smart, Charlie falls in love with a teacher but has to leave her when he becomes stupid again.” My finger ran along the lip of the glass. “I gave that book to someone once. He thought I was inferring that he was Charlie, the stupid one. Turns out, it was me all along.”
My eyes fell shut under a barrage of memories. River at his shop, pinning me to the wall with his body, his eyes dark and hooded, his lips parted…
I brushed the memory away and nodded at the Swiss man.
“Do you know who that is? The Basquiat-looking gent with the perfect…everything?”
“That’s Jean-Baptiste Moreau,” Elliot said. “He does remind one of Basquiat, doesn’t he? Fitting. He’s an artist too.”
“You know him well?”
“We run in a few of the same circles.”
“I’d like to get to know him too. In the biblical sense, if you catch my drift.”
Elliot’s eyes widened behind his glasses. “Are you asking me to be your pimp?”
I frowned. “Isn’t that what an agent is?”
“Mr. Parish—”
“Forget it. I haven’t needed assistance in that department. Yet.”
Elliot Lash pressed his lips in a thin line and pulled his card from his alligator skin wallet. “I’ll be frank with you, Holden. I think your writing is astonishing. And I know every editor at every major publishing house agrees. If you could produce a full-length novel—a memoir, perhaps—”
“I’m not writing a memoir. I write fiction.”
“Autobiographical fiction?” Elliot suggested and pushed his glasses farther up his nose. “Truthfully, you could write a grocery list and I’d have ten houses lined up to buy it. You’re a hot commodity right now.”
“Gordon Charles is a hot commodity. I’m nobody.”
As far as most of the world knew, Holden Parish didn’t exist. And I wanted to keep it that way. But that Elliot was a persistent little fucker.
“Do you know how rare it is to be published in both the Review and the New Yorker at the same time with two different stories? At twenty years old?”
“Nineteen.” I smirked and
