Power of the Pen Page 2

  Yes, I told him all of that, and somebody must have let him know it would be ridiculous to engage with me because I’d show him what a relentless writer and researcher I truly was. Same with real_zhays. I was not sure it was him, but I was responding just in case it was.

  ‘real_zhays, I am a journalist. So to your point of whether I like Mr. Hays’ novels or not, in order for me to adequately interpret the news, I need to have read the materials. I would do a second, third and fourth, but it is not necessary since the first one sums it up pretty nicely. Hays’ work is demeaning, degrading, and a ruse for sending women back into the 50’s and the gullible one’s going along with that nonsense. BDSM is about and empowerment between a couple and there is nothing empowering about dragging a woman or anyone around on a leash because she didn’t call you sir. Carry on.’

  Hitting the send button, I checked to see when real_zhays sent his message, as it was caught up with others. His was sent at 9:37 PM. It was now 10:17 PM, so I may or may not receive a message. Either way, I would stay up for at least ten minutes and wait. I looked around my apartment and noticed how everything was scattered all over the place. Papers were on the floor, on the desk, on the counter and even on the dining room table. Clothes and shoes were thrown all over the place, and I had not dusted a thing in over a year. Never would I receive an award for the best housekeeper. I ate here, slept here, and was always doing the walk of shame out of another man’s place. They would never see my lair, as it wasn’t fit to be seen, but it also was mine and I did not like people in my space.

  *ding*

  That meant real_zhays posted something new since I set an alert for his username.

  MzJames, I know ten-year-old boys that have a blog, and that does not make them a journalist. Just as you are no journalist. It isn’t that you could not be with your Master’s degree in Women’s History and Literature and Bachelor’s in Fine Arts. You have indeed proven that women have come a long way, but still want to be dominated. Why do you continue to meddle around with your little blog, when you could do so much more? You claim it’s your own independence, but I say it is because you are fearful of really going after what you want. Transferring your issues in an attempt to demonize my novels. You have read every single one and given me horrible ratings for every single one. Yet, I have made courageous leaps to write about something that I feel passionately about, and you hide behind wanting to be dominated, giving in to your fear. PM if you ever want the chance.

  Uhhh.

  No, he did not.

  I could not think, could not breathe. What in heaven’s name was that? Where did he get off…?

  Mr. Hays, if that is really you! You speak about fear, but besides your loyal following or people that go to your book signings do not know what you look like. If I am not a journalist, you by God, are not a writer. According to the literary world, you independent types have cherry-picked your way into the industry and using the British term, mucked it up for everyone. My little blog has been recognized nationally for Fairness and Diversity in Literature. Not once, but twice. You knew that already since you know what degrees I have. My independence to work when I want, how I want, wherever I want, is my own right, but of course you don’t think women should have rights, so you have no understanding of this concept. Wanting the chance to smack the hell out of you sounds tempting Mr. Hays, but I would probably be the real dominant one and spank your ass, so be careful what you ask for.

  In my research, I found out that Z. Hays started writing five years ago and after his first book, ‘Yes, Sir,' he was put on the map and he remained an independent author. That was noble of him because most writers sign with a major label once they reach that level of success. All of his books were New York Times bestsellers, and he had won numerous literary awards, including All Romance eBooks (aRE) for bestselling author. My issue was not that he was not a good writer. He was phenomenal, but the content just got under my skin so bad. This could probably add to the way he wrote, which made you feel the pain or the joy he wanted to portray at the stroke of a pen. The man was good, but I swear his writing was that of an entitled ‘master’ in the rulership of women. I wondered what his mother thought about his writing. If he persisted any further, I planned to ask him.

  *ding*

  My private message button flashed twice with the words:

  PM me.

  That was his only response. PM Me? I think not. That reply took the wind right out of my sails. Here I was, ready to go for the mama insult. So, I messaged him back.

  Have a good evening, sir. Oops, I meant Z. Guess, I won’t get my hair pulled and dragged around on the floor like a dog tonight.

  Shutting down the computer, I stretched, moved my clothes to one side of the bed, and lay down. Tears formed in my eyes as I thought about the day, what it represented, and how Mr. Hays called me out, yet did not know me from a can of paint.

  Called me a coward.

  Said I was afraid.

  He was right.

  *****

  Suddenly, my body jerked me from sleep, what could be assumed as the end of the world. Horns and trumpets were blasting loudly in my ear and I could not get in the right frame of mind to ask God for forgiveness at the end of my journey. Then, I realized it was only my ringtone for Gab because she stole my phone and put that mess in there.

  “What!” I yelled.

  “Well, dammmn girl,” Gab exclaimed. “You still in bed?”

  “It is early in the goddamn morning, Gabrielle, and it's Saturday. What in the hell do you want?”

  “Hon, it's 11:30 in the morning,” Gab reasoned. “That’s the only reason I called.”

  “Shit,” I muttered.

  “Uh yeah,” Gab seemed at a loss for words. “Rough night? You didn’t come to The Em. You hook up with a guy?”

  “Naw, just wasn’t my night.” I groaned.

  “Girl, you are always down to hang out,” she laughed. “We didn’t know what to do without you, so we went home early.”

  “Right,” exhaling loudly in the phone. “Well, I gotta run, I’ll catch up with y’all later.”

  “Hon, you alright, you don’t seem like yourself,” concern etched in her voice.

  “I’m fine, just dealing with some things, right now. Thanks for the concern.”

  “I’m here if you need me.”

  “Alright, bye.”

  We disconnected, so I could flop back in my bed. The skin around my eyes was tight and probably swollen from crying myself to sleep last night. My hair was probably matted from the combination of my tears and lying on it with no scarf. Today was not going so well and I was not even hung over.

  After cleaning myself off and putting on some face cream to take away the puffiness around my eyes, I walked in the living room so I could check my messages from my blog. One of the issues with it being so successful was I tended to receive hundreds of messages in a few days. Gab kept insisting that I hire an assistant, but I managed to keep things close to the vest, when it came to my personal affairs, like my blog. My laptop lit up and I saw not only did I have hundreds of messages, but I had three alerts from real_zhays.

  In essence, all he said was PM him. Some of my fans defended me by starting in on him about his earlier comments. I liked a couple of their remarks because they were letting him have it. His last message said, “See what you started.” That comment got a chuckle. So, I did the unthinkable and private messaged him.

  MzJames: What?

  His online light was green, so I assumed he was online at that moment.

  A few seconds later,

  Real_zhays: Good morning to you too, sunshine.

  MzJames: is that all you wanted?

  Real_zhays: No, I wondered if you and I knew each other.

  MzJames: No, we certainly do not.

  Real_zhays: Then why are your attacks so personal? I’ve done nothing to you, yet you make it a point to go out of your way and constantly give me bad reviews. If you do not like my work, then do not read i
t, was all I had to say.

  Well.

  MzJames: As a journalist, and in your case, a critic, my fans request that I share my opinion, whether I like your work or not. I’m not one of your submissive women or characters that heed to your instruction or warning. My attacks are not personal, and I doubt Mr. aRE award of the year, that my reviews or opinion about your work are impacting your success. So, stop this.

  Real_zhays: Don’t knock it until you’ve tried it.

  MzJames: Who says that I haven’t?

  Real_zhays: if you did by the right person, you would be one of my fans.

  MzJames: *sigh* Have a good day

  Real_zhays: Let’s meet up

  What was this man getting at? I do not even know if this was the real Z. Hays. It could seriously be an imposter.

  Real_zhays: You there?

  MzJames: That won’t happen. I don’t know you, not sure who you really are, and even if you are the real Z. Hays, I don’t like you. So, no.

  Real_zhays: Touché, then come to my book signing near Arundel Mills. I can have my secretary get you a pass. I’d like to meet you.

  He is serious. Quickly checking his website for his upcoming events, sure enough, he would be doing a book signing at the Barnes & Nobles in Arundel Mills Mall.

  Oh, my.

  Real_zhays: You there?

  MzJames: I’m here. I’ll think about it. Not really sure why you want to talk. Think you’ll change my mind and I’ll stop writing bad reviews? It’ll never happen.

  Real_zhays: LOL. Think about it and let me know. It's next week.

  It was time to hire that assistant. Un-checking the alert for me to be notified when he responded was my first course of action. He would get caught up in the fray of everyone else. I also blocked my private messaging feature so no one could contact me that way. There was no need to engage in banter, and surely not face-to-face dialogue with a man like him. This sounded like more trouble than I needed to get into at the time. There was no way in hell I was going to that signing, nor was I talking with him again. I shut my whole laptop down as if that would ensure my internal declaration. Yeah, I could be dramatic, I got that straight from my mother.

  One day, my brothers and I had a food fight that turned a household event. Whit, my oldest brother, threw an egg at Kendall, my youngest brother. The egg hit me in the head, so I retaliated and grabbed the carton of eggs. In our defense, we were 11, 12 and 14 years of age, respectively. Well, after Kendall grabbed the mustard and ketchup, Whit used the cream colored pillows on the sofa like a shield from our retaliation of eggs and condiments. When our mom arrived, she slid straight down the wall when she walked in the door, mumbling for God to take her now because she was going to jail. We all laughed at her and told her she was acting a bit dramatic. She laughed at our laughing, then grounded us for a month. No TV, no phone, no outside, no extracurricular activities, no nothing. It wasn’t so funny then, but now we laugh at her dramatically sliding down the wall. So now you know where I get my dramatic flair.

  My house cleaning was interrupted by a text from Sheree asking if I was coming out to the reading at The Em tonight. I asked her who was reading, so she sent me a picture of a woman. She knows I am not good with faces, so I text her back a question mark. Then she explained it was the North lady, so I told her that I would come. I should have known Sheree would not leave it alone when she followed up with, ‘are you really coming.’ Shaking my head, I gave her the middle finger emoji.

  Eight o’clock rolled around sooner than I anticipated because I spent my Saturday cleaning. Thanks to real_zhays, since I could not spend my Saturday checking my blog. Deciding on a low-cut, loose fitting, short dress that showed my legs and my nice double D’s, I hopped in my Rover and headed to The Em. That was our spot because they had everything. Old school, new school, jazz, readings, events, etc. Gab and I had a couple of events there for friends and our companies, so the owners always treated us like family.

  Winter was definitely here, so technically, I was not dressed for that, but I was dressed to turn some heads, which I intended to do and get some if the night went well. The reading was from a local romance author whom critics acclaimed was top-notch, so I was all for good literature. Since I knew I would be sitting near the front, I semi-tamed my afro, to not completely obstruct people’s view. I really did not care that much about it, it’s called, ‘scoot over.’ My hair is very thick, thanks again to my mother’s genes, I don’t just have a fro, I have a thick and luscious, cottony crown.”

  The Em was crowded tonight as I had to park all the way in the back, and it was just 8 PM. My guess was this author was really popular. Gab and Sheree were already there holding a spot for me, so I was good. Once I passed the threshold, soft music caressed my ears as it set the tone for the reading we were about to hear. This is why I loved this place. A guy was beating on the bongos in the corner, the lights were low and the ambiance was set for seduction.

  “Welcome, welcome, everybody. Please take your seats, turn off your phones, and get ready to hear a tantalizing, exhilarating, seductive excerpt from Ms. Kalheey North. We will start in three minutes,” John, the host, said and walked to the corner of the stage.

  I frantically looked through the crowd to find my friends, when I saw someone wave in my direction. Great, it was Sheree, and her hair had blond streaks today. She could never make up her mind. I took off my coat, gave it to the attendant and quickly went to my seat.

  “You made it,” Gab beamed.

  “Yeah, hey ladies.” I smiled back.

  “Girl, I thought you were going to flake on us like you did last night,” Sheree exclaimed.

  Gab elbowed her, but Sheree shrugged like she did not care.

  “I see you went for blond today. Penny for your thoughts?” I quipped back at Sheree.

  She rolled her eyes and I smiled at Gab. She’d been acting a little funny like she had a problem with me. We would need to talk to her about that because she and I have only been cool for months now. Not sure where she felt like she knew me like that to be talking to me any kind of way. Shit, I did not even take that from Gab, Kendell or Whit.

  “Oh, I need to get a drink. Anybody need a refill?”

  “I’m good, thanks.” Gab smiled.

  A grunt came from Sheree. I wasn’t buying her a drink anyway, she had better grunt. I shook my head and quickly walked to the bar. Signaling for the bartender, I grabbed a ten out of my clutch.

  “What can I do you for, Lauren, the beautiful?” the bartender smiled.

  “Charlie, Charlie, always a charmer.” I smiled. “Can I have a Cosmo?”

  “Sure thing, sugar.”

  Charlie walked away, so I turned around to make sure that I would not miss anything. Ms. North was sitting on the stage with a long skin-tight dress, a shawl and long flowing pressed or permed hair. She was a light caramel complexion and very elegant. Her bio said that she was from Southern Maryland. They were adjusting her stand because she was taller than they expected. Someone dropped something close to me, so I turned to find a man looking directly at me. He looked familiar, but I could not place him, so I turned back around to see if my drink was ready.

  “Enjoy,” Charlie smiled as he slid the drink in my direction.

  “Thanks, will do.”

  Ms. North started with a sweet endearing scene, then a sexy scene, to a heartbreaking and then back to sexy. The woman sure knew how to tell a story and the writing didn’t sound bad either. I would definitely read and review her book on my blog. As the evening went on, Sheree loosened up a bit and started talking to me again in a way that I would tolerate. When the reading was over, there was an opportunity to buy a book and have it signed, which we all did including half the patrons that were there. Even the men.

  Once that broke down, the music changed and the dance floor opened for those who dared to be first. I had enough drinks to get loose, so I pulled the ladies to the floor and we danced as a group until a short guy came and pulled Sheree i
nto a dance. She willingly accepted because she went for anyone. It was not that Sheree was not cute, she was. Her skin complexion was terra-cotta, a warm brownish-orange, and was probably around a size six. She dressed well as she was a fashion designer who looked like she just stepped off the runway half the time, but the girl could not keep her hair together to save her life. She changed it almost every week, had every color, and it make her look like she wanted to still be a teenager or something. It was weird.

  Gab and I dance some more until a cute Spanish guy simply came up to her and started dancing. I quickly turned around as the man looked gorgeous. I knew Gab would not dance with him if she thought I would be alone, but she should know me by now. I will dance by myself until the cows come home. Gab, with her petite frame, looked good tonight. She was about 5’1 and ultra-curvy. It was a problem for her, but the guys loved Gab. The curves were in all the right places. She forever tried to diet, run, and even get the weight loss surgery, which her doctor told her she did not qualify for because her body mass index (BMI) was under 40 and she was not 100 pounds overweight. I swear she wore a size 10, but since she was short, she felt it made her look chubby. Gab was mixed so her hair was naturally curly with a silky texture and not nappy like mine. She was also light with little brown freckles on her cheeks.

  As I turned around, I bumped into someone and had to quickly adjust to avoid falling into him. My lips were poised to apologize, but he was staring at me with a slight smirk on his face. It was the same guy from the bar. He had a handsome face that held all types of secrets. He was white, but he had a different vibe about him as if he was more than just a businessman. Although he was in dress jeans, a nice expensive sweater and shoes, it was apparent that he was well-versed in many different fields. He held out his hand towards me and said, “Dance.”