Seven Days in June(2)

Which was fine. When Eva had an itch, she scratched it in her books. Like a boxer abstaining before the big match, she used her unconsummated lust to give Sebastian and Gia’s story a wild edge. It was fiction ammunition.

But in the social-media era, nobody wanted to picture their favorite erotica author zonked on painkillers, drooling on her couch by 9:25 every night. So in public, Eva looked the part. She had her own tomboy-chic take on sexy. Today, it was a gray T-shirt minidress, Adidas, vintage gold hoops, and smudged black liner. With her signature sexy secretary glasses and collarbone-length curls, she could almost convince anyone she was a man-killer.

Eva was brilliant at faking things.

“…and bless you,” continued Lacey, “for instilling our faith in passion, even though Gia and Sebastian are bound by an ancient curse to wake up on opposite sides of the world the moment after orgasm. You gave us a community. An OBSESH. Can’t wait for Cursed, Book Fifteen!”

Amid applause, Eva smiled brightly and attempted to rise. Unfortunately, she forgot she was handcuffed to the chair, and she was abruptly yanked back down. Everyone gasped as Eva plummeted to the floor. Her dominatrix-waitress sprang to action two seconds too late, uncuffing her from the overturned chair.

“Whoa, too much merlot,” giggled Eva, popping back up. It was a lie; she couldn’t drink alcohol with her health issues. Two sips would land her in the ER.

Eva raised her glass of seltzer up at the sea of happily wasted boomers. Most of them, like Lacey, were wearing Gia’s signature purple witch hat. A handful had a blingy S pendant pinned to their Chico’s blouses. It was Sebastian’s S, meant to emulate the vampire’s scrawled signature ($29.99 at evamercymercyme.com).

Eva had the same S branded on her forearm. A regrettable decision made years ago on a blurry night by a blurry girl.

“I can’t thank you enough,” she gushed. “Really, your support keeps the Cursed world turning. I hope book fifteen lives up to your expectations.”

If I ever write it. The manuscript was due in a week, and paralyzed with writer’s block, she’d barely cobbled together five chapters.

Swiftly, she changed the subject. “So, does anyone read Variety?”

This was a Redbook and Martha Stewart Living crowd, so no.

“Exciting news broke yesterday.” Eva sat down her glass and clasped her black-manicured fingers under her chin. “Our wish was granted. Cursed has been optioned for film rights!”

There were shrieks. Someone threw a witch hat in the air. A flushed blonde whipped out her iPhone and recorded Eva’s speech so she could post it to Cursed’s Facebook fan page later. Along with several Tumblr and Twitter fan accounts, Facebook was a deeply important book-promo platform for Eva, where her readers shared fan art, gossiped, wrote obscene fan fiction, and debated casting decisions for the movie they’d fantasized about for years.

“I landed a producer”—a Black female producer, thank you, Jesus—“who really gets our world. Her last film was a steamy Sundance short about a real estate agent seducing a werewolf! We’re interviewing directors now.”

“Sebastian on film! Imagine?” swooned a faux redhead. “We just need a Black actor with bronze eyes. One who’s a good biter.”

“Eva, how do I ask my husband to bite me?” whined a Meryl Streep look-alike. This always happened, the sex talk.

“Arousal through biting is a thing, you know. It’s called odaxelagnia,” Eva divulged. “Just tell him you want it. Whisper it in his ear.”

“Odaxelagnia me,” slurred Meryl.

“Catchy,” Eva said with a wink.

“I’m stoked to see big-screen Gia,” said a husky-voiced brunette. “She’s such a fearless warrior. Sebastian’s supposed to be the scary one, but she’s killed armies of vampire hunters to protect him.”

“Right? The force of teen-girl passion could power nations.” With a twinkle in her eye, Eva launched into the mini-monologue she’d perfected ages ago. This part was still fun. “We’re taught that men are all animal impulse and id. But girls get there first.”

“And then society stomps it out,” said the brunette.

“Word.” Eva knew the pain was close. Before an episode, her mask slipped and the Black popped out.

“Look at history,” Eva continued, rubbing a temple. “Roxanne Shanté out-rapping grown men at fourteen. Serena winning the US Open at seventeen. Mary Shelley writing Frankenstein at eighteen. Josephine Baker conquering Paris at nineteen. Zelda Fitzgerald’s high school diary was so fire that her future husband stole entire passages to write The Great Gatsby. The eighteenth-century poet Phillis Wheatley published her first piece at fourteen, while enslaved. Joan of Arc. Greta Thunberg. Teen girls rearrange the fucking world.”

An electrified hush fell over the group. But Eva was sinking. The pounding in her temples was sharpening by the millisecond. Sugar triggered her condition, and she’d been force-fed all those cookies. She knew better—but she’d been cuffed.

Absentmindedly, Eva snapped the rubber band she always wore around her right wrist. It was a pain distraction. An old trick.

“Remember when Kate Winslet escapes the Titanic?” asked the brunette. “And then jumps back on to be with Leo? That’s teen-girl passion.”

“I’d do that today to get to Leo,” admitted Lacey, “and I’m forty-one.” She was fifty-five.