Page 33 of Thick

He looked up. “Excuse me?”

“When you stop looking at cars on eBay, I’ll stop reading.”

He glared at me for a moment, and then shifted his gaze to his monitor.

He continued to look for cars, and I began to read. As the straight razor toting biker forged a piece of gold into a ring, I relaxed. When the club went on a fact-finding mission at a rival club’s watering hole, I squirmed in my seat. Page after page, and chapter after chapter, I allowed Becker to wiggle his way into my heart, having no alternative but to accept him with open arms.

Tate’s previous books were narrated in first person, using an alternating point of view. The chapters were written from both the hero’s and the heroine’s points of view, giving an insight into the lives, thoughts, and feelings of both characters.

This book, for whatever reason, was narrated by an omniscient protagonist. It was different, but I was enjoying it immensely. Becker had just finished an engagement ring for a local attorney, who planned on proposing to his would-be wife over the weekend while on a cruise ship.

Under the illumination of the streetlight, Stephen inspected the ring at his leisure. His previous examination, while in the confines of the jeweler’s home, left him feeling anxious and rushed.

Using his thumb, he roTated the magnificent piece along the tip of his index finger, admiring the detail given in the placement of each of the hand-picked diamonds. His painstaking examination produced not a single imperfection. Finding it to be flawless, and much to his liking, he imagined what Julia would say when he offered it to her. Wearing a grin of anticipation, he folded the blue velvet cloth over the ring and pushed it deep into the pocket of his slacks.

“Give me the ring,” a voice from behind him demanded.

Stephen’s mind told him to run, but his feet refused the instruction. With his hand still in his pocket, he clutched the velvet cloth and said a prayer.

“I…I can’t. It’s…” Stephen turned around, hoping a heartfelt explanation would spare him from being robbed of the precious hand-made ring.

The tip of the assailant’s knife struck the left side of Stephen’s neck, severing his carotid artery. As his hands rose to the gaping wound, the thief thrust his hand into the prospective grooms’ pocket, retrieved the ring, and ran.

With a crimson trail leaving proof of his every step, Stephen stumbled toward the jeweler’s home. Fighting against time and his own beating heart, he somehow managed to stagger to the porch.

His vision blurred as he pounded his bloody hand against the door. “Please,” he pleaded, his voice weakened by the loss of blood. “Help me.”

The jeweler, immersed in reading, rose from his position in his favorite chair. As he took his first step toward the door, Stephen drew his final breath and collapsed on the porch.

The jeweler opened the door, and upon recognizing Stephen, lifted the lifeless body and cradled it in his arms. He tilted his head toward the star-filled sky and asked his glorious maker how nothing more than greed could empower one man to take another man’s life.

The sound of an approaching vehicle caused the jeweler to divert his attention toward the street. He raised his hand at the passing car.

The driver, a school teacher on her way home from a winter social engagement, shrieked at the sight of the jeweler’s blood-soaked shirt. Instead of stopping, she pressed the button on her steering wheel mounted controls, activating the vehicle’s cell phone.

She cleared her throat, and with a shaking voice, gave the command that would change the jeweler’s life forever.

“Call 9-1-1.”

I looked up. My heart was racing. I felt sick to my stomach. I scanned the observation station. Perry was no longer at his desk. I looked at my watch.

3:25.

In five minutes, my shift was over. I tossed my Kindle into my purse. I would be so pissed off if Tate let Becker go to prison for a crime he didn’t commit. Tate wouldn’t do that to his readers. He knew exactly what it was like to have that happen, and I doubted he wanted to wish it upon anyone else, book character, or not. I stood, let out a breath, and looked around the room.

Damn you, Tate.

Chapter Fourteen

Tate

In a week, the new book had received over two hundred reviews. According to the amount of praise it was receiving – and the five-star average it held – it was my best received book to date.

I scrolled through the book’s Amazon page and down to the sales rank. Much to my surprise, the ranking was below one hundred.

Sixty-six to be exact.

Notoriety had never been my goal. No differently than any other author, I hoped to one day write a New York Times Bestseller, but made no real effort to obtain the goal. The policies, procedures, and layers of bureaucratic bullshit that were required to be hurdled to reach the objective were beyond what I was willing to give.