“You know who is looking for you.”

“Who?” I replied, my voice heavy with sarcasm. “The Author?”

Unamused, I stared at my friend. The stern look on my face contradicted the playful tone of the response. I knew who Steve was referring to but hated whenever someone referred to the man in the third person. It was as if his profession had become his pseudonym.

Contrary to how others cowered in fear when summonsed by The Author, I looked it as a rite of passage. A badge of honor worn with pride. However, that didn’t mean I failed to recognize his authority. The man had genuine power. With the snap of his fingers, he could smite someone from existence.

Placed on a pedestal for the unpublished to bow towards, The Author was deemed holier than the rest of us, as if being published was a huge accomplishment. These days it took more money than brains to accomplish such a feat. If his public persona was a sham, then perhaps he didn’t have an abundance of either.

Frustrated, I continued, “I don’t understand why nobody uses his real name. He’s a man just like the rest of us.”

‘No, no,” my friend corrected. “He’s The Author.”

“So that means I’m supposed to kneel down before him and kiss his ass?”

“Well, he actually prefers people to kiss his ring. Y’know, like the pope.”

With arms folded across my chest, I shook my head from side to side in quiet opposition. There was no part of me that would ever kiss The Author, regardless of the protocols dictated by society. Hell, I’d steal the ring before kissing it. A jeweled ornament like that would fetch a fair price at a pawn shop.

Although Steve was used to my strong opinions about The Author and knew we had clashed in the past, his demeanor appeared different, as if a reflection on the seriousness of the pending situation. The concern in his gaze seemed borne out of fear. He was scared for me.

“What is it this time? What did you do?”

Unable to look in his direction, I averted my eyes towards the floor then across the room.

In a bare audible whisper, I admitted, “I may have slept with his wife.”

“What does that mean? You’re not sure?”

“Well I slept with somebody but it’s not like I asked her for ID. It just kinda happened.”

“What, you tripped and accidentally fell inside of her?”

“I don’t know. It was a couple of weeks ago…the nineteenth, I think.”

“Wasn’t that Father’s Day?”

“Yep. The Author was spending time with their kids while she spent the afternoon with me. Everybody had a good time.”

Dumbfounded with his mouth agape, Steve looked at me stunned. Although we had been best friends since childhood and knew each other well, I wasn’t certain why he appeared surprised by the admission. There were no secrets between us. Our decades long relationship was built upon a foundation of trust and honesty. We accepted one another for who we were and how we were, for better or worse.

“I never thought you’d become an adulterer.”

“Am not,” I protested. “I’m not married, she is. That makes her the adulterer.”

“Do you think The Author is going to be comforted by that distinction?”

Before responding, our conversation was interrupted when a muscular hand clamped a hold of my shoulder. I tried wiggling away but the grasp squeezed tighter. It pulled me backwards a few steps. An anonymous face leaned beside my ear and spoke in a low, gravelly voice.

“The Author needs to speak with you.”

From behind, two men grabbed a hold of each of my arms and guided me towards a waiting automobile. My feet glided across the ground, barely in contact with the surface. After forcing me into the backseat, they climbed in, wedging me in between.

I had been through the charade before but still found it a bit daunting. Everyone in the car, except myself, was dressed in all black, as if prepared to attend a funeral. I wondered whether they all shopped at the same store or purchased their clothing in bulk. Their focused gaze of unemotional detachment suggested uncompromising devotion. A sense of humor seemed foreign to the group.

“You guys should start a boy band. You’re already dressed the part.”

They responded to my comment with a heavy silence that lingered until we pulled through the security gate surrounding The Author’s palatial estate and parked in front of an outbuilding. I was extricated from the vehicle and led to the front door by the two of the men. They opened the double doors, stepped aside, and waited. A familiar hand clamped down upon my shoulder.

“Move,” he said, pushing me through the doorway.

The heavy entrance doors slammed closed with each guard remaining behind. The noise echoed throughout the room, startling me. It felt like prison bars had clanged shut and taken away my freedom.

The interior of the small building was cavernous. Its walls were lined with overstuffed bookcases. On the far side, elevated from the remainder of the room, a desk with a few chairs were arranged on an altar. The Author sat with his back towards us, tapping away at a keyboard.

Although none of the lights were turned on, sunlight through the large stained glass windows filled the space with enough illumination to guide our path. The soft footfalls of our approach went unnoticed. The man who urged me forward pulled back on my shoulder until I stopped walking. He stepped in front of me and cleared his throat. The Author held up his hand with acknowledgement but said nothing. When he finished typing, he stood and walked towards us.

“Brother Jerome, you can leave us now.”

My guide nodded with agreement before turning to offer a small piece of advice.

“If you disrespect him, the next time you go for a ride with me will be your last time.”

“What if I disrespect you instead?” I asked, my fists curled in preparation.

Jerome said nothing as he pushed past me and exited the building.

With his hand cupped downward, The Author extended his right arm in my direction. I grabbed a hold of his hand and shook it.

“Nice ring,” I said with a smirk.

Dissatisfied, The Author pressed his lips together and exhaled loud through his nose.

“Why do yo do that?” he asked.

“I told you before, Jay, I’m not gonna kiss your ring.”

“Why do you mock me?”

“We all have a role to play.”

The Author closed his eyes and shook his head from side to side. It wasn’t obvious whether he disagreed with or acquiesced to my position on the matter, not that it would have made much of a difference.

After taking a deep breath, he looked me in the eyes and asked, “Do you know why you’re here?”

“Uh…no. Can’t say that I do.”

“If I ask you a question it’s because I already know the answer.”

“Then I have no reason being here. You can just walk around talking to yourself.” I stared into The Author’s eyes and waited for a reaction but none came. After an extended pause, I added, “Why am I here?”

“That’s kind of a philosophical question, don’t you think? Why are any of us here?”

“Jay, save the double talk for your adoring fans.“

“Don’t call me that,” he said with a forceful tone. “You will refer to me as The Author.”

“No, Jay, I will not. It’s one thing to do it in public, to keep up appearances, but not when it’s just the two of us.”

“Why not?”

There was a note of vulnerability in The Author’s voice. It contradicted his espoused belief of knowing all the answers. I had seen it before. Reaching out, I offered a comforted hold of his shoulder.

“To me, you are always gonna be the little brother who hid under my bed whenever a thunder storm rolled into town. Sometimes you need a hug and sometimes, a smack upside the head.”

“Is that why you became a book critic?” he asked.

“Of course it is. Everybody walks around kissing your ass, and I’ve got no problem with that. But somebody has to keep you in line.”

“And sleeping with my wife was somehow part of the plan?”

“You know it was. The pain you feel from being cheated on will keep you from ever doing the same to her.” I retrieved a flash drive from my pocket and offered it in his direction. It contained photo and movie files of the sexual dalliance. “Plus if she ever puts up a fuss or tries to divorce you, there’s enough evidence here to make sure you keep custody of your kids.”

Smiling as he accepted the drive, The Author replied, “Still trying to protect me, huh?”

“Always, brother. Always.”