With room temperature white table wine and orange cubes of cheddar, Mercury Bookstore was hosting its Spring Author Q&A followed by a book signing. Tonight’s author was Seattle Tribune star journalist Sam Jenkins, writer of One-Eyed Jacks, the Hunt to Find the Wayne City Sniper. Bookstore owner, Loretta King beamed in front of the rows of folding chairs. Shove that in your pipe and smoke it BookBusters, she thought smugly.

Sam Jenkins sat across from King trying desperately to not vomit. Sam didn’t like crowds. He really didn’t like speaking in public. His left knee started to shake. He knew he was a fraud.

Carrying a tray of more orange cubes of cheese and a crudite plate, store clerk Jessica kicked Von to remind him to play the gentle background music from Spotify. She refreshed the appetizer table trying to make the pitiful amount of snacks look classy. Mercedes, one of the bookshop regulars, grabbed a handful of crackers. Jessica groaned.

Loretta looked over at her guest. He looked petrified. She chuckled to herself. Authors often looked stricken before promo events. Loretta loved books, the weight of a thick paperback, the crisp of opening an unread hardback. Loretta pictured her ivory paper knife slicing uncut folio. Loretta loved books not writers. She was less of a fan of authors. Self-conscious Nervous Nellys, she said to herself and leaned towards Jenkins.

The author startled. Loretta patted his knee. Her voice purred.

“Only the dumb are perpetually confident. Many bright talented people have imposter syndrome, feeling undeserving. I’ve followed your articles, young man, I have read your book. Breathtaking, simply breathtaking. You deserved all of the wondrous things coming to you.”

Jenkins blanched. Shrugging, Loretta adjusted her Hermes scarf, crossed her legs, and leaned back into an elegant pose. A freelance photographer who did gigs from the local papers and news sites snapped photos of her. Frantically, Jenkins searched the crowd for the pr lady from Lynx Books. Carrie or Carly, Jenkins’ thoughts were scrambled. He had to get out of here.

More guests arrived. They mingled in the stacks and flocked the appetizer table. Jessica carried in four more folding chairs. She glared at Von drinking wine and chatting up some cute chick in Histories & Biographies.

Guests settled into their chairs. The appetizer table was a train wreck. Jessica scrubbed at her temples and reconsidered the clerk position at the new BookBusters. Loretta told a story about herself deguised as an amusing ancedote about independent bookstores. Jenkins looked for exits, willing his feet to move.

“I could talk about the striking prose and detailed research that went into covering the sniper that terrorized the Northwest for hours but I want to give our attendees a chance to ask questions,” Loretta said reaching an elegant hand towards the guests. The cute chick who had been talking to Von stood up.

“Shannon Crosby from Media WatchDog, considering this book is based on your Tribune articles that was based on plagiarized sections from USWeek, Seattle Post, the Tacoma Daily, and dozens of other news sources, off the record comments, and pure fabrication. Are you planning on re-releasing One-Eyed Jacks as fiction?” Crosby said, holding up her phone.

Bolting upright, Jenkins leapt from his chair, knocked over an older woman into the new releases, and ran out the shop’s front door.

“Fiction it is,” she said.