Silver Fox (Silver Shifters 2)

Bill sat back, elbows out at an aggressive angle. “My suggestion is, we confine the moderator to the professionals—”

Cassandra cut him off, dropping the coy giggle. “My idea is, we give our young people a chance—while offering them mentoring, of course. Tomas, here, would be perfect.”

Tomas sat bolt upright, radiating the introvert’s agony at suddenly being thrust into the limelight, and shook his head frantically.

“But I’d be right here to help you,” Cassandra cooed as she leaned over him, necklaces jingling. “I’ve been leading groups for years.”

Joey’s gaze caught on Linette, still standing by the coffee. She looked wistful. Joey caught Mikhail’s eye and flicked a look toward Linette.

Like the battle-hardened knight he was, Mikhail leaped into action. He said in his sonorous voice, “I nominate Linette, who kindly hosts these gatherings.”

Cassandra shot a glance across the room. “I nominate Bill. Such a natural leader.”

Linette sat down, raising her hand as she did so. With a generous smile, she said, “I nominate Cassandra.”

Cassandra smirked and rattled her bracelets as she sat back, leaving poor Tomas alone at last.

“That gives us three candidates,” Doris said briskly. “Write down your votes, and slip them in here before you leave.” She held up a manila envelope. “Now, we have a full group tonight, so let’s get right to it.”

Doris called on a tiny, wizened woman who looked like a bird hoping for crumbs. “Feni, why don’t you start us off tonight?”

Feni began reading an idyllic story about child almond-pickers on the Greek isle of Kos. She was followed Linette, who read a chapter from a romance.

Joey found his attention shifting from the stories to the writers themselves. Especially Doris. She moderated so well that she made it look effortless. Joey wondered how many of them recognized the skill it took to call on the shyest introverts only after others had read, to start discussions with a question when no one seemed to have anything to say.

Doris interjected smoothly whenever anyone began to repeat themselves. Finally, when Bill began shuffling his feet impatiently, Doris called on him. He harrumphed, then began to read:

Chapter Seventeen. After defeating the Russian mobster’s torturer, Wilhelm Stryker fought his way through the bodyguards, leaving a trail of corpses. The kingpin himself had run like the coward he was, the second Stryker broke out of the handcuffs binding him to the torture chair.

No chance of stopping at the hospital to get his wounds bandaged—if he wasn’t at the courtroom on the dot of one, his ravening ex-wife Cindy would sic her attack lawyers on him for yet another frivolous lawsuit.

He ran down the steps five at a time, and vaulted over the electrified fence. His blood dripped on the live wires, sizzling. He forgot his many wounds when he spotted the mob boss’s Jaguar parked behind the compound.

He opened the driver’s door—then halted when a beautiful face turned his way. Lips pouting like succulent tomatoes, her breasts barely contained in a low cut chauffeur’s outfit. “Oh,” the young chick said breathily, eyes wide. “You’re . . . that guy!”

“I’m taking the car,” he grated.

Her eyes widened even more, and she took a deep, sobbing breath, breasts bouncing like soft watermelons. “Can you get me away from Vilny Villainovitch Villainov?”

It kept going on that style. Joey found his mind wandering to Doris, whose profile was absolutely unreadable.

Joey was considering what to say to her— or if he should speak at all—when polite clapping startled him out of his reverie, signaling the end of Bill’s chapter. The discussion that followed demonstrated that Bill only accepted praise from women, but listened to suggestions from men. Joey was irritated on the behalf of the women in the group, and relieved when Doris called on Jen.

“I realize I’ve started three books in the last few months, but I’m trying to find one to stick to,” Jen said. “This is a portal fantasy . . .”

Her story drew Joey right in. She was the best writer who’d read so far. He sensed a longing in the vivid words, transporting the reader out of the present and into an ancient world full of magic and beauty. Joey noticed Doris listening with her eyes shut, a smile on her face. At the end, the clapping was noticeably more enthusiastic.

Bill harrumphed. “Very nice and full of girly details, but a rational reader won’t get far unless you describe the exact mechanism by which your protagonist gets into this other world.”

“Oh,” Cassandra cooed, cutting off three other people who had their hands up. “But it’s so atmospheric! Why, I was reminded immediately of the first time I visited Paris, and the beauty of the Parisian skyline from the balcony of my Parisian apartment—”

She paused for breath, and Doris said smoothly, “I completely agree about how atmospheric it was. Angelique, I saw your hand up. Did you have something to say?”

Doris drew out the more timid commenters, after which Tomas read a lovely poem about fog and identity in verse as atmospheric as Jen’s prose.

Then Godiva read what Joey recognized as a vivid, moody version of the scene he’d witnessed Doris acting out on Bird’s terrace. He remembered how skillful Doris had been at using her body to suggest the downtrodden, resentful Oona. This was not just talent, but signified someone who was very good at drawing on the invisible armor of roles.

Joey was impatient for the gathering to be over so he could talk to Doris. But they were not done. After Godiva finished to enthusiastic comments, Cassandra cleared her throat, rattled her beads, then read what she called a literary tone poem.