“I’m going to get started with the first read,” she shouted near his ear. “I have no idea how we’re going to get to everyone on the list who’s waiting to read. I just checked and it’s over fifty people. At six minutes, were looking at five hours!”

Brian paused for half a second before his brain calculated a solution. “Three minutes tonight. Three minutes, then pull the plug.”

“Seriously? You gouge them at the door, overcharge them for drinks, then barely give them half a second on the stage.”

Brian grinned and turned his attention back to calculating the current door totals. “I told you, not a charity.”

Clare shook her head and headed back to the stage. She sure as hell hoped at least one of these writers had their wish come true tonight. She scanned the crowd as she pushed her way back through it. What if this Simon Reamer wasn’t even here?

She climbed back up the stairs, still processing Donna’s shitty remarks but deciding to let them go—for now—and switched on the microphone.

“Ready?” she asked Donna, who was waiting at the back of the stage and nodded. “Have you seen your guy?” Clare asked.

“Yes. He’s sitting at the bar. Jeans, black T-shirt, and a highball in his hand.”

Clare looked out into the crowd and saw the agent sipping his drink and waiting for the readings to begin. She wondered if he’d just leave as soon as he heard Donna read or if he’d stick around for at least a little while. All these people here just because they heard he would be—and he likely had no idea.

She tapped the mic a few times and listened to the audible pop, pop, then lowered her head to begin her introductions for the night. “Excuse me,” she spoke into the mic, but her voice was completely drowned out by the hustle and chatter of the room. Clare cleared her voice and prepared herself to speak louder. She opened her mouth, but right then, a large hand reached in and grabbed the mic from the stand in front of her.