Malachite Publishing, $3.99, ISBN 978-1950220557
Contemporary Romance, 2021
This is a rude thing to say, I know, but I keep misreading the author’s name as the Blair of Babylon.
Ahem.
Okay, people, brace yourself, because I am going to reveal the hero’s name next. Ready?
It’s Tristan Fortunato King.
I know! I laugh so hard when I first read that.
Also, on the first page, I am immediately introduced to his friends: Micah Shine, Blaze Robinson, and Logan Bell—all of whom may as well have “Buy my book, toots!” tattooed on their foreheads in fluorescent ink. All of them talk in that contrived, edgy, bitchy, and sarcastic way that women imagine guys do when there are no women around, as if having so much money has jaded them to a point that they need some perky, innocent, manic pixie working class heroine to make them feel whole. These women get the Ds—the dollars and the… you know—and the guy gets… a happy ending in every way, I guess, and that’s what we call the transaction of love. Now give the author your money.
So, Twisted is Tristan Forthetomato King’s story. He needs a lot of money to get some stocks in a gaming entertainment company, GameShack, due to some Harlequin Presents-y shenanigan to get the story going. Despite having so much money that he’s called the Prince of Monaco, he can’t plonk down the dough, so he has an idea. He’d engineer the plummet of the stock price of the company, and then he’d finally get to fulfill his obligation!
It’s the timing, I know, but do people really want to read about callous 1%-er of the world engineering things that will put many working class people out of a job, just because this 1%-er feels like doing so, especially in a time like this?
Fortunately, Mr Moneybaggo Eatapotato will be distracted by Colleen Frost, whose introductory scene sees gems such as the following:
Taking a seminar over the 5-week semester. TG it’s the last week. Let’s go out Fri pm!
Colleen fast-forwarded her work schedule through her bleary mind. I get off work at 9 on Fri.
Perfectamundo. I’ll tell Sally and Rita to meet us. See you at Sharkeys.
Whattawithallthisundoundo.
She is perky and quirky. The author makes sure I know it, by having Collenato does things like making gagging sounds and sticking her tongue out even when she’s alone in her room. See? Quirky!
Colleen dragged a semi-sheer length of rosy beige chiffon over her head and settled the golden jewelry-weight chains sewn under the fabric over her head and nose. The fake-gold chains kind of resembled the golden strands Anjali wore from her earrings to her nose piercing when she performed classical Indian dance, but Colleen’s face-necklace had additional delicate chains that formed metallic lace over her forehead and the lower half of her face. The veil was part of a Bene Gesserit cosplay costume from the science fiction convention DevilCon a few years ago, back when she’d had the money for cosplay costumes. Still, it would suffice to hide her face during this stupid videocall and preserve her anonymity.
She even cosplays at work! Quirky, people, QUIRKYNATO!
I’m not even a quarter-way into this story and I am already feeling tired.
The lifestyle? He must have recognized her Bene Gesserit witch costume from Frank Herbert’s science fiction book and the movie Dune, and the lifestyle must mean nerd culture, and she did participate. Colleen geeked out about science fiction at every opportunity. “Um, sure.”
Yes, being a walking Tumblr-speak that cosplays is, like, totally, totally nerd culture. Oh, and she also insists that she’s not beautiful, all the more for the hero to insist that she is, and she’d go inside, “Me? Beautiful? You think so! Alright, I humbly admit that I am beautiful at last… and I will now graciously accept all your love and worship of me, because I have attained my final form at last: the most amazing woman in existence!”
On her darkened screen, Twist leaned in, and the light from his computer screen drew pale-blue lines over the hard slashes of his cheekbones and jaw. The dim streaks looked like a comic book sketch of a superhero, maybe Superman or Batman.
Or Iron Man. Colleen was more of a Marvel girl than a DC stan.
My spider sense is screaming: “Fake nerd! Thot begone!”
“Um, QueenMod. It’s my nickname.” Colleen sucked in a deep breath. “Because that’s what I go by sometimes.”
The man was still looking at her, his gaze as steady as if he held a sniper rifle. From the plethora of Marine tattoos on his arms, he might have done that at some point in his life. “QueenMod.”
“Yes,” she said, shrinking inside. “It’s probably not even on there anyway. I’m sorry to have bothered you. I’ll just—”
Jeffrey was holding a computer tablet and scrolling, and then he raised one eyebrow. “QueenMod. Like Queen, Mod?”
Okay, I can’t do this anymore. The writing is full of consoomer culture thottery crap passed off as nerd culture, and I get increasingly annoyed as I turn the page. It also doesn’t help that conversations here are like nails on chalkboard, with everyone talking like they are posting on social media, and they need obvious things to be pointed out to them, probably because the author thinks that I am a five-year old and I need everything spelled out for me. QueenMod, like, Queen, Mod, you know? Just gag me and throw me off a cliff, please.
Colleen blurted, “I stuffed five condoms into my bra.”
I have no idea what this story about because I am too busy cringing, and after reading that lovely line, I have to bail myself out from this dystopian hell of a story, before my brain completely melts into a pile of hemorrhage and goo.
