“You’ll Never Believe…” with T. Torrest

by Maryse on April 26, 2015 · 4 comments

in Fun Author Tidbits

Welcome to the thirty sixth installment of “You’ll Never Believe…”

For those that don’t know what these new featurettes will be about, here is the scoop! “You’ll Never Believe…” will feature the weirdest questions or encounters that authors have been asked/had. Might be about their books or random things, like meetings in a bathroom where someone asked what brand of toilet paper they normally use. Fun stuff and inside scoops that an author would not normally share.

Today’s “You’ll Never Believe…” celebrates the release of T. Torrest’s latest book “Down the Shore: A Rock-and-Roll Romantic Comedy”.  In this one, the author tells us about how they “…were about to turn into crazy stalker fans…”

You’ll Never Believe… by T. Torrest

Here’s a story that marginally ties into Book World:

Last summer, my husband Mike and I road-tripped from NJ down to Atlanta for a signing event. The hotel where we were staying was positively crawling with celebrities every night. Hanging out at the bar, we saw the Epps brothers, George Lopez, Roger Clemens… it seemed every time we turned our heads, another recognizable face was staring back at us.

After a busy and fun-filled weekend, we decided to spend our final night just chilling in our room. Mike would make periodic runs to the lobby bar to grab us a new round of drinks, and every time he came back to the room, he had a new name of someone he just saw down at the bar. Cedric. Robert Wuhl. Richard Jenkins.

Around eleven o’clock, he came barging through the door, out of breath, couldn’t even put a sentence together. “Get dressed,” he finally said. “You’re coming back down with me. You’re not going to want to miss this.”

“Mike, come on. I’m already in my PJs and we’ve got a fourteen-hour drive ahead of us tomorrow.”

A wicked smile cracked his face. “Babe. It’s worth it, I promise. For all the people we saw this weekend, I’m telling you now, this one is the best. The mother of all famous people. The Holy Grail of celebrities.”

I eyed him skeptically. “Unless you tell me Brad Pitt is sitting at that bar, I’m not getting out of this bed.”

“Better,” he answered on a grin. Better than Brad?  Impossible. When all I did was stare at him in doubt, he dropped the bomb. “Bill. F*cking. Murray!”

“Holy shit!”

I whipped off the covers, threw a bra on my face and some makeup on my boobs, and down to the lobby we went. I was trying to get my breathing under control. I was trying to practice playing it cool. But come on. This was Bill F*cking Murray we were talking about here. Not only did I grow up watching his movies, but the guy was awesome AF. How many Buzzfeed articles had I read about his antics? How many legendary stories had been floated around about the guy? And now we were on our way to create a tale of our own.

We stepped out of the elevator and took a casual seat at the bar, trying very hard to seem unaffected about the fact that Bill Murray was standing at a hightop about ten feet away from us, talking to a group of friends. Charles Barkley, Aidan Quinn… and a few other people. I didn’t even know. I couldn’t even look at them.

So, I didn’t notice right away that Brian Doyle Murray had sidled up next to me at the bar.

“Brian,” Mike said, like they were old friends. “I’d like you to meet my wife, Tina.”

And there I was, shaking the hand of Brian Doyle Murray. Caddyshack. Flapjack. Spongebob. His gruff voice was unmistakable. I’d grown up watching him, too, and my kids have been unwitting fans for years. “It’s very nice to meet you,” I said, like the super smooth chick that I am.

We actually chatted for a bit before he had to get back to his group. Mike and I stuck around, scoping out the scene, surreptitiously playing Google for our bartenders who couldn’t put names to some of the faces. We downed a few more drinks, just killing time as we tried to work up the nerve to go over and say hi.

But then, before we knew it, Charles Barkley’s booming voice was yelling, “Last call!” and Mike decided it was time to make our move. It was now or never. “I have to get a picture with him.”

“Babe, no. Don’t.”

“We’re doing this. We have to. Get your camera out.”

Oh God. We’d played it so cool all night, and now we were about to turn into crazy stalker fans. Okay, fine. He was right. When were we ever going to get the chance to meet Bill F*cking Murray ever again? I pulled my phone from my purse and we headed over to their table.

Brian looked up from his beer. “Hi Mike!”

I almost fell over laughing. “Mr. Murray. I’m sorry to interrupt, but would it be possible to get a quick picture?” Mike asked, holding out his hand.

Bill shook it. “Suuure. But it’ll cost ya.” Gah! That voice! That totally Bill, snarky and deep and reverberating voice that could bring on a fit of laughter just knowing something funny was going to be spoken with it. “Two-fifty.”

Mike didn’t miss a beat as he pulled out his wallet. “No problem. In fact, I’d like your brother in the shot, too. Here’s a five,” he said, throwing the bill down on the table.

The whole group started laughing. Holy crap. My husband made the Murrays laugh.

Bill promptly tore the bill in half to share with his brother. They flanked Mike on either side for the photo as Aidan Quinn tried to inconspicuously get out of the way. “Mr. Quinn,” Mike said. “You get in here, too!”

And at that, Brian tore off a strip of his half-a-fiver and handed it over. “Here’s your cut, Quinn.”

Thankfully, my hands didn’t shake while I took the picture, and we ended up hanging around, shooting the breeze for a few. There was some air guitar and a drunken duet that I’m conveniently leaving out of this story, but just know that we eventually left that bar with big goofy grins on our faces. It was a very fun, memorable night.

I think my favorite part of the whole experience was running into them again the next morning. Everyone was hungover in the lobby, waiting for the shuttle to come get them for their golf outing as we were checking out. Brian greeted us by name—which was hilariously unexpected—and it was nice to have the opportunity to say a proper goodbye.

In the grand tradition of “Pics or It Didn’t Happen,” I proudly submit a photo of our encounter. If you look closely, you can see Bill holding up the ripped five. He later bragged to me that he stole back Aidan’s piece, and that along with his bigger half, it looked as though he was going to make out with something closer to $2.80.

Worth. Every. Penny.


Livia Chadwick is a photographer by day and a self-proclaimed rock slut by night.

Her dating life is a lackluster parade of evasive jerks and her boss is an unrelenting nightmare of a human being. What else can a girl do but rent a beach house with her girlfriends and blow off a little steam every weekend? But hey, she’s from Jersey. Barhopping down the shore all season is sort of mandatory. All is going according to plan… until she meets Jack.

Jack Tanner is a contractor-turned-musician in a small-town cover band suddenly thrust into the limelight. He’s already had enough of the rock-and-roll lifestyle, and groupies have never been his thing. Then again… there’s a gorgeous brunette in the audience tonight, checking him out with the most incredible green eyes he’s ever seen.

She’s looking for a fling.

He’s looking for forever.

It’s gonna be one helluva summer.

Set in the summer of 1995, Down the Shore takes the reader on a tour through some of the Jersey shore’s hottest hot spots over one, sleepless, flannel-clad summer. It’s a look back to a time when the music was groundbreaking, the rock clubs were king, and bar bands ruled the world. Read when you’re in the mood for: something light, funny, romantic, beachy, and nostalgic. For ages 18+.

***Not recommended for anyone under the age of 18, and/or any readers who are slut-shamers, guido sympathizers, beach haters or anti-music. Other people who should walk away from this book immediately: Readers who have sticks up their butts regarding offensive language, those who don’t like detailed sex in their stories, idiots who think “Jersey Shore” has anything to do with actual New Jerseyans, and anyone who can’t appreciate pop-culture from the mother-effing nineties.***

About the Author:

T. Torrest is a New Adult fiction writer from the U.S. She has written many books, but prays that only a handful of them will ever see the light of day. Her stories are geared toward readers of any age that know how to enjoy a good laugh and a dreamy romance.

Ms. Torrest was a child of the eighties, but has since traded in her Rubik’s cube for a laptop and her Catholic school uniform for a comfy pair of yoga pants. She likes pina coladas and getting caught in the rain. She’s not much into health food, but she does enjoy talking about herself in the third person.

A lifelong Jersey girl, she currently resides there with her husband and two sons.

Sign up for my weekly newsletter

{ 4 comments… read them below or add one }

Shane April 27, 2015 at 12:04 PM

Haha, bra on her face and make up on her boobs!!!

Natasha April 27, 2015 at 1:21 PM

Brilliant post! Loved it. That T. Torrest sure is funny :)

Chanpreet April 27, 2015 at 2:09 PM

What a great story! I’m sorry I missed you in Atlanta, but I hope you’ll be back!

Maryse April 27, 2015 at 5:28 PM

Tee hee!!! :P

Leave a Comment


Notify me of followup comments to this post via e-mail. You can also subscribe without commenting.

Previous post:

Next post: