by Amy DeLuca
A smile curved Charlotte’s lips. “I’m starting to get the picture. A little starstruck were we?”
“That doesn’t even begin to describe it. I knew I’d be nervous. I mean, he’s my favorite author of all time,” Bonnie said. “I practically know all his books by heart. But when I got to the table, and he was there in front of me, close enough to touch, close enough to see his eye color, I went completely blank.”
Those turquoise eyes. She’d never seen another pair like them before or since. Those extraordinary eyes were the only fragment of good memory she held from that horrifying day, though they might have been at least partially responsible for her mental meltdown.
“That’s not so bad,” Charlotte said.
“I wasn’t finished yet.”
She laughed. “Oh boy.”
Bonnie nodded. “Yeah. Being struck dumb would have been a dream come true compared to what happened next. It was like the floodgates broke. All the admiration, and respect, and idolization that had built up over the years came pouring out. I babbled. I told him he was a genius, that I loved him. I still can’t believe I said that. I’ve never even said it to a boyfriend before.”
Cringing, Bonnie continued. “And then I cried. Not some delicate little tear glistening in my eye as I choked up. I bawled right there in the bookstore.”
Her eyes closed, and her head dropped in defeat at the memory of the disgraceful moment. “I was like a tween fangirling over her favorite boy band member—only less dignified. Oh—and I spilled my drink all over the signing table.”
“Oh my.” Charlotte’s hands covered her mouth as her own eyes filled with tears of mirth.
“He was horrified, of course. He literally scooted his chair back until it bumped into the promotional banner behind him. I’m sure he was picturing that scary woman from Misery and expecting me to produce an ax at any moment. Either that or he was afraid I’d try to steal a DNA sample and clone him. I left without even getting the signed book. It remains, to this day, the most embarrassing moment of my life.”
When Charlotte stopped laughing, she said, “That story will be a great ice breaker when you get to his house in Newport.”
“It’s at his house?” Bonnie blurted. Her heart lurched with longing. To be able to see where Jack wrote, to take in the view he stared at when he was searching for just the right words. It practically made her mouth water.
“Yep. You’d get to look around, take a few pictures, redeem yourself.”
Though Bonnie was shaking her head no, Charlotte kept talking. “That was two years ago, Bonnie. You’ve matured, grown as a writer and as a person. You wouldn’t be meeting him as an adoring fan this time—you’d be more like a colleague. You’d be approaching him as a professional, and I’ve never known you to be anything but professional.”
Never in her life had Bonnie been so conflicted. She wanted to accept the offer. She wanted to better her chances at the promotion. But she had to be honest. “I’m afraid I can’t be professional with him.”
Charlotte sighed. “Well, okay, if you’re sure…”
Rising from her chair, Bonnie started moving toward the door. “I am. I’m so sorry to disappoint you.”
Charlotte nodded and watched her go. When Bonnie was almost to the door, Charlotte said, “Bonnie.”
“Yeah?”
“Would you mind asking Sterling to step in? With the Bestia interview less than a week away, I need to get this nailed down and make the travel arrangements today.”
“Wait… you’re going to give the interview to him? He hasn’t even read the Onyx Throne books.”
Charlotte shrugged. “He loves meeting celebrities, and he’s always looking to up his ‘writer brand,’ as he calls it. He’ll do anything to advance his career.”
“Including embellishing quotes and making up fake news.” The thought of Sterling twisting the facts and putting words in Jack’s mouth had Bonnie stewing in a gumbo of indignation and protectiveness. Yeah right, like international bestselling author Jack R. R. Bestia needs my protection.
She didn’t leave Charlotte’s office, though. She stood, half in and half out, her hand gripping the door frame.
“Unless you know someone who’d do a better job.” Charlotte leaned forward and pinned Bonnie with her famous challenging stare. “Someone who’ll give the article the care it deserves, who’ll approach it honestly and ethically…”
Oh, she was diabolical. She’d known mentioning Sterling would push all Bonnie’s buttons. Still, Bonnie couldn’t take the chance her boss might actually send that buffoon to do the interview.
It took her a few seconds to answer. The words were trapped behind the breath she was holding. She swallowed and finally forced them out.
“I’ll do it.”
Charlotte laughed out loud, clapping once above her head. “I knew it! My gut told me this was your interview. You’re going to rock it.”
“Yeah, well I’ll be happy if I don’t throw up all over myself. But you’re right. No one here knows more about his books than I do.”
Certainly not Sterling. “And I want to be a team player.” And keep my sleazy co-worker from making up fake news about my favorite author and embarrassing us all.
“I’ll have Shelly get your train ticket and book the car service,” Charlotte said. “The hotel room’s already reserved—at the Hotel Viking, which is pretty swanky—you’re welcome.”
She grinned. “I have total confidence in you, Bonnie.”
“Thanks. I hope you won’t regret it.” And Bonnie hoped she hadn’t just signed up for a second helping of hot and crispy humiliation courtesy of Mr. Jack. R. R. Bestia.
“What’s the worst that could happen?” Charlotte asked.
The answer to that question was what scared Bonnie, and in six days, she’d find out.
Four
The Contract
Words. Words words words. For the love of Pete, where were all the words? It was like the entire contents of Jack’s brain had dried up and blown away.
He stared at the blank laptop screen, its whiteness nearly blinding. Or maybe it was the headache pounding behind his eyes that was bothering him.
Who was he kidding? Everything was bothering him. The desk chair that used to feel so comfortable. The sound of the wind whipping around his turret office. Even the steady crash of the waves below, which he’d always found exciting and inspiring.
Today, it was all just noise, and there was nothing inspiring about any of it.
With an irritated huff, he pushed back from his old wooden desk and went to the plotting chart on the wall, staring at all the empty spots. They should have been filled with brilliant plot points and sparkling scenes that would enchant his faithful readers and seamlessly tie together all the threads he’d carefully weaved throughout the prior six books.
Once, at the beginning of his process for this final book, the wall chart had been full and complete—his masterpiece if you will. He’d filled out index card after index card, a whirlwind of energy and inspiration making the rapid handwriting almost illegible. The ideas had flowed so quickly it felt as if he possessed the magic practiced by several of his characters, like lightning flowing from his heart and brain and out through his fingertips.
But that was years ago, and those cards had long since been ripped down and shredded. Replacing them with entirely new scenes and turning points was more like slow-moving sludge than lightning.
Nothing felt right. Nothing worked. Not like his original story outline. Which was no longer an option. He had to find a new way to finish the series. Somehow.
Just thinking about changing the ending he’d been planning since book one got Jack’s blood boiling. Grabbing a pencil from the desktop, he hurled it at the chart, missed, and watched as it splintered against the stone wall with a sharp crack.
“I see everything’s going swimmingly in here,” Mrs. Potts quipped as she entered the room and spotted the pencil carnage. “What did that poor, innocen
t writing instrument ever do to you?”
Jack turned, giving her a sheepish smile. “Well it’s not creating brilliant books, that’s for sure.”
She set the tray bearing his food on the edge of the desk. “I hope you’ve got it all out of your system now—or should I take this back downstairs to protect the dishes?”
“Don’t you dare. I’m starved.” Jack grabbed the sandwich from the plate and took a big bite. After chewing he looked back at her. “Thanks for bringing up supper.”
“Of course, dear. It’s good to see you in here again. When Harrison told me the light was on in your tower, I literally clapped.”
“Yeah, well, you may want to hold your applause. I’ve been up here for hours and haven’t written a thing.”
She stared at him for a long moment. “You know what I’m going to say…”
“I know. So don’t bother.”
Mrs. Potts continued anyway, as he knew she would. “The words don’t come because you have no love in your heart.”
Jack snorted. “Love is a lie. It’s the biggest fairy tale ever written.”
Mrs. Potts made a tut-tut noise. “Love is the truest thing there is. With an attitude like that, you’re going to wind up alone.”
“Sounds fantastic. I’m better off alone.”
“You don’t mean that. It’s that girl. Claudia. She did this.” She gestured vigorously as she spoke, lending her a strong resemblance to a flustered mother hen. “I could wring her skinny neck. I never liked her. I knew she was trouble since the first time I laid eyes on her.”
“I remember. And I don’t want to talk about it.”
In all the articles Jack had read about curing writer’s block, he’d never seen one mention of replaying old heartbreak being helpful. And if he spent too much time thinking about what Claudia had done, there wouldn’t be an intact pencil—or dish—within a ten-mile radius.
“Well, maybe you should talk about it with someone,” Mrs. Potts said in a casual tone as if she were offering him mustard for his sandwich. “Maybe it would help you move on.”
“I have moved on.”
“You haven’t had a woman in your life since.”
“I have you, and Phoebe and Simone,” he said, naming his household staff members.
She gave him a scolding look. “That’s not what I’m talking about, and you know it. You loved her, and she broke your heart. You know, now that I think about it, I’m not sure why I haven’t insisted you see someone sooner.”
“Are you talking about therapy? No thank you.”
“Well then a friend. Your brother. Someone. All I know is the words will never flow until you release the iron grip you’re keeping on your heart. Your writing comes from the heart, and right now it’s dying from strangulation.”
“My writing comes from years of studying the craft, and practice, and a boneyard full of rejected manuscripts,” Jack corrected. “As for Claudia, I’m over her. I’ve been over her. Complete and utter betrayal will do that for you.”
That much was true. His love for the woman he’d planned to marry had died the minute the tabloid article had come out. It, of course, had been picked up by legitimate publications and every internet site from here to Timbuktu, not only ending their relationship but most likely his publishing career as well.
Mrs. Potts took a step closer and gave his shoulder a warm, maternal pat. “It isn’t gone, son. You’ve still got the gift. You just need something—or someone—to help you relocate it.” Her voice took on a humorous note. “Believe me, we’ll all be glad when you do.”
She left the office without waiting for Jack’s response. He stared at the blank screen for another half hour before finally giving up and picking up his phone to call his brother. They wouldn’t be discussing Claudia, but it had been a few days since they’d talked, and he wanted to find out how things were coming along with Hunter’s startup tech company.
Hunter and several of his high school friends—the science Olympiad team basically—had built software that was streamlining the way online business transactions were conducted.
Jack was far from a technophile, but the way he understood it, businesses large and small could plug this software into their websites and apps to instantly connect with credit card and banking systems, allowing them to receive payments. The product had been an instant sensation with Silicon Valley startups, on-demand transportation companies, on-demand food delivery services, even large social media sites.
Essentially any company that wanted to speed up online financial transactions and eliminate fee duplication wanted in on what Hunter had created.
His company, Chipp, now handled hundreds of millions in internet transactions daily, making money by charging a small fee on each one. Those “geeky” high school coders? They were all millionaires now and well on their way to becoming billionaires.
While gearing up for the launch, they’d all rented a mansion on Bellevue Avenue, living there together like Mark Zuckerberg had with his friends and team members in preparation for taking Facebook global. Jack had teased Hunter that he might have watched The Social Network one too many times.
Hunter picked up on the second ring. “If it isn’t the Beast of Bellevue,” he said with a smile in his voice.
“The beast?”
“Yeah, you’ve gifted us with such a charming nickname, it’s only right to return the favor.”
Jack jokingly referred to Hunter and his housemates as the Seven Dwarves, though most of them were at least six feet tall.
“Yeah, well, seven adult men moving in together deserves a nickname—or two,” Jack said. “I don’t see how that makes me the beast, though.”
“Dude—you don’t see it? Growly recluse barricades himself in his lonely tower by the sea, scribbling madness and waiting for a fair maiden to imprison—not the best strategy for meeting women, by the way.”
Jack laughed. “I’d settle for scribbled madness at this point—it’s more than I’ve been turning out. How are you? How are things coming along?”
“Great. We’re almost ready—and great news—I’m flying to Seattle Monday for a meeting with the big one. They’re thinking of partnering with us on a portion of their transactions.”
“Whoa. Landing the whale there, Captain Ahab.”
“Not landed yet—but hooked. I’m hopeful.”
“Well, be sure and let me know when they sign. I’ll ask my chef to make a couple dry-aged steaks for us and pop a cork on something old and expensive from the wine cellar.”
“Or we could go out,” Hunter said.
“You know how I feel about that.”
“Yeah, I know. But I think it’s time you got back out there. I hate to see you wasting away all alone in that big old house while life passes you by. You’re young, rich, and not completely repulsive.”
Jack chuckled because people had always said he and his brother looked enough alike to be twins. Though Hunter was two years younger, they had similar builds and the same blue eyes and black hair, courtesy of their father.
“You need to get back on the horse, get the juices flowing again, have some fun for a change,” Hunter said.
“You make me sound like some kind of pathetic hermit.”
“I guess you haven’t quite achieved hermit status. I’m just saying you need to break this pattern you’ve sunk into. Maybe this interview you’ve got coming up will be a good thing, you know, make you feel all writerly again or whatever.”
“That’s not how it works. Talking about writing doesn’t make you a writer. Writing makes you a writer,” Jack said. “And I haven’t been writing. If this woman’s worth her weight in salt, she’s going to know something’s up. I’m considering not even doing the interview.”
“I thought you said your publisher made it mandatory. They’re already peeved with you for missing all those deadlines. Unless…”
“Unless what?” Jack asked, hopeful his brilliant sibling had thought of a way out of this for him.
>
“Unless you’re ready to just call it a day. You don’t have to do anything. You’ve already published seven books. You’ve made a ton of money. You could just retire. Who needs all the stress, right?”
Jack snorted. “Right. Like you’d just walk away from it all now that your company is a success and you’ve made millions.”
“Yeah well, I haven’t hit the billion-dollar mark yet. When that happens, I’ll be happy, and maybe I will walk away. I could just turn it over to the other guys and let them handle things while you and I buy a tropical island and spend our days surf fishing.”
Jack laughed. “Sounds like a plan.”
But he knew it would never happen. No matter how many books he’d published or how much money he made, it never felt like enough. He never felt like he’d truly “made it.” A little voice inside his head was always there whispering that he needed to do more, accomplish more. If he listened closely enough, it sounded like his father, the harsh ringing impossible to silence.
He’d never said so, but Jack could tell Hunter heard the voice, too. After all, he’d grown up in the same house, with the same unpredictable, unreliable, angry man.
“We’ll have to take a fishing trip at least,” Jack said. “After I finish this book. I don’t have a choice—about that or the interview.”
“Well then, you have to suck it up and do it, bro. Who knows? Maybe this newspaper chick is hot.”
“She could be Miss Universe and it wouldn’t matter to me. I’m going to give her a few rehearsed answers, let her take a photo of the foyer, and send her packing. It’s going to be over so fast I’ll barely get a look at her.”
“Whatever you say. What are you going to wear?”
Jack paused, confused, before giving him a sarcastic response. “Well, let’s see. I’m thinking of a sleek bandage dress and my pink Laboutin heels. What do you mean what am I wearing?”
“You should wear a blue shirt. Women like blue shirts—believe me on this one. They’ll bring out your eye color. Who knows? Maybe she’ll be so dazzled by the famous Bestia family peepers she’ll forget to ask if you’ve actually written the book. Play your cards right, and she’ll print whatever you tell her to.”
