Everleigh:I understand. Goodnight.
Me: Night.
I lay down in bed and close my eyes, fully dressed except for my shoes, which I slip off before collapsing. One last time for good measure, only this time it’s not a thought, it’s a yell that I let out no matter who the hell is listening.
“FUCK!”
17
Knight
I’m remembering that thought I had before, about how amazing it was that I’d gone a full two days without any drama or downturn in my mood. That seems fucking laughable right now. After what may have been the best weekend of my life, a weekend where I met a woman I’m really in to, and had some of the best moments yet in my career, I end up losing my fucking laptop. The first original story I’d started in a year—the book that may have been the one to get me on a list—was saved to its hard drive, and now it’s vanished along with my bag. I guess it’s my fault for not backing the story up, and for leaving my bag on the elevator floor, but still. Whoever took that bag and didn’t return it to the front desk is an unethical piece of shit.
I checked with the staff before the three of us left just to make sure they hadn’t gotten anything turned in that was mine. But no. No bag. No laptop. Nothing of mine was returned, and it obviously wasn’t on the elevator when I went back, which means that someone took it, saw that it was mine, and kept it for themselves. I hope that it wasn’t one of our readers, I really do, but you never know how people will behave. What if I had found a laptop with Stephen King’s latest short story on it at some hotel? I wouldn’t keep it, that’s for sure. I might read it and then give it back but I wouldn’t flat out steal it from him!
It’s time to go home.
I pack up the rest of my shit and text Everleigh. I want to go see her, but she’s rooming with her friends, so that’s out. I’d really like to see her one more time before I go. I left in a mood after an amazing evening, and now I’m not even going to get to say a proper goodbye, but it is what it is. If anyone saw us and the rumor-mill got going online that would just be the icing on the shit cake, so I just suck it up and send her the nicest text I can muster as we all get ready to head down to the car.
Me: I had the best time last night. You’re amazing, and I don’t want this weekend to be the end of things. That would break my heart. Once I get back and get settled I’ll text you and maybe I can take you out for real.
She writes back in no time, as though the phone was in her hand when she got my message.
Everleigh: Good morning! And I’d love that. It won’t help to say this, but don’t let this stop that momentum I saw. Write your story. Write our story if it helps. Whatever gets those amazing fingers hitting the keys of your computer.
Me: Our story isn’t written yet,” I write back. “But maybe I’ll jot down the first few chapters.
Everleigh: Please do. I’ll talk to you this week, okay?
Me:You got it.
Even though it doesn’t change how I feel entirely, my mood gets a little lighter after that text exchange. She has that effect on me. It’s an amazing thing because I know that I lean towards the darker side of things, I always have. Even when I was a kid I was kind of sullen, very intense and serious most days, and always very focused on whatever I was doing. I have a good sense of humor, but it’s not my natural state to sit around joking and laughing with people. I’ve had a few serious relationships in my life, but it’s a rare thing that just being around a woman makes me feel less serious, less depressed, less of everything. But even just a message on a screen took a little bit of the edge off the sting of this whole laptop thing. This woman’s amazing. Me and the boys pack up what’s left of our stuff into the back of the car.
“Did we all sell out?” Colton asks.
“You did,” Grayson jokes. “A long time ago when you became a rock star in your mind, but I don’t think that’s what you’re asking.”
“No, dick,” Colton says, putting the last of his boxes in the back. “Did we all sell all of our extra books? I did.”
“I did also,” Gray answers.
“I mostly did.” I have one box left that has a few copies of Into Your Eyes, and a few envelopes of extra swag, but that’s about it. Colton comes over and takes the box from me.
“Feels like there’s nothing in here, good for you, man!” He gives me a little punch on the shoulder to try and cheer me up. Colton’s a really good guy. Everyone thinks he’s this brash asshole, especially other male authors, he has that alpha thing going for him, but he’s really the kindest person I’ve met. His cockiness is only there to sell books and as a mental trick to help make him successful. He’s ambitious and driven, for sure, and he has incredible self belief, which can sometimes come across as arrogance if you don’t know what you’re looking at, but he’s one of the most selfless people I know, and definitely a great friend. “You killed it. You see?”
“I guess,” I say. I can hear the negative tone in my voice and I don’t like it at all.
“No, man, don’t guess, that’s what happened.” Colton closes the trunk and turns to face me right there in the parking lot, putting both of his hands on my shoulders. “Listen to me, I know what happened last night sucks.” If he only knew what else happened last night. “But how much did you actually have written down? New and old material combined?”
I think for a second and do some quick math in my head. “I don’t know, about 10,000 words.”
“See, it’s not that big of a deal. That’s what, two days work if you lock yourself in the house? And we all know how much you love to do that. If you were a country, locking yourself in the house would be your national sport. Come on, you can get that shit back.”
The number 10,000 may sound like a lot, quantifiably, but it really isn’t. Writers think in terms of words, not pages, and Colton is correct that 10,000 isn’t nearly as much as it may sound like to a non-writer. Your average romance novel is between fifty to seventy thousand words usually, and he’s also right that if I sat down with a pot of coffee and no distractions that I could bang out 10,000 words in two days, easily. Maybe one day if I started early in the morning. But if he’s so right, why doesn’t it make me feel any better?
“And look,” he continues. “It’s not like anything can be done with that story. You have a really distinct style of writing, there’s no way someone could pirate a few chapters and do anything meaningful with it, so don’t even worry about that part of it.”
“Yeah, I guess.”
“There you go guessing again. Stop that. Don’t guess, just trust me, can you do that? For real.”
“I trust you,” I tell him.
“Good, then trust what I’m saying to you. You know I’m not a cheerleader, and that I don’t say shit just to make people feel better about themselves. I mean what I say. You’ll get over this, fast. Do you remember the characters?”
“Yes,” I answer.
“The plot so far?”
“Yup.”
“The basic narrative of what you had written?”
“Absolutely.”
“Well then, there you go, shut your whiny ass up and take this.”
Grayson, who’s been quietly listening to Colt’s speech to me this whole time, walks up next to me and hands me his computer. “Here,” he says, handing it to me. “I already formatted a Word document for you. It’s numbered, spaced correctly, and just waiting for you to be brilliant. We have a four hour drive, get after that shit.”
I smile. What else can I do, the kid should be an inspirational speaker. What makes me smile and feel a little better is the sincerity in his eyes. He believes what he’s saying, and it makes me want to believe it too, even if that isn’t the case just yet. He’s right, though, I don’t need to believe anything, I just need to get my fingers to hover over those keys, and I know I can make some magic happen. Time to shut up and write.
I think I surprise the hell out of Colton when I step towards him and give him a huge hug right there in the parking lot.
We’re both big, muscular guys, so the image of a gentle embrace in a parking lot is probably funny if someone is looking, but I don’t care. That type of friendship moment deserves a fucking hug.
“Are you gonna fuck me now, too?” he jokes. And with that delicate line Colton is back to his usual brash self.
“But you haven’t even sucked my dick yet!”
“And there we have it,” Grayson says, putting his hand on both of our shoulders. “Time to go.”
“Wait,” Colt jokes, turning towards Gray. “If we started banging right here, like all three of us, I think we could hit some lists.”
“Yeah,” Grayson says. “The arrest list for the local police department. Plus I can do better than you two, anyhow.”
“Oh, fuck off,” Colton jokes. “You’d be blessed for me to gift you my dick. It would be like Christmas for you.”
“Guys, guys!” I yell, only it’s not a real yell. “I can’t write my masterpiece while we’re all standing in a parking lot talking about fucking each other. I’m distractible like that. Can we hit the road, we have a long drive.”
“He’s right,” Colt says. “And anyhow, if we get bored we can always talk about banging each other while we’re driving.”
“Goals,” I joke.
We get in and pull out of the lot. The hotel starts to fade into the horizon as Gray hits the gas, and I turn to take it in one last time. I have pictures, and I’ll have my memories, but there’s something I want to see in person one more time before it’s gone. Some special things happened in that building this weekend, things that will effect me, one way or the other, for a long time.
More than any of the drama I’m going through, or book sales, or building some buzz for our new group, what happened in that building was meeting her—meeting Everleigh. I haven’t figured out my relationship with the universe just yet. Sometimes I feel like it’s messing with me at every turn, testing my ability to stay positive and push forward in my life. Maybe that’s just my own psychology that I need to let go. But occasionally, I feel like the universe just makes implausible things happen, and that those things can impact you for the rest of your life. I don’t know if I really believe any of that, but what I do believe is that I met someone really special in that hotel bar, and that no matter if I become a successful author or end up greeting people at Walmart for a living, I need to see her again.
I need her again.
18
Everleigh
I hope Michael’s okay.
I mean, I know he’s not, really, but how could he be? The poor guy finally writes something he’s excited about and loses it in the same weekend. What pieces of shit people can be! On some level I feel a little guilty because he lost his computer on his way to see me. I know that he was just forgetful because he was excited—so was I—and that one careless move on his part cost him a story. Hopefully he’ll remember what he wrote and can recover it.
He said he was going to use one of the other guys’ computers to try and recover whatever he could on the way home from memory, I just hope he isn’t so bummed about it that it takes away from his ability to write. I guess we’ll see.
What I’m really sad about is how our night ended. That was the best sex I’ve ever had in my life, and it wasn’t just some tawdry fling between a romance groupie and a scumbag male author. That stuff goes on all the time, but last night wasn’t that. I’m not that woman, and Michael sure as hell doesn’t seem like that guy. It was a genuine connection between two people, and an amazing weekend that sprung from it. I’m just upset that he was so upset, and that we couldn’t even spend the night together because he left in a terrible mood.
“Are you ready?” Harley asks.
“Almost.”
“Rowan, what about you?” All of a sudden Harley’s become the organized one, herding us and keeping us in line.
“Yeah,” Ro says, peeking her head out from behind the door of our bathroom. “I’m just making sure I didn’t leave any of my stuff behind.”
“And stealing the little soaps?” Harley jokes.
“Well, that too, but mostly the first thing.”
“How about you Mrs. Knight,” Harley says, turning towards me this time. “Did you pack your engagement ring and your extra special copy of his book?”
I look at her and make my angry face. “Stop it, okay. And don’t joke about my annotated paperback, it helped me leave Jeremey, sort of. And yes, I’m done packing.”
“That’s a powerful book. Speaking of the devil, anything since that night he texted you?”
“Unfortunately,” I tell her. “He doesn’t like that I stood up to him at all. He keeps writing these weird and cryptic texts that he’s gonna see me again, no matter what, and that I’m still his, and that he still loves me. A whole bunch of craziness.”
“Does he know your new address?”
“Shit, I hope not,” I say. Now I’m worrying that he does. “I mean, if he does he hasn’t used it. No letters or random cases of him ‘being in the neighborhood’ or any other stalker excuse. All of our communication. . .scratch that, all of his communication has been via text.”
“Wait,” Harley interjects. “You don’t write him back ever?”
“No,” I tell her. “I’m afraid he’ll take it as some kind of fucked up victory and think I’m encouraging him to text more.”
“Yeah, you’re right,” Ro says. “I don’t have any experience with stalkers, personally, but . . .”
“I’m not saying he’s a stalker, Ro.”
“I know, but he’s definitely doing stalker-ish things. What I was going to say is that I saw a special on YouTube about stalkers once. . .”
“You watch that shit on YouTube?” This time it’s Harley interrupting.
“Can I finish a sentence? Jesus.”
“Sorry, sorry,” I say. “Go ahead.”
“Anyway, I saw this documentary that said what you just said. Basically that the psychology of creeps who do this kind of shit is such that they take any contact—even if it’s you telling them to fuck off—as encouragement. Just how their brains work, so maybe don’t text back unless you absolutely have to.”
“And you don’t have to,” Harley says. “You’ve cut ties, right? There’s nothing financial keeping you in contact?”
“No,” I say. “We weren’t married. Just a few things that we worked out already. There’s really no reason to talk to him.”
“Good, then don’t!”
I love how protective they are of me, but I think they’re over doing it a little. Maybe I shouldn’t make Jeremey sound so crazy. He was really in love with me. I get how, sometimes in a breakup, people have trouble letting go. We were together for a while and some of it was really good, but once he started getting verbally abusive and controlling it changed how I felt. I hope he just stops contacting me once and for all. “I won’t, don’t worry.”
“Are we all ready to go?” Harley asks.
“You don’t have to wait for us, Har,” I tell her. “If you need to get back we understand, you took your own car, after all.”
“I know. I just feel like walking out with you guys.”
“Alright, then,” Ro says, closing the last unpacked suitcase. “Let’s get back to real life.”
We get all of our belongings—our clothes, toiletries, and of course our book stuff—loaded up and down to the lobby. A few minutes later we’re hugging goodbye, and the hotel fades into the distance as Rowan takes me back towards our real lives.
Interlude
Sometimes, when you're lost, there's only one way to find True North.
In my case, all I have to do is pick up the phone. That's his name in my contacts—True North. It's a nickname, obviously. His real name isn't important. What you need to know is that he's an author like me. Actually, let me rephrase that. Saying he's an author like me is kind of comparing myself to LeBron because I play some pick up games on the weekends. We do the same thing, but he's way more successful than
me.
He's quietly one of the best selling authors you've probably never heard of. The indie book world is full of guys like True North—people who've so carefully cultivated a rabid fan base and write such great books that they've made a career for themselves doing what they love. North is the coolest guy in the world—bald headed, double sleeves, and generally looks like a badass ex biker, but he’s the sweetest dude in the world.
I met him when I was just getting started. Not everyone is nice to you when you're coming up, but he made himself accessible to me. He gave me advice. He told me his story. He helped me identify mistakes I was making in my career. He's just a cool motherfucker. Plain and simple.
He still helps me when I need it, although thankfully I don't dial his number as much as I used to. Even though he's only a few years older than me, he's like a mentor—a literary father figure of sorts. And his word is like gospel. There aren't many people whose advice I put such weight on, but he's one of them. Right now I need to hear his voice.
I text him first to make sure it's okay to call at this time of night. He's got a family and a full time writing schedule, so after he texts back that it's fine I hit dial. It doesn't take but a single ring before I hear his raspy voice on the other side.
"What's up, brother? How are you?"
"I've been better, man. But how are you?"
"I'm stuck on this fucking scene. I must've rewritten this shit twenty different times."
"What's the scene?"
"It's for my latest MC book. First sex scene between my two main characters. The woman's reluctantly attracted to the guy. He's a rough one—tatted up and a total badass. Anyway, I can't get it to read how I want it to. It needs some massaging."
True North is a perfectionist. I bet this scene he's talking about reads better than most of my books, but part of what makes him who he is is the high standard he has for himself, and his ability to tell a story like no other.
Knight: The Wordsmiths Book One Page 13
