Grayson: Wordsmith Chronicles Book 3

by Christopher Harlan

  Me: I will. Talk to you later.

  Rowan. Okay, bye.

  I’m happy that that happened just now. Rowan’s been in the back of my mind, but that’s the problem, isn’t it? She should be right in the front, but all of this other crap has been distracting me. I’ll have to work on that. North gets back with the slices and puts mine down in front of me. “I got Sicilian this time, it just came out of the oven and puts those old-ass regular slices to shame.”

  “Looks good, and smells even better. There’s nothing like a slice of pizza, fresh out of the oven.”

  “No, there is not, my friend. Dig in.”

  North’s phone vibrates on the table. “Sarah?” I ask.

  “No, she’s home for this one. Caught a bug or something. Poor woman—I’ve never seen someone be that sick before.”

  “Shit, I’m sorry. What was it, food poisoning?”

  “No idea. All I know is that she was doing her best Linda Blair impersonation before I left. Her mother’s going over to take care of her because I can’t get out of this signing. Otherwise I’d be with her.”

  “She’s a solider, huh?”

  “That she is,” he says with pride in his eyes. “Why do you think I married the girl.”

  “Cause she’s hot.” I say.

  “Well, that, too, not gonna lie. But this isn’t her. My ride’s on it’s way.”

  “Your ride?”

  “I drove here but going to leave the car with a buddy who’s picking it up later. You’re not the only one I’m meeting up with today. Some of my boys are coming by in a little. They’re stuck in traffic at the moment, apparently.”

  “Welcome to New York,” I joke. “The home of traffic.”

  “No shit, man.”

  By the time the last piece of my Sicilian slice is being swallowed I feel like I’m about to burst out of my pants. I love pizza—Sicilian especially, but it’s a lot of bread. I drink some water and take a deep breath, like I just ran around the block or something. We keep talking for a few while he waits for his ride to show up. We’re just shooting the shit about the book world, the women in our lives, and whatever else comes up along the way. I’m not really focused on anything else except North’s words, so when I hear another voice speak to me it takes me a minute to realize who it is. I turn to my left and what do I see? The Brotherhood—all three of those motherfuckers—standing over us, looking like complete hell.

  “Well, look who it is?” North says, acting like there’s nothing weird about this at all. “It’s like a goddamn male romance conference at this pizza place. Welcome boys, what’s going on?” They just stand there at first, as if North didn’t even speak to them. All three of them are looking at me, and I’m looking back. I don’t know if North knows all of the details about what happened between the two groups since the Wordsmith signing, but he has to be feeling the tension right now. I feel ganged up on, and I don’t even realize it but I ball my fist on my lap, ready to fight them all by myself at a moment’s notice. North stays calm and friendly. His demeanor is freaking me out a little bit, but that’s probably the better approach to take.

  KL speaks first. “Where are all your butt buddies?” He asks.

  “Did you just say ‘butt buddies’? So not only are you a shitty writer and close to being a convicted felon, but you’re also homophobic. Wow, where the fuck did your parents go wrong with you?” My comeback is swift and strong. If we were physically fighting that wouldn’t have been a knockout blow, but it would have been a knockdown blow. Even Johnathan has a grin on his face that he’s trying to hide. His time is coming.

  “What did you say, you little prick?” KL asks.

  “You heard me.” I tell him, looking him right in the eyes. KL is a coward. They all are. Every confrontation between our two groups hasn’t been us and them fighting it out like men. No. Every time they confront us they get out insulted, and usually resort to some underhanded high school bullshit. There’s something different in their demeanor today. KL, Johnathan, and Roland all look a little more aggressive, like they came here to beat me up or something. “And what the fuck? Can you guys keep off my dick, or what? Every time we go somewhere one or all of you show up. Do you have nothing better to do besides write shitty books that don’t sell?”

  “I wouldn’t throw stones on that point, Grayson.” I look right at Roland. He’s got a more obvious grin on his face now, only it’s not because he’s laughing at a joke I made, it’s because he knows what a sore spot that issue is. After all, that’s why he was the one who confronted me about it like he did in the first place.

  “Well, hot damn boy, these sound like fighting words to me!” It’s North speaking now, and he still has that huge smile on his face, like this whole thing is really entertaining him. “Is that what you all came here to do? Cause if so let’s get after it already. All this talking shit is for high school girls.”

  North isn’t just well respected by the Wordsmiths, he’s just respected, period. Everyone in the industry at least knows of him, even if they don’t know him personally. I’m curious how Brotherhood is going to react to him. Knowing their dumb asses, they’ll probably. . .

  “Stay out of this, old man. We didn’t come here to fuck you up, but we will. Just sit there and sip your coke.”

  Roland is such an asshole. That word doesn’t even do it justice. If the assholes were a cult, he’d be their Supreme Leader. I look at North to see what his reaction is going to be. He still has the smile on his face, only it has a menacing quality to it. The Brotherhood are probably too stupid to even notice the subtle change in expression, but I see it right away. North’s ready to fuck some shit up, and I know that if they say one more threatening word, that we’re going to have ourselves a male romance author brawl right here in the pizza parlor. I can almost hear the six o’clock news announcement now.

  North’s phone vibrates again, but he doesn’t look down. He just keeps eye contact with all the guys and even tries to be reasonable with them. “Look, y’all, I get it. I know you boys have hit the skids lately, what, with all your legal troubles KL, and your book stuffing issues, Johnathan and Roland. In fact, Grayson and myself were just discussing how rough of an industry this can be sometimes. But you don’t need to take any of your anger or frustration out on the wrong people. We’re just here getting some lunch, then we’re gonna be on our way. This confronting people in a pizza place kind of shit—it’s bad for business. We’re not in middle school.”

  “I think my friend told you to stay out of our business.” This time it’s KL. He looks the worst of any of them—worse than usual, and that’s saying something, cause he’s looked like shit most times I’ve seen him.

  “Alright,” North says, this time standing up and standing almost nose to nose with KL. “Let me say this to you a different way.” KL takes a step backwards when North stands up. All of them do. I stand up to join him, but before I can even jump in I hear the roar from outside. It’s so loud that everyone inside shifts their gazes from us to outside. North doesn’t move. He doesn’t look away. He doesn’t do anything except let the situation speak for itself. I turn around and see them. There are about twenty mean looking bikers pulling their bikes into the parking lot and the free spots on the street just outside where we are. It’s an intimidating scene—the noise of their engines almost deafening. “Those are my friends, out there, KL. You see them? That’s my Brotherhood. And they aren’t gonna just take your laptop and take some pictures of you, either.”

  North’s words surprise me. I guess he has been keeping up with all the drama. The guy never ceases to impress. The Brotherhood looks intimidated, and they should be. “So that’s your move, huh, North?” It’s Johnathan this time. “You need a crew of guys just to deal with us? I thought better of you, old man.”

  North smiles again, bigger than before, and steps forward again. “You’ve got the situation all wrong, but I guess I shouldn’t be surprised at this point. Not my style to let others fight my batt
les, Johnathan. See, I’m the one who’s gonna do the hurting, starting with you. My friends are just there as an audience, and in case your boys decide to make it a three on two situation.” Johnathan looks like he’s about to shit his pants “So, make your move. What happens next is completely up to you. I can either leave you for dead, or finish my lunch with my friend. What’s it gonna be?”

  I think what I’m struck by most is how calm North is—he’s practically whispering his threats. The roar of engines starts up again, and the three guys jump. I smile. They need to save face here, so they just leave silently through the front entrance, avoiding all contact with North’s motorcycle club.

  “Well,” I say, patting him on the shoulder. “That was very interesting.”

  “Cowards, one and all.” North says. “I can smell fear like that a mile away. Worst smell in the world. Ruins the smell of pizza in here.” North looks around and sees the looks on everyone’s faces. Some people look scared. “Ladies and gentleman, there’s nothing to be concerned about. Those men out there are loud but harmless. You have my word on that. They’re just here to pick me up. Please enjoy the rest of your lunch. Nothing to worry about.” Then he looks over at me. “Think this is a good time to get out of here, huh?”

  “It’s a pretty natural transition, I agree. Let’s go.”

  We walk outside into the afternoon air. The sun is shining bright today, and it feels like the start of a new beginning for me. I have my part of the Wordsmith book, and I have my own book. I feel ready.

  “That was about the most badass thing I’ve seen in a long time,” I tell North. “Maybe ever, I’m not sure.”

  “Oh, hell, Grayson,” he answers. “That wasn’t anything. That was another Wednesday afternoon. One day I’ll tell you all of my crazy fucking stories. That shit will turn your hair white—make today look like nothing.”

  “I look forward to it. Good luck at the signing.” The sound of engines roaring takes over, and I hug North and thank him for his help. “Until next time.”

  “Until next time, brother. Be good. And keep fucking writing. I hear you quit writing books to sell insurance or some bullshit I’m gonna bring these guys to you house and beat your ass. You understand me?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Alright then.”

  North turns to leave. One of the women who was driving his bike jumps off, and onto the back of another bike. When he gets on he looks the part—the tattoos, the attitude, the roaring engine—it all suits him perfectly. I’m glad things didn’t escalate today, but for a minute there I was hoping that they would. “Hey, North!” I yell.

  “Yeah?”

  “Those stories. The ones that’ll turn my hair white?”

  “Yeah, what about them?”

  “You should write them all down. That sounds like a book to me. I think that’d be a bestseller before it was even out.”

  He stops to consider it, and he looked like the thought never ever crossed his mind. “That’s an idea and a half. Maybe I will. See, Grayson, we help each other out.”

  “Good journey, man.”

  North waves and they all tear off, making a demeaning amount of noise as they leave. It’s startling, but it’s also one of the coolest sounds I can remember hearing. I have a long way to go, but I feel better right now. I have ideas, but more importantly than that I have some of my confidence back. Now I can turn my attention where it really belongs.

  To Rowan.

  Chapter 14

  Grayson

  I get home from my lunch with North completely energized. I have a date with a great woman tomorrow, I watched a friend make complete fools of those idiots in the Brotherhood (note to self, gotta text the boys about that after I’m done), and North gave me the confidence I need to keep going with my writing. Readers ask me all the time where my ideas come from—I think that’s a standard question all authors have had to answer throughout their careers, and we all roll our eyes a little bit when we hear it. It’s an honest question, but it’s almost impossible to answer. Sure, sometimes we take inspiration from real events, or things that happen to us, but more often than not we have no idea where these stories come from. Sometimes I wish I did. If it were a place I’d visit there often, and borrow from the idea bank. But creativity is a mystery.

  Sometimes when I’m blocked, it’s not really that I’m blocked, it’s more like I have ideas locked up, and I need someone or something to just unlock the door so that everything can come flowing out of me. That happened to me today. North unlocked the door, and now my ideas are crashing through, flowing onto the pages of my files. I don’t know where this one came from, but it’s what I have inside of me right now. I take out my computer and start typing.

  Ava

  . . .was ready to leave this life behind.

  Enough was enough.

  She decided that she’d spent enough time under his thumb. Enough time as the victim. Just. . .just enough already. Hours hand turned to days. Days to weeks. Weeks to months. Looking back it seemed like an eternity since she’d been free of his particular brand of control. His techniques for keeping her submissive were numerous—asking to check her phone constantly, insisting on having the passwords to all of her social media accounts, and telling her that the friends she’d had since college were just using her. Each one of those didn’t seem a big deal as they were happening, but strung together over time they’d led her to a type of prison she felt there was no escape from.

  How did I get here, she wondered? It all started out like a normal relationship. An innocent meeting, some great first dates, some hot honeymoon-phase sex. All the normal things. But his control had come on like a cancer—it’s symptoms easily dismissible or mistakable for things that it wasn’t. She’d told herself every bullshit story that let her stay in denial: he’s just protective because he loves me. That was her favorite myth. Even when her mom, sisters, and best friend all told her she was lying to herself she refused to believe them. Called them jealous. Called them petty. Relationships that had existed for years fractured like some many pieces of glass, and before she knew it his control over her life was quietly complete. Then he showed his true face.

  He knew her aversion to violence, how it took away any bravery or confidence she had within her and reduced her to an anxious mess. He knew all of her weaknesses and he exploited them. He didn’t actually need to put his hands on her, he just had to make her believe that he would. A throw glass against a wall, a raised voice, a slam of a fist—all were just tools in the toolbox so that she’d stay with him forever, too afraid to ever walk out the door.

  But, as with any dictator, Robert had gone a step too far. He’d pushed her just past her breaking point, and it happened yesterday. As Ava packed her bags she thought of that memory, still fresh in her mind, of him grabbing the knife and holding it against her throat. The whole event started as a normal dinner—at least as ‘normal’ as anything ever got in their relationship. Pasta, wine, some conversation over a cold, undressed dinner table. Robert worked in manual labor, so when he returned home on most nights he was tired, irritable, and dirty. He’s slowly trained Ava to have his dinner ready when he walked in the door, predictably, at 6:30pm every night. She’d boiled the water, got his favorite wine, and had his dinner plated and hot by the time his key turned in the lock. Dinner was going as expected, as it always did, only she made one fatal error—she’d neglected to but more Parmesan cheese.

  Despite his blue-collar background, Robert enjoyed the finer things in life. He loved pasta, and he loved freshly shaven Parmesan and Romano cheese (in the perfect combination) placed on top of his plate of pasta, followed by three precise twists of a fine course pepper grinder over the top. This was Tuesday dinner—every Tuesday, with no deviation. Ava had learned quickly that deviation had consequences, harsh consequences, only on Tuesday night she’d slipped. Earlier in the day she’d received terrible news that her grandmother—88 years old—a woman who she hadn’t visited in the hospital for almos
t three months now because of Robert, was in critical condition. The stress had thrown her off her game, and she forgot to go to the store to buy another block of Parmesan cheese. She was about to pay for it.

  Where is it, he asked, sitting down to his steaming plate of pasta, perfectly timed to be slid in front of him after he changed and took his nightly 15 minute shower. Ava panicked when he inquired, which he did without missing a beat, as soon as he looked down at his plate. Because the whole thing slipped her mind, and she was taken off guard by the question, she couldn’t think of anything to do but panic. And panic she did. Her fight-or-flight response kicked into full gear as she watched the expression on his face transform from the exhaustion and mild annoyance that was typical, into a maniacal, menacing look that frightened her to the core.

  Her first thought was to give into the feeling of flight and simply run away. There was no fight in her yet—the idea of standing up to him, either verbally or physically, was simply out of the question. He’d broken her down past the point of resistance long ago, and as she stood there with an undefined plan of running away, she had an odd moment of self reflection. I can’t fight back, she thought. He broke me. I used to be a fighter. Now I’m just his doll. Will I ever get to fight again?

  She didn’t have time for another thought before the knife was at her throat. It was a butter knife, yes, but she was pretty sure that with enough force it could force her skin open—and Robert could generate a lot of force when he was angry. That night was bad, even for him. But more than the knife and more than the fear was the speed at which he got across the table. He was on her in no time, moving her entire body across the room like it was weightless. First she felt the impact of the wall against her back, followed by the cold sensation of the knife against her throat. But, more than that, it was the rage in his eyes that frightened her the most.