by Hazel Parker
It just felt right.
I pushed open the front door to Brooklyn, feeling mighty good about how things were going. I was finally reaching a point where my book felt like it could take off; I had met an awesome guy, albeit one that needed to take the hint and ask me out after reading my books; and now, I was going to retire from the world for the evening and not have any problems until the morning.
Just before I walked away from P.M. Coffee, I looked across the street and recoiled in surprise.
Kyle was at the pub outside, eating alone on the patio.
I was frankly too tired and too exhausted to walk over and start a conversation with him, but the sight was a little unsettling. Did he know that I was at the coffee shop? Was it just a coincidence? The shop had blurred windows, which afforded a decent level of privacy, but I had only arrived a few hours before. Maybe Kyle had seen me walk in.
No, it just had to be a coincidence. It just had to be odd timing for me to have discussed how he had inspired my character, only for him to appear. It wasn’t like he had a thing for me, anyway; seeing him at the other coffee shop earlier in the week had been friendly, but I didn’t pick up anything that suggested he was into me. Maybe it was just because I wasn’t looking for it, but I felt pretty confident about that.
I guess time would tell. It was still much too early to say.
But I could say that Jack had made me feel pretty good, and that meant that today was going to end on a great note, no matter how unsettling it might have felt to see Kyle across the street right after having him fill my mind.
Maybe you can find the spirits within and temper the fires, Kyle. Maybe you can get an ending like Kris did in my book.
Chapter 3: Biggie
It was supposed to be a walk to clear my head.
It wound up introducing me to a woman that I immediately saw as my Christine, my Amelia, or my Carrie. It wound up introducing me to a woman as smart and creative as anyone I had ever met, at least as far as actually being an artist for a living. It might just have been the thing I needed to help my sanity as we tried to figure out the Kyle problem.
For now, though, it was something else—a welcome distraction, but one that I tried to nevertheless shake as I sat in the coffee shop, pondering the best approach to take with Kyle.
Unfortunately, the dialogue with Lilly had proved too enjoyable and too memorable for me to just cut it and move on. She was sticking in my head, for better and for worse, and I figured there was no point in trying to fight it right now. For as long as I was awake tonight, I might as well dive deeper and do more research.
After about half an hour of writing down ideas on my phone and realizing that that was going to be a completely unproductive session, I opened my web browser and went to the website Lilly had given me.
Immediately, my jaw dropped.
Fires of the City was just one of the novels she had written. She had seven others, a four-book series and a three-book series that she had written over the last decade. She had, according to her biography, started to write at the age of eighteen. Now thirty-two—though that wasn’t exactly something I was going to ask her to confirm—she had found her groove writing about fantasy worlds in the modern setting and the blur that came from straddling the boundary for each.
Yeah, I was pretty impressed. Heaven knew I wasn’t about to produce anything so creative and compelling as she did. Heaven knew I was probably never going to produce anything creative, period.
I skimmed through the novels she had written, from The Elder Legends to The Skies of Saragorn, and though I couldn’t even pretend to understand any of the references or legends she had produced, I could tell that she wrote at a professional, high-quality level.
It was incredibly awe-inspiring to be around someone who was chasing their dreams as ardently and productively as Lilly seemed to be doing. I didn’t know of anyone else who was chasing something so uncertain and yet with so much conviction as her. The only question was why the hell I hadn’t asked her out at the coffee shop.
Really, now that I thought about it and realized how much I liked her, I did feel like a pretty big fool for doing so.
I had her email address now—it was one of the most prominent parts of her webpage, encouraging her fans to send a message. Emailing her for a date, though, didn’t seem very gentlemanly. It also felt like the coward’s way of asking someone out; if I wanted her to go on a date with me, I needed to do it in person, or at least over the phone.
Still, I clicked on her email and waited for my own email to open. It auto-populated her address, and for perhaps the first time ever, I became extraordinarily self-conscious about how I wrote my email. I proofread it about three times for errors and mistakes before I finally hit send.
Hey, Lilly,
This is Jack from the coffee shop earlier tonight. I’m looking at your work right now, and I can’t get over how awesome it looks. Seriously! I wish I could write something even a tenth as good as what you have.
I know that we both had to go our separate ways tonight, but I would love to see you again. I think that it would be a delight to get to know each other more, and I would love to make another chapter in our stories. Let me know if you are interested.
Best,
Jack
There was a part of me that, upon hitting send, immediately wanted to recall the letter. It felt too corny and not creative enough at the same time; to have said “love to make another chapter in our stories” might have been the most groan-worthy thing a man had said to her in some time. For that matter, it sure felt like an awful lot to say for someone I’d spoken to for no more than ten minutes.
On the other hand, it was awfully short and kind of dry. I’d edited myself to that point, wanting to avoid the word “date” or the phrase “take you out” as much as I could. But was that the right approach for the woman who wrote words for a living?
Possibly. But all the same, it was something that I just had to try.
After all, if Lilly was good enough to distract me from the world around me and the crisis impending with Kyle, then she was good enough to send that initial email off to.
* * *
As soon as I woke up the next morning—far earlier than I had anticipated, the mind still running too fast for me to get good sleep—I rolled over and checked my email on my phone. As my email app pulled up, I told myself that there was just no way she would have responded by now. It would have been nice, but she was a busy woman, and artists were notorious for being terrible at communication.
It lifted my spirits, then, to see that she had written back almost immediately after my message to her. I briefly felt chagrin at not having checked before I fell asleep the night before, but depending on the tone of the letter, maybe that would turn out to be a blessing.
Hi, Jack!
You are far too kind of a soul to say that. I simply do my job to the best of my ability, and if people like it, wonderful. So I very much appreciate the kind words from you, thanks :-).
I would love to meet up with you again! You name the time and place, and I will go along with it. Just don’t pick mornings; that’s my writing time. But otherwise, I am game.
I couldn’t even begin to express how much relief I felt at seeing that. Certainly, I felt great joy at reading those words; there was a giddiness at what was to come, one that maybe was unique to me given my usual optimistic attitude. But for the most part, the fear that I was going to get rejected was no more. That was out the door, and I didn’t have to worry about anything in the short term.
And I would bet that embedded in you is a little bit of creativity. It takes some time for people to exhume it, but it’s the rare person who lacks for it. Who knows? Maybe I will unearth it for you.
Talk soon!
-Lilly.
I just smiled and shook my head in disbelief. We had basically just had a pre-date, not even a real date, and already, I was feeling like a fool. Maybe it was because she was just so much smarter and more t
raditionally pretty than the usual women who populated the club, but even if it was only by comparison, it sure was a beautiful breath of fresh air to take in.
I refused to play the waiting game before I responded to her. I hit reply and started typing with my thumbs, doing my best to steady my trembling hands.
Lilly!
That sounds awesome, thanks. Let’s absolutely do that. Are you free Sunday or Monday? Perhaps in the evening after 5 p.m.?
-Jack.
It was not nearly as colorful as hers, but I just wanted to confirm plans. This was less emailing and more texting for me by this point.
With that reply, I started to get ready for my day, dancing a few jigs and humming to myself as I threw my clothes on. I tried to remind myself that it was early and that a lot could happen, but this was just how I did things; I tended to believe they would work out for the best well before I had any reason to believe so. Granted, there was a lot to happen before I could say anything about Lilly, but still.
Sometimes, Marcel and Uncle liked to mock me by calling me a Schmosby, after Ted Mosby from the TV show How I Met Your Mother, a guy who fell in love way too quickly and who pursued his potential romances with far too much zest and zeal. Well, right now, I was the Schmosbiest Schmosby of all, and I was unapologetic about it.
I kept myself humming all the way to the repair shop, smiling and laughing to myself.
And that all ended when the garage door came into view.
Someone had left graffiti on the front with a message that very much indicated whoever had hit our building knew exactly what they were doing and knew exactly who we were. At the top were three simple words.
“Bloodhounds Never Die!”
Then, just underneath that, with a dash, as if someone was signing it, was “-Devil’s Mercs and Degenerate Sinners.” Finally, beneath that was the warning, “All Saints are dead!”
I immediately captured the image on my phone, but I wasn’t about to go to the police. This was our battle. And it was one that was bound to go from cold to hot in a matter of hours if I wasn’t the one to decide what the club’s official reaction would be.
For now, Marcel had to know. I sent him the photo and said, “Let’s not do anything other than clean this up and tighten security.” As soon as that was sent, I followed up with another question. “Do we know who the Devil’s Mercs and the Degenerate Sinners are? Assume they’re new clubs of Kyle’s.”
I put my phone down and shook my head. Uncle couldn’t see this. The fastest way to get my back-channel negotiations shut down would be to have Uncle be so overbearing that even if he didn’t know about said channels, he would still cause us all nightmares and make it impossible to work. I had to start scrubbing everything down.
Just as I got the cleaning equipment outside, though, my phone buzzed. It was my brother—the one on my side.
“Marcel?”
“Is anyone else with you, Biggie? When did you see this?”
“Just now. No one else is here. I couldn’t sleep last night.”
“OK. Biggie, if you aren’t armed, get inside now and get yourself a gun. I’ll tell you who those two clubs are when you do.”
I did as commanded, even hanging up to do so. It being so early in the morning, I didn’t think they would strike us, but Marcel had a point—if things were hitting their most dangerous, we had to take every necessary precaution.
“Alright, I’m armed.”
“Got it. Biggie…”
That wasn’t a great sign, Marcel’s voice trailing off like that. Granted, he was more vulnerable with me, his brother, than in front of the club, but still.
“Devil’s Mercs and Degenerate Sinners are the names of the rival clubs for the Green Hills Savage Saints and the Las Vegas Savage Saints. It’s pretty clear that Kyle—and maybe some other people—know our club name well, and they know how to piss us off.”
“Don’t they realize that that’s just more likely to drag in the other chapters?”
“Maybe,” he said. “And maybe that’s exactly what they want. Maybe they want to warn us that an enormous attack of some sorts is coming. Look, I’m heading to the shop now. I’ll be there in five minutes. I assume you’re still there?”
“Yes, I’m cleaning.”
“Go inside until I get there. I’ll help you clean when I arrive. See you then.”
Begrudgingly, knowing other pedestrians and other officials would be walking by and seeing what was going on, I headed inside to the safety of the shop. At least Marcel showed up just a few minutes later, along with a few prospects, allowing us to get to work on cleaning up. Marcel, though, made sure to speak to me quietly as we worked.
“We need to put the club on full lockdown,” he said. “Club members can only come here or go home. They need to travel in pairs—”
“And just let whoever is making these threats control our lives like this?”
Admittedly, I had a selfish reason for pushing back on the idea of being under house arrest. But it went beyond the prospect of not being able to get that date I wanted with Lilly; it was going to be really hard to do back-channel talks with Kyle if my club wouldn’t even let me go somewhere alone.
“Look, we gotta be careful, I agree. But if we’re not stupid—”
“You’re assuming everyone in this club is as smart and measured as Niner or Fitz.”
Fuck. He has a point. Especially among the prospects.
“Are you still going to try and reach out to Kyle after this?”
“I mean, it’s not like we expected him to make that threat and then not do anything,” I said. “I do. I’m sure this won’t help matters, but then again, maybe how we react will. Maybe if we can react calmly and without violence, he’ll be more open to finding a common ground.”
It was wishful thinking. It was the ultimate in wishful thinking. But it was all that I had to hold on to.
“Here’s what we’re going to do then,” Marcel said. “We’re going to highly suggest that people lock themselves down. I’m not going to force it, not until we have anything more than violence. But Biggie. The minute someone so much as gets a papercut from reading a letter from Kyle, let alone shot in the head or the chest, we’re going to go to more aggressive maneuvers. I’m not going to stand to the side and just let them run over us.”
“Fair enough,” I said. “I’ll reach out to Kyle tomorrow. But don’t let anyone know. Anyone.”
“I know.”
“I’ll make sure things stay calm for now.”
I moved to my phone. I meant to reach out to Kyle innocently as if I didn’t know about the vandalism.
But what I saw instead got me moving in a different direction.
“Hey, Jack!”
Lilly had emailed me back.
“I’m actually at the coffee shop right by Southern Comfort, or what was once it. Slow day right now. Lots on my mind. Come by any time.”
Well, any time included now.
I put my phone in my pocket, made sure I had the proper protection in case shit went down, and headed for the coffee shop across the street from Southern Comfort.
Chapter 4: Lilly
I didn’t get a ton of fan mail.
The dirty secret of being a writer, one that I didn’t share with anyone besides other writers, was that while my work put up a pretty face for the kind of career that I had, it was the stuff that didn’t have my name attached to it that brought in the most revenue—the ghostwriting projects, the editing work, that sort of thing. I had my email prominently displayed on my website so that it would look like I was easily accessible, but in truth, I could count on one hand the number of fan emails I’d gotten in the past year.
That just made it all the more exciting, then, when, as I started to wind down my night, I received the nicest email from Jack. The correspondence had spilled over to this morning, and though I had agreed with the notion of having an actual date on Sunday or Monday, he was on my mind too much for me to think clearly. There wasn�
��t going to be any work done today, at least not more than a minimal amount.
So I sent off that email to Jack, hoping that I could catch him before he started his work at…whatever it was that he did. Come to think of it, I really didn’t know what he did for a living. It could have been anything from construction to being in an office. He struck me as a more blue-collar type, but being an author had taught me to look well beyond what people looked like they might be.
A few minutes later, I heard the door open and footsteps approach. I pretended to be caught up in my work as I smiled and spoke.
“You got…”
I cut myself off when I realized the person approaching was far too skinny to be Jack. I looked up with a smile that I forced to stay up as I instead saw Kyle Stone leering at me with an awkward smile.
“Hey, Lilly,” he said. “How are you?”
“I’m…good,” I said, a little surprised to see him for the third time in just a short week.
But by this point, I had had to accept something. One time was just an amusing, serendipitous run-in. Twice was an unusual coincidence. Three times? Yeah, he was probably interested in something.
“What brings you back here?”
“Oh, you know. Coffee. Gotta get my morning rev on.”
“Yeah, I guess.”
“You look good, you know. You…you look good writing.”
If this had come from just about anyone else, I probably would have mocked Kyle for being creepy and interrupting my work, ignoring that I couldn’t get much work done. But knowing what Kyle had gone through and what kind of a home he grew up in, I had more compassion for him than I did most people.
“Thanks,” I said. “You know, I do have to get work done, but it’s always good to see you.”
“Yeah?” he said, his voice rising with hope. Crap. “Well, you know, if you want, we can turn this into a regular thing. I think both of our days can start on great notes by seeing each other.”
