by M. Pierce
“I’m a little bummed,” he said at last. He sighed and sat back. I tried to meet his stare, but it was so intense, so penetrating, that I finally looked away. “I like you, Hannah. That night after the memorial was so fucking fun. And I got this … idea.” He pressed a hand to his head as if the idea were an ache. “This idea that you’d go for me. You liked Matt and he was a dick—no offense, bro.” Seth winked at the ceiling. “And you like Nate. So why—”
“Whoa, there. I loved Matt, yes. I like Nate as a friend, that’s it.”
“Fine, why can’t I be a friend?”
I ground my teeth. Seth would drive the conversation into awkward land.
For the space of a minute, I pictured Nate’s face—darkly handsome and dignified, always full of kindness—and then I pictured Matt. Gorgeous Matt … passionate, aloof.
“You’re smiling,” Seth said.
“Yeah.” I looked him dead in the eye. “Thinking about Matt.”
“Is it too soon? Is that the problem?”
I finished my gyro and piled our trays together.
“You’re being pretty aggressive about this, Seth.”
“I just want to know if I have a chance.”
“I don’t think you do.”
“Why not?”
Because Matt is still alive.
I shrugged and crumpled my napkin.
“Okay,” Seth persisted. “Do you think I’m attractive?”
I frowned at him. “Obviously you’re attractive, Seth. I’m sure you’re aware. If you need me to reinforce that fact, you’ve got some serious middle child syndrome going.”
“Hey, maybe I do.”
“Can we walk around?”
“Uh-huh…” Seth watched me as I discarded our trash. I felt his dark eyes on me.
Abruptly, Seth stood and stalked off.
I jogged to catch up.
“I hate the mall,” he snapped. “It makes me tired and depressed. And you know what? It’s fucking depressing and sad that you made me take you to dinner at the food court.”
I studied the passing floor.
Yeah … I was starting to feel like an asshole for suggesting we dine at the food court. Except … “I didn’t want you to get the wrong idea,” I mumbled.
“Wrong idea not gotten, have no fear.”
We moved aimlessly through the mall. We didn’t go into any stores or talk at all, which suited me fine. I hate small talk.
After a while, Seth caught my hand.
“Hannah,” he said, drawing me up short. “Let me try something. Let me just—”
His words ignited a memory—so vivid—and my cheeks flushed. I remembered Matt in my car, the first time he rode away from the cabin with me. Our heated kiss that turned into more. Let me just … touch it, Hannah … let me put my mouth on it. Please …
Seth’s desperation sounded identical.
He pulled my body to his and hugged me. I thought he was going for a kiss, but no … just a hug? Or was he holding me? I stiffened in his arms. Get a grip, Hannah. Hug Seth like you’d hug Nate. Except Seth and Nate had nothing in common.
Hugging them had nothing in common …
I relaxed enough to wrap my arms around Seth’s back. Oh, he felt hunger-thin under his coat. Just like Matt—hard muscle and bone. Why didn’t Seth have a girlfriend? Who took care of this wild boy? It could never be me. I had my own wild boy to take care of.
I gave Seth a gentle squeeze and heard him exhale.
“I miss him.” He spoke into my hair. “Matt. Why did it happen this way?”
I swallowed a knot of guilt and laid my cheek against his chest.
Seth pressed his hips to mine.
Shoppers parted around us, oblivious or annoyed.
Seth nudged me against a wall. My body bumped against his and I felt the unmistakable bulge of his arousal. I struggled, the friction making him twitch and expand. He gasped.
“Hannah, I—”
My pity turned to cold alarm.
“Get off me!”
With a violent shove, I launched myself out of Seth’s grip. I sprinted into the crowd. I crashed into a stranger and bleated an apology.
“I’m sorry!” Seth called after me. “Hannah!”
I glanced wildly over my shoulder. Seth stared at me, his face ashen. I couldn’t shake the sensation of him hardening against me. My panic. The serrated edge of adrenaline.
Seth wasn’t chasing me, but I felt like he was. I kept running and looking back and colliding with shoppers.
And that terror—the thrill of it—oh, it almost felt good.
Chapter 26
MATT
I waited for Melanie at the end of the drive.
“The cabin is on your left,” I told her. “It’s your first left coming up the hill. You can’t miss it, and anyway, I’ll be standing at the end of the driveway.”
I went out too early to wait.
I wasn’t nervous or worried that Mel would bring a fleet of reporters. I should have been nervous and I should have been worried, but once I make up my mind about something, a steadiness comes to me like a cold needle in my arm.
I lit a cigarette and checked my watch. Mel lived in Iowa City. She packed and left yesterday, just hours after I called, and spent the night in Omaha. She called to say she was leaving Omaha around 9 A.M. my time. I Googled her route—an eight-and-a-half-hour drive to the cabin—which should put her on my doorstep at 5:30.
At 5:45 I was still standing in the cold, waiting. I’d smoked three cigarettes and was lighting a fourth when I heard tires on the snow. I walked onto the road to watch.
An electric blue Corolla crept up the hill toward me. I shielded my eyes against the headlights. It had to be Mel; after half an hour, not another car had come up the road.
She waved through the windshield—a thin wrist moving energetically.
I nodded and pointed to the driveway.
The sun sat at the edge of the mountains. Soon it would fall behind them. Excitement ghosted through me—this was when Hannah always arrived—and I tamped it down. This was not Hannah. This was Melanie, whom I’d invited to Colorado to chauffeur me around. “I can’t drive,” I explained, “but you can, and you need a job.”
And you know my secret, and I know yours. That was the subtext of our arrangement.
Mel didn’t require much coercing. After a few quick questions about logistics—“Where will I stay?” and “What happens when Hannah’s around?”—she agreed.
She emerged from the car laughing.
First I saw her head. She had brilliant red hair, which she wore in a wavy bob. Her eyes were large and luminous, and looked larger for her small face. She was small all over. Petite shoulders, a slim torso, slender legs. A pixie.
She came bouncing over to me, the furred hood of her coat bobbing.
I stepped backward and nearly fell into a snowbank.
“This is the craziest thing I’ve ever done!” she shouted.
On the phone, Melanie gave an impression of polish and poise. Before me stood a girlish and excitable waif.
“Then I feel sorry for you,” I murmured.
“Oh, stop it. What’s the craziest thing you’ve ever done?”
I gave her a flat look. “Gee, Melanie, I dunno, that would be a close tie between acid and faking my own death.”
She beamed up at me.
I frowned down at her. “Look, how old are you anyway?”
“Twenty-two.” She arched a brow. “How old are you, old man?”
“Twenty-nine.”
“Oh, dang.” She giggled. “Climbing the hill, old sport.”
Old sport? I cocked my head.
“Let me get your bag.”
“Bags,” she chimed.
Bags indeed. Two large, cheap suitcases and a duffel bag filled the trunk.
“Are you serious?” I hauled the suitcases to the front door. Mel brought the duffel. “I only need you for … a week or two, remember?”
Mel
anie hovered around the cabin. She ignored my remark and I dropped it. In truth, I had no idea how long I needed Mel, or how long I would want her around.
I paced behind the couch and watched her.
Unreal, to have another person in the cabin. And not Hannah, and not just any other person. The woman who published my book.
No, the girl who published my book.
She wore a fitted canvas jacket with fur trim, skinny jeans, and black Uggs. I really must not have lifted my head at the book signing, because Mel’s face was a stranger’s face.
At the moment, she was making a study of my desk. She smoothed a hand over my laptop, tapped the mouse, and then reached for my notebook.
“Don’t touch it,” I said quietly.
Melanie spun to face me. Her smile trembled and her voice faltered. “Sorry! So … curious about the writer’s cave.”
“The writer’s cave?”
“Yeah. Haven’t you heard that expression?”
“No.” I walked around the couch and settled down, my ankle propped on my knee, eyes on Mel. I forced a small smile, which only seemed to exacerbate her nerves.
“Well, it’s just a thing. Like, a thing people say.” She gestured frenetically. “I know because I seriously live on the Internet. I have a blog. I blog about my hobbies—gardening, cooking, reading, dance. Anyway, the cave, uh, your writing space. Stupid jargon, basically it—”
I held up a hand. “I understand. Thank you.”
Mel laughed too loud. She shifted her weight from foot to foot and avoided my stare.
“Are you hungry?” I said.
“No.”
“Thirsty?”
“Nope nope nope.”
“Suit yourself. There’s food and drinks in the fridge.” I pointed. “And the pantry. Cups are there, plates there. I won’t cook for you, so make yourself at home.”
Melanie nodded. She went to her duffel bag and began rummaging through it. I watched her with interest.
“Are you afraid to be here with me?” I said after a while. “You can stay at a hotel.”
“No, I’m fine.” She removed a book from her bag, then another, building a pile.
“Do your parents know you’re out here?”
She snorted. “I’m twenty-two. I have an apartment with friends. My parents don’t need to know everything I do anymore.”
“You say twenty-two like that’s old. You’re a child to me.”
“You’re only seven years older.” Melanie set the books on the coffee table, and I saw that they were … mine.
There was Ten Thousand Nights with its handsome jacket, and Harm’s Way, Mine Brook, The Silver Cord, all in hardcover.
“You’ll be surprised how much older you feel in seven years,” I said. I leaned over the books and inspected them, smiling. “The gravity of living”—I flipped open Mine Brook—“increases exponentially.”
Mel thrust a pen at me. I smirked and took it.
“You signed my paperbacks in Denver,” she said, “and you didn’t give me the time of day. I’m your biggest fan. So I’m trying again.”
“Fair enough.” In Mine Brook, I wrote: For Melanie, my driver. M. PIERCE.
“Sign your real name,” she said.
I opened Ten Thousand Nights and scribbled: For the persistent Melanie. W. PIERCE.
“You’re a dork.”
“All right, all right.” I laughed and rolled my eyes. I signed The Silver Cord and Harm’s Way MATTHEW R. SKY JR.
Melanie traced her finger under the scrawl. “Junior,” she said.
“Yes. Matthew was my father’s name.” I rose and moved away from the couch. “You can sit there, if you like. Before I forget—”
In the desk drawer was an envelope containing three thousand dollars, which I’d separated from my funds last night. I handed it to Mel. Her eyes widened at the feel of it; three thousand in fifties is quite a wad. “There’s that. It’s the amount I mentioned on the phone, and it should cover your travel expenses to and around here, and back to Iowa, with money to spare. If you stay on another week, I’ll pay you again.”
She fumbled with the envelope before shoving it in her duffel bag.
“You can count it,” I said. I fetched a bottle of water from the fridge and set it on the coffee table. “Please drink that. You look pale.”
“You look pale.” She plopped onto the couch. “Your hair…”
“What about it?”
“It’s so black. It makes you look a little pale.”
“You’re one to talk about hair color.” I gestured to Mel’s wild red locks. “That cannot humanly be natural.”
She shrugged.
We stared at one another in a silent deadlock.
My God, a twenty-two-year-old. I wanted to kick myself. Had I known Mel was so young, I would never have invited her. It felt weird—wrong, almost—to have this girl at the cabin. I should keep my distance. Keep this as professional as possible.
I cleared my throat.
“I’m going to my room,” I said. “Your room is down the hall to the left. Knock if you need anything.” I checked my watch. “I was hoping to go to Denver tonight, but it’s getting late and I’m sure you’re tired of driving. We’ll head down tomorrow.”
“Sure thing.” Mel began to unpack her duffel. I loitered and watched as she got out an iPad and a laptop and turned them on.
“What are you doing?”
“Making a hotspot.” She grinned at me. “You know, so I—”
“I know what a fucking hotspot is. I mean why?”
“I have to update my blog.”
“You can’t blog about this!” I towered over Mel and glared at her laptop.
“Down, boy. I’m not blogging about this. I’m just writing about my trip.”
“Typical.” I threw up my hands. “Typical.”
Melanie began to laugh, the sound high and fluting.
“What are you laughing at?” I snapped.
“If—if you could see yourself.” She was breathless with laughter. “Oh, my gosh. You looked so mad just then, like you were going to attack my laptop.” She gulped down another laugh. “Oh, wow. I’m sorry. Please don’t have a heart attack.”
“You know I trust you, Melanie.” I stabbed a finger at her. “Don’t fuck me over.”
That chastened her. She frowned and looked at her feet.
I stalked toward the bedrooms, then doubled back to collect my notebook. I glanced around. “And don’t … try anything funny. Don’t make any trouble in here.”
I closed the bedroom door behind me. I stood with my ear pressed against it.
No sound.
I stood like that for fifteen minutes. I couldn’t shake the feeling that Mel had deceived me. She wasn’t simply a fan of my writing. She had an online presence, some silly blog. If she wanted to out me as the author of Night Owl—and as being alive, for that matter—she had an audience ready to listen. Fuck.
Plus, she acted like a thirty-year-old on the phone. I’d been duped.
The smell of garlic drifted down the hall.
I stormed back out of my room.
Mel stood at the stove humming and doing salsa steps, her hips swaying. I blinked. She’d removed her coat and wore a tight black sweater with a silver skull on the back.
“Stop dancing.”
She whirled. A piece of scrambled egg flew from her spatula.
“Unless your name is Hannah, this is a no-ass-shaking zone.” I padded over to inspect Mel’s cooking—a heap of scrambled eggs.
“Want some?” she said.
“No.” I popped a piece of egg into my mouth. “Yes.”
She made two plates. I pulled out a chair for Mel and took the opposite seat. As I was shoveling a forkful of eggs into my mouth, she said, “Do you mind if I say grace?”
I paused and regarded Mel from across the table. She held out her hand. After a space, I nodded and took it.
Her hand was tiny and feverishly hot.
&nb
sp; For the first time in a long time, I lowered my head for prayer.
Mel began. “God is great, God is good. Let us thank Him for our food. Amen.”
“Amen,” I said, and I finally smiled.
Chapter 27
HANNAH
Chrissy dropped me off at the condo. We had a tense, silent ride home after I bawled her out for bailing on me. “Did something happen with Seth?” she said. I told her no. I told her it was the “principle of the matter.”
My heart was still speeding.
I climbed the steps to my door and fit the key in the lock. I wondered how much longer Seth would be in town. He had a gig, he said. Singular. One gig. If I had to guess, it would happen tomorrow or Saturday.
So I needed to sneak into the agency by the back door tomorrow, get to the release party on Saturday, stay in on Sunday, and hope to hell that Seth was out of town by Tuesday.
Then I would spend the week watching The Surrogate destroy the bestseller list.
I smiled as I let myself into the condo. Yes, and then Friday would arrive and I would see Matt, and forget about all this confusion with Seth.
“You look happy.”
I jumped and screamed, the sound somehow airless. Oh, God. Oh, my God. There was a voice, a figure where none should be—a man in my condo—this is happening, this is happening.
All my instincts for self-preservation fled.
“Hannah, it’s me.”
My eyes adjusted marginally.
Matt stepped in front of a window and a streetlamp lit his profile.
I couldn’t suppress my panic.
Matt … he shouldn’t be here.
“It’s me,” he said again. “I didn’t want to turn on any lights.”
“How?” I said.
“I got a cab. Hannah, relax. I just got a cab. I had to see you.”
I flattened myself against the wall. Adrenaline stormed through me and I laughed. God, I felt strange and wonderful. Terror mingled with desire, mingled with happiness.
Matt advanced, tugging me into his arms. I wriggled in his hold. Helplessly, I remembered the way Seth felt as he pressed me close—the way my struggling excited him.
Matt tilted his head. His eyes flashed in the dark.
I kissed him, my tongue lashing across his mouth.
“Do it,” I whispered. “I want to fight it.”
