by M. Pierce
A familiar sign caught my eye, winking blue in the night. LOT 49, BAR AND LOUNGE.
I tapped the dash. “But you’re not too young to drink,” I said.
*
Ten minutes later, Mel and I sat in a private booth at the back of the Lot. I still wore my winter regalia, which kept Mel giggling. I even had on my sunglasses.
“You look ridiculous. Like, even more suspicious.” Melanie sipped her pint. She’d tried to order a rum and Coke, the drink of drinkers who have no idea what they’re doing, and I intervened to order her a vanilla stout with a shot of blackberry whiskey.
I looked around and removed my shades.
“Everyone in Denver knows the story of M. Pierce,” I whispered. “Plus, I mentioned this place in Night Owl. Can’t be too fucking careful.”
“Hey, you wanted to come in here.” She had foam on her upper lip. I gestured. “What, you like my mouth? Oh, my, Mr. Sky.”
“Don’t say my name!” I prodded her mouth with a napkin. “Did you even read Night Owl, or did you just publish it like a crazy person?”
“I read it.” Melanie waggled her eyebrows. “This is where you saw the luscious Hannah for the first time.”
“Ha. Luscious is right.”
I relaxed as the minutes passed and slipped off my hat and shrugged out of my coat. The bar was warm and no one gave a damn about Mel and me. When I ordered another pint for her, the tender didn’t look at me twice.
We chatted about Mel’s blog, her unfinished four-year degree, and crappy temp jobs she’d taken in recent months. She’d worked in a concrete call center where she had to punch in and out for bathroom breaks. She’d taken surveys and picked up trash in parks.
“This is by far my best gig,” she said.
I felt pretty fucking sorry for her then, and I wished she could keep on cashing in with Night Owl. Too bad.
Bob Dylan’s “This Wheel’s on Fire” started to play. I swayed to the ragged, honkytonk tune, and Melanie laughed at me.
“Let’s dance.” She grabbed my hand and hauled me out of the booth.
“No! Jesus. Not on the floor.”
I held her hand and she spun. She teased her fingers up her side and sashayed over to me. I smirked and shook my head.
“You’ve got a Rita Hayworth thing going on,” I said.
“High praise. You’re not bad yourself, M.”
“Yeah? My aunt forced us into lessons. I quit after a month.”
I danced Mel in lazy circles by the booth. My training kicked in and I smiled at her as we moved. It felt good, and we danced through two more songs. Whenever Mel got close to me, she rubbed her slight body along mine. The gesture was subtle enough to be unconscious, though I couldn’t be sure. The alcohol put a pretty glow on her face. Now and then, she leaned her cheek against my chest and sighed.
As we left the bar, I said, “Let me drive back to the condo.”
Mel handed me her keys without hesitation. I raised a brow.
“You know I don’t have a license on me, right?”
“Yeah.” She shrugged. “You know Denver better than I do. Just don’t get pulled over.”
I checked the time as I got behind the wheel. It was 6:48. Hannah wouldn’t be home until eight at the earliest.
The car rumbled under me and I sighed. “I miss driving.”
“I bet.”
“You mind?” I held up a cigarette. “Your buzz is making me jealous.”
“Nope, but share it with me,” she said.
“You can have your own.”
“No, share it with me. I want to be able to say I shared a cigarette with M. Pierce.”
“M. Pierce, that’s not me.” I smoked a bit of the cigarette and passed it to Mel.
“Okay, then I want to say”—she took a drag—“I shared a smoke with Matthew Sky.”
“Not me either.”
“Cal the demon?”
She passed it back. I tasted her minty lip gloss on the filter.
“Nah, not Cal. A demon, maybe.”
“Cabin Fever!” She laughed.
I grinned and stepped on the gas, pushing the Corolla fast on an empty street.
Melanie was right; I knew Denver better than she did. Better than most. I knew how to cut corners, and where to get what. I knew the best restaurants, the coolest bookstores, the hottest clubs. But I was like a fugitive in Denver, and I had peace at the cabin. I needed peace. I needed Hannah. Why wouldn’t she come away?
“Whatever trips your trigger,” I said. I handed Mel the cigarette with a gesture that said, Finish it. “That’s how it goes, right? You are who people decide you are.”
I cruised around Denver for half an hour. Mel played Lorde and Banks and other artists I didn’t recognize.
By seven thirty I was on the outskirts of the city. The road ahead drove straight into the prairie and the abrupt darkness. I slowed the car.
I felt a small, hot touch through the denim of my jeans, and I glanced down to see Mel’s hand on my thigh. How long had it been there? It was time to turn back. I pulled over, the car crunching to a standstill on the gravelly roadside.
“What are you doing?” I murmured.
“What are you doing?” Mel said. Her fingers drifted up and brushed my cock. I seized her wrist. My body betrayed me; my shaft stirred beneath Mel’s hand.
“Don’t,” I said. “You’ll only regret it.”
“How do you know you won’t regret stopping me, Matt? Look at me…”
I humored Mel, inclining my head and rolling my eyes toward her. I still had a steely grip on her wrist. By now that grip must have been painful, but Mel moved her fingers anyway, exploring the shape of my arousal.
“Mm. Stop.” I hissed through clenched teeth. She’s drunk, I thought, and that’s to blame.
So what was to blame for my growing hard-on? I met Mel’s gaze, and I cursed inwardly for putting myself in this position.
“You’re saying stop,” she whispered, “but your body…”
My stomach pitched. Sickening. So what if my dick was getting hard? Mel was assaulting me—I didn’t fucking want this—and I wasn’t about to take advantage of her.
I removed her hand carefully, though I wanted to fling it. I twisted away and adjusted my dick. Fuck … even my own touch burned, brushing over that stiff skin. Calm the fuck down …
“I know damn well what my body is doing,” I snapped, too angry to feel embarrassed. “It’s doing what it fucking should do when a pretty girl grabs my dick. And you’re making a fool of yourself.”
“Give me a chance,” Mel pleaded.
“A chance for what? I’m with Hannah.”
“I’m making a fool of myself for you.” Melanie’s voice became very small. I knew that if I looked at her, I would find her eyes imploring. I would pity her, and pity is dangerous. “I want you, Matt, and … I’d always regret it if I didn’t try, okay? I’m sorry.”
“You’re sorry?” I laughed. “Perfect. You tried, and you failed. Are you happy now?”
“No. You don’t see my point.”
“What’s your fucking point?” My dick was finally settling down. I exhaled roughly and glared at the night. A driving melody came from the speakers, and Banks sang something about love being a waiting game. Her sultry voice and the song’s pounding rhythm weren’t helping.
“My point is that I might be good for you. I might be the one for you, but you won’t even consider me. I mean … why are you hiding in a cabin without Hannah? Why do you have to sneak into Denver to see her?” Mel’s words tumbled out too fast; her speech sounded rehearsed. “It’s because she won’t run away with you, isn’t it? But I would. I would do that for you happily, Matt. I really like … being around you. I don’t need anything else.”
A smirk twisted my lips. Mel barely knew me, and she thought she wanted me.
How immature …
How ridiculous.
And yet, as I glowered at the night, I considered the truth of her words.
Hannah wouldn’t run away with me. But Mel would, and this total darkness could swallow us now … tonight.
I suspended my irritation long enough to feel the night beckoning.
I heard a silvery click—Mel’s seat belt unlocking—and then she was on top of me, straddling my lap.
“Melanie,” I snarled, “get the fuck—”
Her mouth covered mine. Between layers of fabric, her small breasts pillowed against my chest. Her hand darted between my legs and my cock sprang back to life, straining into her palm. Fucking Melanie! And fucking me! Why was I reacting this way? I tore my mouth off hers, but a soft, unbidden moan slipped from me.
Mel took my moan for encouragement. She began to stroke me through my jeans, coaxing my arousal into a raging erection.
“Stop!” I shoved her, hard, and she spilled over the console and crumpled on her seat. I lurched out of the car and slammed the door. I stalked into the grass.
“Ah, fuck,” I whispered. “Fuck.”
A few yards from the car, I stopped. I kneaded my neck and struggled to relax. In the cold night, I felt a hundred degrees.
I took deep breaths, one after another, and stared up at the stars, zillions of glittering flecks visible in the prairie darkness. My God, I wanted to disappear. Disappear completely. I felt that I stood right at the edge of reality, or maybe I had walked off that edge. Maybe I had succeeding in dying after all.
The thought didn’t frighten me.
My arousal cooled along with my anger, and I strode back to the car. I thought of Hannah, who was a woman and not a child. I remembered our violent passion over the last few days and how it fed this dark appetite of mine.
She satisfied me—completely.
With that thought in my heart, I opened Mel’s door and dropped the keys on her lap. I climbed into the back of the car, buckled my seat belt, and closed my eyes.
“Drive me back to the condo,” I said quietly. “That’s all you’re here to do, Mel. To drive. Don’t forget it.”
Chapter 29
HANNAH
I was on my fifth glass of champagne when I saw Seth.
I don’t know why I hit the bubbly so hard that night. Maybe it was because Pam kept calling me her assistant. I thought of myself as a lot more than Pam’s assistant. Sure, I’d only worked at the agency for nine months, but I was already responding to queries, vetoing manuscripts, overseeing contract negotiations—doing the work of an associate agent, at least.
“This is my assistant,” Pam said to a group of distinguished-looking ladies, and their eyes slid over me like a hand clears dust.
Assistant. Helper. Definitely not the future partner of Pamela Wing and Laura Granite.
And seriously, there was nothing to do at the party. No door prizes. No trivia. No reading. Just a bunch of literary types milling and getting toasted.
I let the crowd pinball me around. I caught snatches of gossip.
Seven figures, someone said.
Thought she was a shoo-in, said another.
James Frey waiting to happen. Short stories. No, they aren’t on speaking terms.
No one was talking about Matt or The Surrogate. In fact, except for a table displaying the book and a picture of Matt, this could hardly be called his book event. More like Pam and Laura’s excuse to hold a literary soiree.
Meanwhile, the man himself was hiding in my condo.
And I missed him. I should have stayed with him. Sweet, strange, broody Matt …
I found myself staring down at oysters on a bed of ice. The slippery-looking, discolored meat made me feel ill. The other snacks on the table were dwindling—toasted brioche with salmon, caprese canapés, focaccia cake, and a variety of tartlets.
“I wouldn’t eat seafood in Colorado,” said a voice too close to my ear.
I downed my drink and turned to face him. Seth.
My head spun—or the room spun. Oof … too much champagne.
I backed into the table. Seth caught me by the shoulder.
“Hannah, are you all right?”
“Get … away from me,” I mumbled. “You are sick and perverted and third time’s a … three strikes…” I set my glass on the table.
Three strikes and you’re out, is what I was getting at. Seth had tried to kiss me in New Jersey. He had tried to dry-hump me at the mall. I wasn’t giving him a chance for strike three.
“Just go away.” I gestured.
“It was an accident,” he said, his face pulling into a grieved expression. “I’m sorry…”
My vision focused and Seth loomed. For once, he looked elegant in a fitted dark suit. Alarm bells went off in my heart. Run away. Danger. His silky hair hung loose around his face, and I felt the most infuriating urge to run my fingers through it.
Seth wore the wild-child look too well …
“Whoa there,” I slurred. “Fancying it up.”
“Why are you drunk? Is someone bothering you?”
“Just you.” I pointed at him and accidentally dug my finger into his chest. I lurched back. Seth caught me before I took down the hors d’oeuvres table.
“I think you need to go home, Hannah. Did you drive?”
“Oh no, you don’t.” I stumbled on my heels. The alcohol seemed to hit me all at once. “Is this where you suavely offer to drive me home? Sketchbag.” I snickered at my new word. Sketchball + douche bag?
“I’ll call you a cab, if that’s what you want. I won’t let you drive like this.”
“Miss Catalano. Fancy meeting you here.”
I turned to see Aaron Snow approaching, his black hair and pale face unmistakable. The faintest scar showed where Seth had split his lip.
“Just the other most person I wanted to see,” I mumbled.
Okay, Seth was right. I needed to get home. The reporter was here, and I could barely speak straight.
Aaron offered his hand. I shook it loosely.
At the cemetery, with his camera and his flailing, Aaron Snow had looked like a weasel. Tonight he looked more formidable. His suit matched Seth’s in cut and color. He was clean, sober, and super alert.
“Back up, pal,” Seth growled.
Aaron flicked a glance at Seth.
“I apologize for the scene at the memorial, Miss Catalano. I acted unspeakably.”
I nodded numbly. All I could think was, This serves me right for not checking the guest list. Seth Sky and Aaron Snow were invited to the release party? Fucking hell …
“I decked you once, Snow. I’d love to do it again.” Seth moved between Aaron and me.
“Would you please stop being … barbaric?” I said. “Mr. Snow, what do you want?”
“I want to share a theory with you. I’m putting together a new article for my paper.”
“No Stone Unturned?” I laughed. “Not quite a paper yet, is it?”
“We have a print edition. You’re right, though. Mostly we operate online.”
“Must have a massive staff.” My hand flew to my mouth. Wow, I was being an asshole.
“Can we talk in another room?” Aaron said.
“All ri—”
“No,” Seth said.
We all glared at one another.
“Then I’m coming,” Seth added. “You’re not going to be alone with this freak.”
“Look who’s talking,” I muttered.
We moved into one of the libraries, which was more like a sitting room where Pam and Laura stored books by their authors. I left the door ajar.
Aaron went to the shelves and began hunting, and shortly he said, “Perfect, good.”
Seth refused to sit. He stood by the table like a bodyguard, arms folded. Aaron and I settled across from one another.
“Okay, Mr. Snow.” I gestured. “Wow me.”
“Read the draft of my article. Here.” Aaron pulled an iPad from his laptop bag, swiped at the screen, and pushed it over to me.
I kneaded my temples. Focus, Hannah, focus …
I squinted and began to read.
The title of the article jarred me wide awake.
M. Pierce, Author of Night Owl
“This is not true,” I said. “Whatever you—”
“Keep reading.” Aaron leafed through the books he’d retrieved from the shelf. They were Matt’s books, including The Surrogate.
I kept reading.
New evidence suggests that Night Owl, a self-published erotic romance relating events in the life of Matthew Sky, was written and possibly published by Sky himself.
Since Night Owl appeared online in January 2014, readers and critics have speculated about the identity of the author, who uses the pen name W. Pierce.
Sky used the pen name M. Pierce throughout his career.
In a revealing interview with Wendy Haswell of Geneva, New York, a woman named in Night Owl …
“Hannah, are you all right?” Seth touched my shoulder. I shuddered.
As I read on, I saw that Wendy—the woman who transcribed for Matt in Geneva, the woman at the farm—confirmed the details in Night Owl as truth.
And there was more. Aaron drew parallels between Night Owl and Matt’s other books. He established the time line of events in Night Owl. He listed legitimate landmarks: Matt’s apartment, our condominium, the Granite Wing Agency, the cabin in Geneva, Lot 49.
The article was rhetoric, and each point built Aaron’s unassailable thesis: that Matthew Sky, M. Pierce, wrote Night Owl.
And maybe that revelation wasn’t a big deal, but the last lines of the article were.
This new information leaves readers wondering: Is Night Owl fiction or autobiography? Is Matthew Sky alive and publishing under the pen name W. Pierce? Was Sky’s ambiguous death a cover for his disappearance?
No Stone Unturned continues to follow the …
I pushed the iPad away.
“And look at this,” Aaron said, passing open books to me. “Here, this phrase from Night Owl, it’s repeated in The Surrogate. Then here, in Mine Brook—”
“Stop.” I covered my face. “I’m … I’m too dizzy for this.”
Seth helped me stand and I let him. I needed the help.
And then, because I was drunk and desperate to throw Aaron off the trail, I said, “You’re wrong. You’re wrong because I wrote Night Owl. I wrote it, you dumb ass.”
