Life Unwritten Page 12

  “You want me to come in?” Beck asks before I shut the door.

  “No. I’m just going to go lie down for a while.”

  “Can I come over later?”

  “Umm…” I focus on the front door in its soft blue hue. It begs me to come on. “I need to work some.”

  “When can I see you again?”

  A huge part of me wants to throw caution to the wind and just let my façade crumble to my feet, but the more dominant reclusive side of me screams to keep that baby in place. To keep the world out where it belongs. Away from the ugly truth lurking just below my surface.

  “Come on, Harp. Let me see you,” Beck tries again, and something about how he words his plea seals the deal.

  Not wanting to be seen, I glare at him and say, “Soon.” Leaving it at that, my weary body hurries to get away from him and all the weird feelings he’s helped stir up in me this morning.

  I don’t know what to make of it and I sure as heck don’t like it. Surely, I’m coming down with something. In no time, I have the computer on and have looked up the symptoms for influenza. I skim over the list. No fever, but a flush hits my skin each time I think about this morning. A sore throat is listed. Sure, with every swallow there’s an unpleasant tightening, but it’s not quite sore. I perk up when my eyes land on fatigue and lightheadedness. Those two I definitely have going on.

  I grab my phone and shoot Jack a text. Trying to fight off the flu. Need stuff for home remedy.

  Jack – Lemon and honey?

  Me – Yes. I’ve got the bourbon. Hurry.

  With that taken care of, I close out the internet window and pull up one of my works in progress. The hope is to lose myself in a story, but I end up rereading a paragraph about a hundred times without taking it in. Beck and that flipping service continue to hold my thoughts in some unsettling trance.

  “Honey, I’ve got the honey!” The sound of Jack’s nasally voice somehow snaps me out of the trance.

  Pushing away from the desk, I head to the kitchen where the clanking of silverware leads me to him. He’s already hunched over a cutting board slicing lemons.

  “You sound like the one needing medicine.” I swipe a lemon wedge and suck all of its bitterness away.

  “Summer colds are the worst.” He wrinkles his perfectly straight nose that’s a bit red on the end.

  “If you’d stop kissing so many summer girls you’d keep your health more intact.” I toss the lemon rind into the trash and grab the bourbon and two tumblers out of the cabinet.

  “For the record, I’ve not kissed a summer girl in over a week.” Jack nods once as if proud of the declaration. He muddles the lemon with a few sprigs of mint before adding the bourbon and a generous amount of honey.

  Summer is Jack’s playtime and always has a vacationing beauty on his arm. Before they can check out of their condo rentals or hotel rooms, he’s normally checked in with another woman.

  “Probably because you kissed and got yourself too sick to kiss another.” I push into his shoulder with mine.

  “Is that what you’ve done? Too much kissing? You don’t look sick to me?” He eyes me suspiciously.

  I swallow dramatically and release a puny cough. “I feel sick.”

  Jack sniffs like he doesn’t believe me, but hands over the medicinal drink anyway and takes a sip from his own glass. “Let’s go sit and be sick together for a spell. I’m beat.”

  We make it to the couch and plop down, both of us seeming to be exhausted. “You need to slow down, Jack.” I reach over and comb a curl away from his forehead with my fingers. It’s the same curl I’ve combed for most of our life and it’s the main way I show him affection.

  “No worrying over me, darlin’. It’s just the cold wearing me down.” Jack finishes the rest of the fiery drink, releases a hiss, and sets the glass on top of the end table. Mere seconds pass before his head falls on my shoulder and he’s snoring.

  Settling in for a longer spell than planned, I sip the home remedy until it effectively numbs out the heavy pressure from my body. We both end up camping out on the couch until Jack disappears before sunrise.

  His concoction did such a good job Sunday afternoon, I give it another go Monday and by Tuesday I feel back to normal. I even make it to class with only minimal dread, but the tightness and ache invades me again when Beck spends the entire session staring at me with soft eyes. He never looks at me with soft eyes while training us and it weirds me out.

  Before he can completely get the word dismissed out of his mouth, I dart over to the golf cart and will it to turn into a speed demon and get me away from this confusion stirred up inside me.

  “Harp!”

  I hear Beck yell my name, but pretend I don’t…

  Wednesday rolls around and it feels like Monday needs to be repeated just to make sure the dreadful cold isn’t trying to show back up, so the last of the medicinal beverage disappears along with all my cares…

  I make it to class Thursday a little worse for wear. Apparently, a steady dose of the medicinal remedy can leave one a bit hungover. Either way, I’m able to avoid Beck for most of the week and keep the achiness at bay. I call that a success.

  It was working fine until Beck demands I see him outside of class today. Each text he sends, I offer the same snippy reply stuck on repeat. Soon.

  Sitting in my office with a blank word document in front of me, I finish texting soon once more. The bubble appears on my phone screen with his reply immediately following.

  Stop harping on SOON. Enough! I’m coming over after this training session. I’ll be there SOON!

  I’m about to send a message to tell him to kiss it when the phone begins an obnoxious ringtone, the theme music for the wicked witch from the Wizard of Oz. The one that plays every time she’s either on her broom or a bike.

  I answer it with dread. “Maxine, what can I do you for? You need my blood for Roselyn’s DNA now? Or is she in need of her assistant? I’m pretty good with an iron.”

  “There are definitely some wrinkles that need your assistance with ironing out. I’ve booked you a flight and a driver is on the way to take you to the airport.”

  Well, this sucks.

  Chapter Nine

  Some chapters in life seem to be made up of too little time. My summer enduring Beck’s brutal boot camp has felt oddly brief, like the chapter didn’t give me enough and has only left me wanting more.

  While some chapters feel unreasonably short, others just feel too darn long, dragging on and on with no end in sight. The dread of giving up on it or seeing it to the end wars through my mind. This dreadful weekend in New York has been precisely that. Several times I’ve thought about skipping out on this chapter altogether and heading back home to hermit away.

  Sitting behind the curtained partition that separates me from a panel of authors participating in a Q and A at the Mystery Suspense Convention with a headset nestled among my unruly curls, I continue to be a puppet in this charade. Maxine has full control of my strings, but that control is about to be severed as soon as we fall over the precipice we’ve been teetering around for far too long. The impact is going to leave one nasty bruise, but it’s time.

  A fan directs a comment to Roselyn, bringing me out of my thoughts. “You’ve managed to write an assassin with such charismatic wit that you’ve made me fall in love with him. Tell us how Fritz came to be.”

  “Oh, I just love Frazer, too.”

  “Fritz!” I hiss into the mouthpiece to correct her blunder.

  “Fritz, I mean! There are too many characters dancing around in this noggin of mine!” Roselyn coos out, eliciting a round of laughter from the audience.

  “Fritz was developed from a charming friend of mine.” I pause to allow her to convey this and then continue, “My friend is quite vulgar most of the time, but wraps it in just enough southern charm that I always forgive him.” I pause again so she can repeat and then conclude the answer with, “Of course, I took my friend’s raucous quirks and multipl
ied them by a million to create Fritz. He is, by far, one character I truly enjoyed seeing come to life. Too bad he kills for a living.”

  Once Roselyn adds a little spice to the answer, the crowd chuckles again and seems content to move on to another author. My afternoon drags by with me feeding the lazy woman her answers and her repeating them in her flirty vernacular.

  I cover the mouthpiece after one particular question about the plot that Roselyn had no idea how to answer, and direct my scowl at Maxine who’s sitting beside me backstage. “Isn’t it stated in her contract that she has to read the dang book before its release?”

  Maxine shakes her head. “I don’t know what’s gotten into the both of you lately, but I’m fed up with the attitudes and piss-poor effort.”

  “Us?” I cough. “This is all on you and Roselyn. Not me. My contract states all I have to do is write the Breakers Series and give you first option. Nowhere in there does it say I have to do mess such as this!” I wave my hands around, taking in the cluttered backstage where boxes of books and swag wait for the book signing portion of this event.

  “Your contract?” She eyes me over the top of her hot-pink glasses.

  I have the sudden childish urge to pull a tendril of hair that’s sticking in a silver halo around the hussy’s head, but restrain myself.

  “Yes. My lawyer has gone over it front to back, as well as Roselyn’s. And I’m here to tell you right now, this next book is the final installment in the Breakers Series. I’m done with you after that.”

  Maxine balks at me, her lips flapping like a suffocating fish, but no words come out.

  Jack’s lawyer has spent the last month going over the contracts with me and his advice is to walk away from the series and start fresh. Easier said than done, because those books will always be my babies even though I may never have custody of them. It’s the price I have to pay for my writing freedom, though. Sadness hits me square in the stomach, but I breathe through it.

  Staring at Maxine’s cold eyes, the decision is becoming less burdensome. My bones already feel lighter with finally telling her how I really feel.

  “I’m on a plane back home after this,” I tell her while half-listening to the Q and A in my ear.

  “Not so fast. Adrian Wild has requested a meeting with us Sunday evening.”

  “That means I won’t make it home until Monday? No. Tell him it’s today or never.” I hit the off-button on the headset and sling it across the room.

  Maxine’s eyes track to where it lands, but makes no move to go retrieve it. “We’re not in a place where we can make such demands at the moment.”

  “Why not?” My arms cross as the anxiety coursing through my veins heats up.

  “Have you not noticed your cut from Wild Idea Publishing hasn’t reached your bank account yet?”

  Truthfully, Beck has become such an unexpected distraction this summer that I have no idea if there’s a penny in my account. The statements are by the computer, but they’ve been neglected.

  I shrug a shoulder and start collecting my notes when the applause breaks out on the other side of the curtain. “What’s up with that?”

  “I’m not quite sure. He’s been so rude in the last month, not returning my phone calls. Ignoring my emails and messages…”

  “No kidding? That’s got to be pretty bitter, being served a dose of your own medicine.” I sling my messenger bag over my shoulder and head for the back exit.

  Sharp claws pinch into my upper arm, halting my retreat.

  “How dare you treat me like this after everything I’ve done for you. Where’s all of this attitude coming from?”

  I yank my arm free from her grasp and pin her with a look of revulsion. “What about everything that I’ve done for you? And how about we talk about the way you’ve treated me?” I take in lungful of air and let her have it. “You’ve made me feel from the very beginning that I wasn’t good enough to represent my own stories. You made me feel less of a person, like you were doing me a favor. Sure, you may have, but I’ve made you an incredibly rich woman and one of the top rated agents in this country. So how about offering me an apology and a thank you.”

  When the stubborn woman remains silent, refusing to give an inch, I march out the door without looking back.

  “This chapter is dragging,” I mutter to myself while watching the flight schedule. It taunts me, laughing at my delusional hope of getting a last-minute flight home. The airport is a cacophony of people hurrying to get on with their lives. Some rushing to the terminal while others, such as myself, have been shackled to a hard plastic chair. We are halted in limbo, wanting to be somewhere else but are at the mercy of that dang flight board.

  My phone is the only company I’ve had in the last two hours and I’ve ignored it like a boss. Maxine has filled my voicemail. I’ve deleted her rants and pleas without a second thought. It starts up again with the neutral ringtone as the announcement for another departing flight that I couldn’t get on is delivered. I pull the phone out to send the call straight to voicemail, but an unknown New York number flashes on the screen. Interest has me answering.

  “Hello?”

  “Miss Blume?” A young man inquires.

  “Yes?”

  “My name is Oliver Kasen. I’m Mr. Adrian Wild’s assistant.”

  I scan the airport and mumble, “Okay.”

  “It’s come to Mr. Wild’s attention that Sunday is inconvenient for you to meet with him, but he’s out of the country until then.”

  “Okay.”

  “He sends his apologies, but is also adamant that you be in attendance at that meeting.”

  Career suicide whispers through my thoughts, halting the idea of telling the young guy where his boss can stick it. Recalling my first encounter with Adrian Wild, I feel like he may end up being my ally, so I start trudging out of the airport and mutter a third, “Okay.”

  *****

  I’m an idiot. An absolute idiot. The internal scold keeps repeating as Maxine and I sit across from Adrian Wild’s ultra-modern desk, feeling like two unruly kids in the principal’s office. Instead of being expelled for our iniquities, we’ve been fired.

  “Come on, Mr. Wild. Surely a few slips come with the territory.” Maxine pastes on one of her maniacal smiles, but Adrian doesn’t waver.

  “A few slips? You keeping the ghost writing situation from me is not a minor slip.” He steeples his fingers and narrows his eyes. “Roselyn didn’t even read the last book, did she?”

  “She’s—” Maxine begins.

  “You ladies are becoming sloppy.” Adrian directs his focus on me with a look of discernment etched along his face. “What I don’t get is why you aren’t representing your own work in the first place.”

  “Harper is deathly shy… It’s the only way we were able to get this to work,” Maxine jumps in again, delivering the half-truth.

  Adrian keeps his eyes fixed on me. “I asked Miss Blume.”

  Clearing my throat, I mumble the only thing I feel like saying at the moment, “I just want to write.”

  Silence blankets the office for a spell, until Adrian finally says, “Well, I wish you the best of luck in doing so, but I’m going to stick with my decision to terminate the Breakers contract.”

  “Now, Adrian… Can’t we talk about this?” Maxine keeps on with her pleas, but I check out.

  Gathering my bag and leaving my dignity behind, I hurry out the door. I want nothing more than to outrun the disappointment I have in myself, but it follows me onto the flight home and wiggles its way inside once I arrive.

  I want to be mad at anyone but myself, however, the blame keeps pointing right back to me. First I lay all responsibility on Maxine, but it’s still my fault for giving her all the power. Then I blame Roselyn for her spastic behavior lately, but I see reflecting in her the same as in me. It’s painfully obvious that we both want out of this charade. She made that clear by skipping the meeting with Adrian.

  Unlocking the door and making my way th
rough the dark house, I feel the abyss of solitude pull me under, knowing it’s time to put an end to this dark chapter but having no clue on how to conclude it.

  Chapter Ten

  The bottle and I found our way behind the couch and have camped out all night, but I’ve kept my lips to myself. Not sure how the bottle feels about that, but I’m close to attacking it as Tuesday evening steals the sun away. I just want to numb the reality of my situation out for a while…

  I sit here debating on whether to give in and attack the bottle, weighing the pros and cons. At least drinking doesn’t take nearly as much consumption to numb out the pain. It lasts a heck of a lot longer, too. Using food only worked until the last bite, which always had me reaching for a second serving and then a third. The side effects from a sugar high and a bourbon bender are quite similar. Headaches and nasty belly aches.

  I don’t want to do either. I want to be strong enough to not use any vice as a crutch to get through an episode. I’m stuck in the grips of addiction and don’t know how to get loose. I need help, but don’t want to allow people to see the darkness.

  Feeling hopeless and trapped, I grow thirsty. A key rattles the door as my thumb works the cap loose. It reaches the end of the bottle’s threads and pings against the wood floor before rolling underneath the couch. Settling against the makeshift bed of a few pillows and a quilt, I take a fiery sip, thinking Jack will be game in joining me.

  “What right do you have skipping my class and then ignoring my phone calls?”

  Beck’s deep voice startles me, causing the bourbon to slosh down my arm. “You scared me! How’d you get in here?”

  “I hunted Jack down.” Beck hitches a thumb toward the other side of the couch as a lamp flickers on.

  I look up and find Jack peering down at me as he takes a seat on the couch.

  “Hey, darlin’.”

  “Hi.” I offer him the bottle, but he declines with a subtle shake of his head.