by Sarah Monzon
Bookishly Ever After
Sarah Monzon
© 2018 Sarah Monzon.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, scanning, or other—except for brief quotations in reviews or articles, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
Published by Radiant Publications
Moses Lake, Washington
This is a work of fiction. Characters, incidents, and dialogues are either a product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual people is strictly coincidental.
Cover Design by Sarah Monzon
Edited by Dori Harrell
Untitled
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Epilogue
If you enjoyed this story, check out other books written by Sarah Monzon
One
The hunter had become the hunted. Poetic? Not really. Ten years chasing after fugitives, and the tables were bound to be turned.
Her pulse beat in her ears with the rhythm of her feet pounding the pavement. A brick wall loomed before her, blocking her escape. Left or right? A split second to decide. Right. Three strides and she realized she’d chosen wrong. The barrel of a gun inches from her forehead brought her to a dead stop. She managed to keep her gaze steady, though her breathing had grown erratic. Her eyes followed the outstretched arm, lifting slightly to peer into the cold eyes of the man she’d been trying to capture and return to jail for the past eighteen hours. Her gut solidified. If she didn’t make a move now, she’d be just another murder on the scumbag’s record.
Movement, so slight she barely perceived it. His finger on the trigger pulled back—
“Boo.”
Right in my ear, the word resounded like the report of a gun. My heart jumped out of my chest with the speed of a bullet out of a barrel. “Ah!” I bolted out of my comfy reading chair as if the murdering fugitive had snuck up behind me, my book falling helplessly to the ground. Thankfully, it landed closed and not open with its pages bent, or Tate would be in double trouble.
“Tator Tot!” I fumed. I had more words I wanted to fling at him, really I did, but at the moment they were being restricted by my attempt to get my pulse back under control. Of course that wasn’t all his fault. I could blame the author of The Huntress as well, since I’d been turning pages as quickly as I could mentally devour them, my heart rate a direct result of the high-stakes crime novel. His sneaking up on me had spiked my response to physical action.
I rounded on him, jamming my hands on my hips and giving him a death glare that, had I had the ability of the Force, would have rendered him utterly and completely knocked out. KO first round. Victory me.
But instead of cartoon stars circling his head, he doubled over in laughter. His rich baritone voice that had the girls swooning at open mic night filled my small apartment with his childish amusement.
Fire with fire. “Tator Tot.” This time his hated childhood nickname came off my tongue with a bite.
He lifted from his slightly bent position, his chuckles subsiding as he, hopefully, remembered he was nearing thirty, not thirteen…or even just three, for that matter. “Low blow, Emory.”
He said it with a smile, so I knew I hadn’t mortally wounded him. Like anyone could. Tate Woodby, my best—or if you’re more inclined to believe him, only—friend, was unflappable.
“You scared the stuffing out of me, Tate.” By way of defense, the argument wasn’t half bad. How had he even gotten into… Ah. My gaze snagged on the open window behind him. Of course. The fire escape. Not the first time he’d made his way into my apartment that way.
I’d left the window open to let in the cool night air coming up off the calm waters of Puget Sound. Should have known such an invitation would welcome others in as well.
Tate shook his head, his classic half smile still in place as he reached down and retrieved my fallen book. “What are you reading anyway?”
“Nothing.” I lunged forward and rescued my current obsession—definitely not nothing—from his hands and hugged it to my chest.
His brown eyes laughed at me.
I raised my chin.
Bad move. I’d gotten so close when retrieving The Huntress from his unappreciative paws that the top knot I’d haphazardly secured my hair in rubbed against his chin.
“What’s this?” He moved the palm of his hand back and forth over the mass of curls piled at the top of my head.
I took a step away from him and shrugged. “Messy hair, don’t care.”
He leaned back and took in the rest of me. “What are you wearing?”
Like he’d never seen a woman in yoga pants and a T-shirt before. The ensemble was almost guaranteed to be in every woman’s closet, from preteens to grandmothers. Besides, this particular shirt was one of my favorites. A calming shade of gray with the words My weekend is booked printed in bold white font. Pretty much my weekend uniform. Beat the business casual I stuffed myself into every other day of the week.
“It’s Saturday night, Em.”
“Thank you, Captain Obvious.”
“You’re twenty-eight and live in Seattle.”
“Looking to be the next Sherlock? I don’t think Benedict Cumberbatch has to worry about his job just yet with those powers of observation.”
He ignored my sarcasm as he always did. “Why are you sitting alone in your apartment instead of having a fun night out in the city?”
One, I wasn’t alone. I had Amelia Walters, bounty hunter, to keep me company. Fictional? Yes. Did that matter? No. Fun? Yes, again. But Tate and I had been over that probably more times than Taylor Swift had written the word hate into her lyrics. Which is appropriate, I thought as I stared at my current “hater.”
“Why does it matter to you?” I crossed my arms with just a hint of attitude. Definitely something Amelia Walters would do, don’t ya think? Although if one of her convicts sassed back, she’d have him disarmed and in a lock hold in two seconds flat. Didn’t think I could pull that one out of my bookish bag of tricks.
“Why?” He pushed a hand through the thick strands of his coffee-colored hair, repeating my question with a tinge of frustration. “Because I—” He stopped himself with a strangled sort of self-deprecating laugh. “Because I care about you, kid. We’ve been friends for how long now?”
Ever since the first day I moved to Seattle. “Four years.”
“Four years.” He shook his head. “Four years and all this time I don’t think I’ve ever seen you leave your apartment on the weekends except for church or takeout.”
I pointed to my shirt with a grin. “I’m booked.”
“You’re hiding is what you’re doing.”
“Hey!” His words hurt even though they were off the mark. Okay, maybe they hit the mark a little, but not a bull’s-eye. I wasn’t hiding. I was unwinding. Big difference. “Look—I’ve had a long week filled with lots of people. Lots of grouchy people, might I add. And unlike you who thrives on being the center of attention and recharges by being in a large crowd, I don’t. I need quiet. Solitude. Time by myself.”
“You realize you just said the same thing in three different ways, don’t you?” He flopped down on the couch with a smug grin.
“Some people are so thick skulled they need the repetition.”
&
nbsp; “Hardy har har.” His gaze landed on the coffee table, his lips curling like Jim Carey in How the Grinch Stole Christmas.
I followed his line of sight. He wouldn’t. But as he leaned forward, I realized he so totally would.
Like a cheetah I pounced, but my catlike reflexes weren’t quick enough. My hand landed on top of his, under that the package of Peanut Butter M&M’s. My last bag, I might add. “You eat those, you die, Woodby.”
The brow over his right eye rose. “A line you read in one of your books?”
“Test me and find out.” Bart Simpson could have his Butterfingers, but no one messed with my Peanut Butter M&M’s.
His hands rose in surrender, and I felt a bit of the victory that Amelia Walters must feel when her felons assumed such a pose. “That’s right.” I sniffed.
In a flash the bag was snatched from my hand. Tate’s head knocked back, and the few remaining candy pieces fell into his open mouth. He brought his face down, his eyes twinkling as his jaw worked to chew.
“But…but…that was my last bag.” And I had no desire to leave my apartment to buy more.
He laughed as he rose and walked back to the open window. Half his body disappeared as he leaned out, a plastic sack in his hand when he pulled himself all the way back in. The sack landed with a thud on the coffee table.
I leaned forward, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of knowing my interest, but curious just the same. The ends of a dark-brown wrapper peered back at me. I looked up at Tate.
“Forgiven?” He dug in the bag and pulled out a sharing-size pack of candy, jutting his chin back to the plastic-wrapped lump he’d extricated his offering from. “The rest of that is for our friends under the overpass. I noticed your pile of offerings was running low last time I was here. Let me know when you go again to hand those out. I’d like to come with. Maybe finish that conversation I had with that one guy. What was his name again?”
The offering too tempting—and really, I’d never stayed mad at anyone longer than a minute, and that was when I was really angry, not play angry—I took the package and fell beside him onto the couch. The chocolate was nice, but his thoughtfulness to help the homeless with me completely doused any hard feelings I harbored.
He held out his cupped palm, and I opened the M&M’s and poured. Taking one, I popped it into my mouth. “I think you mean the Major. He seemed to like you.”
“Of course. What’s not to like?”
I rolled my eyes. “So what are your plans for the evening? Hot date with one of your adoring fans?” I bumped his shoulder with mine and tried to wiggle my brows. I’d read that many times in books before, how a character wiggled their brows suggestively at another character. As many times as I’ve tried to do it, that was how many times I’d failed.
He pointed his finger between my eyes. “Whatever you’re doing there, just stop.”
My smile came naturally, and I popped another candy in my mouth. “So?”
“So what?”
“Plans? Hot date?” A budding musician, Tate played at a local joint every Wednesday night for open mic. He was good. Real good. Even I got a little swoony when he sang, and I knew firsthand how annoying he could be. Case in point—performing a B and E to scare the living daylights out of me. All the women loved him. He even had a little following that showed up each week. Groupies.
Yes, I showed up each week too. But we were friends. I was moral support. Not a groupie. The groupies were the ones he’d take out on the weekends. Hence I was 99 percent sure his plans included a hot date.
He turned to me, his shoulder sinking into the plush back of my microfiber couch. “Why don’t we shake things up tonight? I’ll call some friends, and we can do one of the tours around the city.” He eyed the small pond of M&M’s I cradled in my hand. “We could even do the chocolate tour.”
I pointed to my shirt again. “Sorry. I’m booked.”
“It’s one night, Emory. You can come out for one night. Your books will still be here waiting for you when you get back.”
A group of people I didn’t know touring around a crowded city. I’d have to make small talk. I didn’t do small talk. Not because I found it superficial. I just…couldn’t. Literally. People asked me a question. I answered. Was it my fault the answer only consisted of one word? But then the conversational ball was in my court. Let the awkward silence ensue as I mentally scrounged for another topic. It was painful.
“I’ll pass, but thanks for the offer.”
Tate’s face kind of did a little convulsing thing. The muscle along his cheek twitched, and his eyes spasmed. He licked his lips. Swallowed. Looked away. Looked back.
I should have become suspicious when the confidence returned to his demeanor. When he raised that blasted brow above his right eye in challenge. “I bet you can’t do it.”
“Excuse me?”
“I bet you can’t do it. You read all these great stories about heroes and heroines who do all sorts of things while you’re safely tucked inside your apartment. You live vicariously through them, but that’s not living, Em. You envision yourself as the characters you read, relating to them on different levels, maybe even sometimes wishing you were more like them.”
The defense on my tongue felt flat, unbelievable even to me.
“I bet you can’t take yourself down from this literary tower you’ve built around yourself and actually do the things your characters do. Experience life. Experience the people around you.”
My gaze snagged on The Huntress, and I grabbed it, thrust it between us as my evidence. “Of course I can’t do the things these characters do. I’m not a bounty hunter, and I don’t plan to have guns shoved in my face.” And the trigger pulled? Man I needed to get back to the scene to see if Amelia was shot or if she’d somehow disarmed the perp.
Tate settled back, the seam of his shirtsleeve riding up over the curve of his tricep as he pinched the book between us and returned it to the table. “That isn’t the only book you’re reading.” Not a question. He knew me too well. Probably knew about the novel in my purse that I read on the bus during my commute to and from work and the one on my nightstand that I read right before bed.
Fine. “You think you’re so smart, but you didn’t bet me anything. You issued a dare. And I’m not twelve.” Although the annoying desire to prove him wrong pooled in my chest. Blast. Well, if he wanted to challenge me, needle me, try to psychoanalyze me to the point he thought he knew me better than I knew myself, I could play that game too. “A bet is when two people put something on the table.”
He leaned forward, victory already in his eyes. “I’m not the one hiding.”
Neither was I. Reading wasn’t a hiding place, it was an escape. A place to decompress, to wrestle with issues in real life, a means to cope. But he was wrong on another thing. He was hiding. “I bet you can’t send out a demo tape.” For as long as I’d known him, he’d done open mic, karaoke, and live performances in restaurants. Never once had he ever sent a demo to an agent or recording studio.
His confidence drained out of him like I’d pulled the plug, but then just as quickly he thrust out his hand. “Deal. Each week you’ll tell me what book you’re reading and something about it. Setting or the character’s occupation or an adventure they went on, and I’ll set something up for the weekend. For every outing, I’ll let you pick the studio or agent to send a demo to. Deal?”
I placed my hand in his, and we shook.
If only I’d known what I was getting myself into.
Two
The line moved forward as I flipped another page in my book. By my estimation, I had at least two more pages before it would be my turn to place an order. Even with going past the closest Starbucks to my apartment—the iconic, tourist-ridden one right by Pike Place Market, the first Starbucks ever—I still had to wait in a line five people deep. It was Seattle, after all. But it beat the line that at times could wrap around the block at Pike Place. Not that the coffee there was any different than any of
the other locations, but the simple word of first brought the tourists in droves.
The smell of fresh roast caused my lips to curve, as did the person ordering in front of me. I’d found that there were two types of people who ordered at Starbucks. The ones who knew exactly what they wanted as soon as they woke up that morning, and the ones who’d never spent more than a dollar on a cup of coffee and had never tasted their brew accompanied by anything other than cream and sugar.
Reminded me of the scene in You’ve Got Mail where Joe Fox is explaining in his email to Kathleen Kelly that the purpose of Starbucks was not really the coffee but a place where people who couldn’t make decisions could make six decisions at one time.
The line moved again, and I peered over the pages of my book to watch the barista smile at the woman directly in front of me.
“What can I get you?”
“Venti black-and-white mocha. One pump white chocolate, one pump dark. Decaf, please.”
I smiled, knowing this woman was not a Starbucks virgin, as she’d ordered a drink not even on the menu. The woman moved to the side, and I stepped forward, ordering a tall caramel macchiato.
As I waited for my drink, I put my book back in my bag. This one wasn’t quite as edge-of-my-seat exciting as The Huntress had been, but I also didn’t have to worry about a beloved character getting shot point blank.
She didn’t. Amelia Walters, the bounty hunter, didn’t get shot. After I’d managed to shoo Tate from my apartment, I’d hunkered back down in my favorite chair and finished the book. She’d managed to disarm her bounty with a quick move she’d learned in a Krav Maga class. Impressive, if you asked me.
“Emory!” The barista on the other side of the counter called my name and handed me the warm cup with a friendly smile. I blew into the tiny hole on the lid, a deep whooshing sound barely registering over the din of chatter from the patrons lounging in leather armchairs and steel-back seats. The first sip elicited a sigh. Now I could head into the chaos of work.