Creative Process

by Jodi Payne

  He settled himself at his desk, picked up his coffee, and sipped it while he reread the last couple of paragraphs he’d written. He’d finish working through the main plot in the next couple of weeks, he figured, and then he’d take his time and go back over everything with a fine-tooth comb. He was only about seventy-five thousand words in, and he knew this one was going to be a hefty one. As the last book in the series, he’d like to see it hit a hundred and fifty, but that might be ambitious. In any case, he still had a couple of internal scenes to flesh out: one thing at the precinct and the other thing with the house. And of course he’d leave the final scene, the one where his hero killed his psychopath, until very last.

  Working toward the end of the series felt a little like getting ready to let go of a piece of himself. A tortured, intense, and obsessive piece of himself, but someone he’d lived with for the better part of ten years, since he first started writing these books while doing whatever he could to get his rent paid. He knew he had a lot of anxiety about ending it, so he wasn’t going to think too hard about it until he actually got there.

  He heard the warm sound of Owen’s cello coming from the living room and smiled. Owen had work to do. He had work to do. Maybe this did make sense after all. The cello seemed distant on the other side of his closed door, and in very short order he was back at work, his fingers moving quickly over the keyboard.

  Evelyn looked up from her autopsy again and sighed. “Go home.”

  Harris heard her, but he didn’t move.

  “Greg.” She tried again. “You’re not doing them or yourself any good standing there.”

  “I’m thinking.”

  “You’ve been staring at their bodies for an hour.”

  Harris nodded. He was working it out. The bodies were helping him focus. “Evie, there are three more families deep in grief tonight.”

  Evelyn sounded impatient. “I’ve done their autopsies and I didn’t learn much more than what you’re seeing on the surface. You are not going to learn anything new from them by standing there and staring at them. When was the last time you slept?”

  “I don’t sleep.” Harris moved around the bodies slowly.

  “Go get some rest. Get something to eat at least. Some air.”

  “I’m getting on your nerves, am I?” Greg looked up at her.

  “No, I just worry about you. You look terrible.”

  “Not as terrible as they do.”

  Evelyn snorted. “I give up.” She went back to work.

  Greg decided to share what he’d worked out. “Listen, Evelyn. Listen to what I am saying. Three families. At home, broken, grieving. Husbands, fathers, mothers, siblings—each of these women had full, supportive, engaged families. Three families wondering why.”

  “Yes, Greg, it’s devastating.”

  “Of course, Evie, but that’s not what I’m getting at. He isn’t choosing random women, women already on the streets, or easy targets. He does his research. All of them have full, intact families.”

  Evelyn looked up sharply, and Harris met her gaze. “All of them?”

  Harris nodded meaningfully. “These three, Penny Hart, and all three before her too. And none of them have children.”

  “Oh, Greg.”

  He should have removed himself from this case as soon as Penny’s car turned up in his driveway. He knew it. Evelyn knew it. Hell, Turner knew it too, and Harris was frankly surprised Turner hadn’t gone over his head to shut him down yet. “Everything in me wants him dead. I swear to God. If I get the chance, I’ll put a gun to his head and end him myself. I swear on my badge—and they can have it when I’m done.”

  “Greg—”

  “I know, Evie, I know. That’s exactly what he wants.”

  HE HEARD a knock at the office door. Reese blinked, confused for a moment. Oh, right. Owen, he managed to remember, though his head was deep inside that autopsy room. He forced himself to stop typing and sat back in his chair. He took a deep breath to clear his head. “Come in.”

  “Hey.” Owen smiled at him and leaned on the doorjamb.

  “Everything okay?” Reese stretched his neck from one side to the other and rolled his shoulders.

  “Oh. Yeah. I was just going to head out to my rehearsal. Thought I’d say goodbye. And thanks.”

  “Already?”

  “Well it starts at five,” Owen reminded him.

  Reese rubbed his eyes. “What time is it?”

  “Four thirty.”

  “What? Really?” Reese stood up stiffly.

  “Yep.” Owen smiled. “You got lost?”

  Reese nodded. “I do that.”

  “I know. I appreciated it actually. I really got to focus, and I’m pretty well prepared. It was so much nicer than a tiny, stale practice room. Good light, decent acoustics. I really appreciate it.”

  “Well, listen, it didn’t bother me one bit. Actually it was kind of nice to know I wasn’t alone here. Any time you need, you just come on over.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah.”

  Owen’s eyes narrowed. “Need anything?”

  “Well, I was talking about your cello just now, but if you have any other instruments that need some tuning, I’m definitely your guy.” Reese wasn’t sure how they were both suddenly so incredibly close, but Owen was well within reach, and reach he did, kissing Owen soundly. “Thursday, right?” he asked softly.

  “Café night.” Owen was a little breathless, and Reese was a little smug.

  “I’ll be there. My place after.”

  Owen nodded, and Reese gave him a little shove in the direction of the door. He wondered if Owen was going to be able to concentrate at his rehearsal tonight. That set him grinning as he went to make himself some more coffee.

  Chapter X

  SIX HOURS of writing and Reese had busted right through his word count goal. He’d sent Owen off to his rehearsal unmolested and then jumped in the shower, after which he’d made himself a milkshake and some popcorn and then stretched out on the couch with a magazine. The calm quiet lasted long enough for him to read one entire article before his cell phone rang.

  Chad. Reese blinked a moment, but he was fairly sure he wasn’t missing anything, so he picked it up. “Hello,” he said cheerfully.

  “Ooh. You sound relaxed. Owen must be treating you well.”

  Reese snorted. “Very funny.” Although, truth be told, Owen was good for him.

  “How are the words?”

  “Why is that the first thing you’re asking me?”

  “Well, that’s my job, honey.”

  “You’re not my editor.”

  “Okay, then. That’s my paycheck, honey.”

  Reese snorted. “I’m on track. I swear.”

  “Good. Love can be distracting.”

  “It’s not love.” Reese wasn’t sure he actually had a word for it yet, but to say it was just lust was weak too.

  “So what is it?”

  “It’s pretty damn awesome, whatever it is.” Reese sat up straighter. “Chad, I hit my word count for the day with him here. With him actually here—in the apartment with me. You know why? He was busy doing his own shit. He had work to get done, and he didn’t have time to worry about me.”

  “Wow, score one for the fiddler.”

  “He plays the cello.”

  “Whatever, he doesn’t love you like I do.”

  Reese laughed. “I don’t know how I survived without you, Chad.”

  “Just so. I’m your rock. Your cheerleader. Your—”

  “Appointment book,” Reese interrupted.

  “That. Which, since we’re on it, brings me to why I called.”

  “Oh God. Not tonight?”

  Chad groaned. “No, honey. Saturday.”

  “Oh. The out-of-town thing?”

  “Yes. Turns out they want you tomorrow night as well.”

  Reese sighed. “Convention?”

  “Yeah. They want you to speak on Friday night now. They’ve offered 15 percent over
your usual speaker’s fee for the last-minute ask.”

  “I bet you love that.”

  “You know I do. You should, also.”

  “Yeah, okay. I can do that. Where is it?”

  “About two hours north of here. I’ve arranged a car, your hotel, and a massage on Saturday morning.”

  “Ooh, you were ready to butter me up if you had to, weren’t you?” Reese couldn’t really blame him. Reese got paid well, which meant the commission Chad got for bookings like this was pretty sweet.

  “You know I was.”

  Reese laughed.

  “Don’t be mad at me.”

  “How could I be mad at you? Just make sure the massage is in my room.”

  “You got it. The car will pick you up around two o’clock. That will give you time to get settled in your room and get some dinner before you speak.”

  “Got it. Are you going?”

  “Of course. See you tomorrow.”

  “You got it. Thanks, Chad.” Reese hung up the phone. Okay, convention this weekend. Got it. He was about to get up off the couch to make a note of the pick-up time when the phone rang again. Reese assumed Chad had forgotten something, but when he looked at the screen it said William.

  “Hey, William.”

  “Hello, Reese. We were just looking at some pictures Joe took of you and Owen at our last dinner party.”

  “Oh?” There were pictures? He didn’t remember posing for pictures, but he did have a lot to drink.

  “We’ve decided you look rugged and sexy with that fading bruise on your forehead.”

  We? “Oh. You think I should go out and get another? That one’s totally gone now, although my ego might still be recovering.”

  William laughed. “Ah yes, it’s the bruises you can’t see that cause the most trouble, hm?”

  “Hm. I guess.” Reese’s brow furrowed, and he tried to figure out if William was trying to get at something or was just being poetic. That thought was interrupted with William’s next proposal.

  “So, Reese. I have Sammy and Joe and Benjamin here, and we’ve been talking,” William said smoothly.

  “Uh-oh.” That sounded ominous. Those four could put together a destination wedding in fifteen minutes if they wanted to.

  “Sammy says Owen plays at a coffee shop someplace? We’d like to come hear him play.”

  “Would you?” Reese asked dryly.

  “We would.”

  Reese cleared his throat. “So, what am I missing here?”

  “Well, nothing really, we just want to get to know him a bit better is all.”

  Me too, Reese thought a little sheepishly. He knew Owen’s body really well. He knew the depths of Owen’s brown eyes like the back of his hand. But didn’t have a handle on mundane things like where he was from or what his favorite food was. They were overdue for a real conversation. Still, what they had was fucking incredible, so he wasn’t complaining.

  “So when does he play?”

  Reese thought about what Owen had told him. “Um, Mondays, Thursdays, and Saturdays.”

  “Oh, perfect!” Reese heard Sammy practically squeal in the background.

  William laughed. “We’ll drop in tonight. Where?”

  “The Grey Moon Café—but, uh. Listen, maybe you should give him some time to—”

  “Oh, don’t be such a stick in the mud, Reese. It’s a café, for God’s sake. Anyone can walk in, right? So tonight, anyone will be us. You’ll be there, I assume?”

  “Yep,” Reese replied, defeated. “I’ll be there. No way I’m throwing Owen to the wolves alone.”

  William snorted. “So dramatic. We’ll be polite, I promise.”

  Reese knew that. There was just something about the way his worlds were colliding so quickly that was throwing him off-balance. “This place is casual, William. Like, actually casual? It’s a coffee shop, you know?”

  “Oh, Reese.” William’s tone was indulgent. “We’ll see you tonight.”

  “You got it.” Reese hung up and immediately called Owen, knowing he’d be in rehearsal but figuring he should get a warning as soon as possible. Reese cleared his throat and waited for the voicemail to pick up.

  “Hey, this is Owen,” the recording told him. “Don’t bother leaving a message. I won’t listen to it. Text me instead. Thanks!” There was a beep anyway, and Reese hesitated for a second, thrown by Owen’s message. He clicked the phone off.

  “Voicemail is passé now?” he said out loud and started to text instead.

  Hey, you. William, Sammy, Joe, and the hottest man on earth want to come hear you play at Grey Moon tonight. Just thought I’d give you a heads-up. Surprise! Sorry. You’ll recognize them. They’ll be the ones dressed for the dance club they’ll be headed to afterward. Ugh. Really sorry? I’ll make them behave. See you tonight.

  So that was happening.

  Reese hauled himself off the couch. He needed to find something to wear tonight.

  And four muzzles.

  UR 2 funny gonna be fun CU2nite lover!

  Reese stared at his phone as the text came in. If not for the “lover” at the end of it, Reese would have worried that a tween-ager had gotten ahold of Owen’s phone.

  Call him what you would, but Reese was an author, dammit, and he couldn’t text that way. He texted in full sentences, with punctuation. There was no way he could bring himself to put anything in print that couldn’t be well defended by the Chicago Manual of Style. He’d practically lost his mind when he learned that they’d added “srsly” to the OED. Chad had been ready to have him committed. Maybe dropping a few perfectly good vowels was okay by them, but it was not okay by him.

  He was “srsly” considering explaining the dangers of the erosion of the English language to Owen, but Reese’s mother had taught him to carefully pick his battles, and he had to concede that text speak was not going to make or break his relationship with someone with an ass like Owen’s.

  Looking forward to it, and you, he texted back.

  He was mostly packed for the convention tomorrow. He knew Sammy had an exhibition not far from the café, and he decided to go check it out before Owen’s gig tonight. He could get a glass of wine there to take the edge off before he had to chaperone his posse. He’d decided on his all-black metrosexual best because there was no way he was going to be out-dressed by William or upstaged by the hottest man on earth at his own lover’s—his own boyfriend’s—gig. No, he was planning to own this evening, and for that matter, Owen too. God, that last thought made his balls ache.

  He hired a car for the evening as well, just to show off a little. The car took him first to Sammy’s exhibition, and he spent a couple of hours sipping Sauvignon Blanc and moving slowly from one piece to the next. Sammy was a mixed-media artist, and his work was typically evocative but open to interpretation. Where one viewer might see war, another might see domestic abuse, and still another might see evolution. Reese loved his work and had been sincerely disappointed to miss the opening of this show; he’d had an out-of-town engagement for the release of his book on the same date.

  He went back to one particular piece three times to examine and reexamine it. The piece was entitled denouement, with a lowercase D. Sammy had used a mix of decoupage, photography, and oil paint to highlight images of what Reese perceived to be sex, though someone else walking by said something about death. In the end Reese decided they were both talking about the same thing, and he was so intrigued he decided he was going to ask Sammy if he could buy it.

  He didn’t want to show up at the café too early, but he didn’t want the boys to get there before he did either, so he hedged his bets and left the gallery about eight thirty, figuring if he was early he could enjoy his blondie and read the newspaper. It had been pretty humid when he got into his hired car, and by the time he made it to the Grey Moon, it was full-out pouring rain. He made arrangements with the driver to return later, took a deep breath, and bolted from the car. He was impressed with his own stealth as he slipped through th
e café doors having somehow managed not to get completely soaked.

  The more time he spent at the Grey Moon, the more he liked the place. It was reasonably large but still had a cozy feel. There were tables and chairs, couches, and lounge chairs set up in more intimate small arrangements and a couple of larger tables at the back for groups. There was a counter attached to the length of one wall with rows of outlets and stools for the plugged-in types. An art installation hung on the wall, all manner of mismatched rugs covered the floors, and a big fireplace stood in one corner, though that was not in use at the moment. Reese’s crew was nowhere in sight yet, so he went to buy himself a latte and a blondie. The adorable green-haired barista gave him a warm smile.

  “Reese, right? Want your usual?” she asked, obviously pleased with herself and also with the surprise in his eyes.

  “Yes. Thank you very much,” Reese replied, returning her smile and reading her name tag. “Miranda.”

  “Are you here to see Six Hands again?”

  “I… am?” He was aware that came out as a question. Owen had never mentioned that his trio had a name, but of course it would, wouldn’t it? God, the things he didn’t know about Owen were starting to feel unforgivable.

  “Carla, Owen, and Lisa?” she prompted.

  Reese nodded. “Yes. Of course.”

  “But mostly Owen.” That was not a question. Reese looked at Miranda with interest.

  “You are observant.”

  Miranda winked. “Only when I like someone. The latte is on me.”

  Reese thanked Miranda and left her a big tip. Just like that, he’d become a regular.

  He made his way to a table by the door that was littered with reading material and found most of the day’s newspaper. He really only cared about the Arts section, and that one was intact, so he took it and went to find a place for all of them to settle in for the evening, selecting an arrangement of four chairs around two small café tables and a couple of high-backed wing chairs. He took one of the comfy chairs for himself as usual and felt absolutely at home as he settled into it with his paper.