Creative Process

by Jodi Payne

  Owen smiled. He still hadn’t even been able to lift his head from the mattress. “I made a mess of our sheets, babe,” Owen said with a weak laugh.

  “I guess you’ll have to fire up our washing machine.” Reese smiled, finally approaching the bed again.

  Owen found the strength to roll over onto his back. “I need to use our shower.” God, that incredible shower.

  Reese leaned down and kissed him. “Let’s do that. And then I’ll take you out for a very late brunch.”

  Owen let Reese help him up. “So this is how it’s going to be now, huh? Owen, I’m going to fuck you; Owen, I’m taking you to brunch.” He let Reese hustle him toward the shower.

  Reese snorted and turned on the water. “Are you complaining?”

  “Nope.” Owen shook his head. “No, not at all.” Not. At. All.

  “Good. Owen, get your ass in the shower.”

  Chapter XVIII

  SIX HANDS just finished putting down five tracks in a real, actual professional recording studio. Lisa’s tech friend had come through and managed to get them a booking. She’d negotiated a really good rate with the studio based on their ability to show up last-minute, and asked Owen and Carla to be flexible. That made Owen nervous. He said he would try, but he knew he had rehearsals to work around, so he had to cross his fingers and hope he wouldn’t have to let his friends down.

  Incredibly, just a few days later there was a last-minute cancellation on a weeknight on which Owen did not have rehearsal, so all three of them dropped everything to be there. Owen had to cancel dinner with Reese, but Reese was excited for him and promised him a rain check.

  “Nice work. You guys did an awesome job tonight. I think Lisa and I have plenty to work with.”

  Owen hadn’t stopped grinning since he walked through the studio doors. “Thank you so much.”

  “My pleasure. Glad we could work it out.” Stephen, the sound technician, was as skilled as he was charming, and the recording session had gone very smoothly. It helped that they’d each had some recording experience at the conservatory, so it wasn’t a completely foreign process to any of them.

  “Seriously, this was great,” Carla added and shook Stephen’s hand.

  “All right, guys, let’s not give Steve a big head. Well, bigger than it already is.” Lisa held the door for Owen so he could get his cello through more easily. “We’ll mix it up, and I’ll email you guys something to review in a couple of days, okay?”

  “You’re the best, Lisa.” Owen gave her a quick peck on the cheek and headed off down the hall. Carla was right behind him and hit the Call button on the elevator. As soon as the door to the studio closed, they looked at each other, and Owen stage whispered, “Oh my God. That was so fucking cool!”

  “I know!” Carla answered, stepping onto the elevator. The studio was in a vintage brownstone, and the elevator had a metal gate you had to pull across before it would move. It was absolutely tiny, but Owen managed to squeeze in alongside Carla with his cello.

  “We actually recorded something. Like, professionally.”

  “I know!”

  “I didn’t know Lisa knew so much about the technical stuff, did you? I can’t wait to hear it. Wow.”

  “I. Cannot. Wait. I’m going to pee or something.” Carla and Owen went back and forth like excited children, laughing their way off the elevator and into a cab. By the time he got home, Owen had calmed down, but he was still riding on the high of a fantastic day. It was late, almost one-o’clock in the morning, and so he entered the apartment quietly, assuming Reese would be sleeping. He caught the light shining out from under Reese’s closed office door and made a face, disappointed that he couldn’t brag right then. He put his cello away, went and made himself a snack, and turned on the TV.

  Hours later, he woke up on the couch with a stiff neck and sat up with a groan. The TV was still on, but it was playing infomercials, and Owen was annoyed that he had once again fallen asleep before the end of Clue. He was never going to see the actual ending of that movie. The city sky was a deep purple, a sign that the sun would be up soon. He looked at his watch. Five thirty. Why hadn’t Reese—? Oh, Owen realized exactly why. Reese’s office door was still closed. Owen shook his head. Whatever. Hemingway was obviously caught up in something. Owen hauled himself off the couch but froze when he noticed that the liquor cabinet was open. He was sure it hadn’t been open when he turned on the TV, which meant… it meant that Reese had come out of his office, walked right by Owen asleep on the couch, and gone right back to his office. Something about that bothered Owen, but he was frankly too tired to think about it. He went to the bedroom, stripped, and climbed into bed.

  When he woke again, it was light out, and a glance at his phone confirmed that it was after ten. He sat up and rubbed his eyes. He was still very much alone in bed, so he climbed out, took a shower, and dressed, after which he headed for the kitchen to make coffee. He stuck his tongue out at Reese’s still-closed office door as he passed it, but he hadn’t gotten two more steps away when Reese yanked it open.

  Owen turned around to say good morning but jumped back as he heard Reese growl. Reese’s cell phone went flying by him, hit the coffee table, and clattered to the floor. The office door slammed closed again.

  He blinked at the door and then at the cell phone. Reflexively, he walked over to the phone, made sure it was still working, and then set it down on the table with a sigh. That was when he was reminded about the liquor cabinet. It sat there, still open, just as Owen had left it.

  So Reese had actually had the presence of mind to get himself a drink, but not to think that maybe he should take his boyfriend to bed?

  Wake Owen up and tuck him in at least?

  Knowing Reese was that far gone hours ago, Owen wondered at what point he should worry. He knew this happened every once in a while; Reese had warned him, even Chad had warned him that Reese could disappear into writing like this.

  Coffee. He’d think about it over coffee.

  Another hour later he was still thinking about it, only this time he was also trying to puzzle out a Vivaldi piece on his cello, so he let himself be distracted. But when he was still thinking about it as the sun was going down, he stopped thinking and picked up Reese’s cell phone.

  He didn’t want to do it, especially after making such a stink about Chad’s past intrusions into their personal lives. But after pacing for the last half an hour, Owen finally admitted to himself that he needed some advice. He made the call.

  “Hey, honey.”

  “Chad?”

  “Owen?”

  “Yeah. Hey, Chad. Sorry. I… I just picked up Reese’s phone.” He paced over to Reese’s office.

  “Oh, no problem. But when we’re done I do need to talk with him, I’ve left him a couple of messages.”

  “Yeah. About that….” Owen rested his hand on Reese’s closed office door. He was genuinely worried now that he’d allowed himself to make this phone call. “He didn’t get your messages.”

  “Oh? He didn’t?” Chad sounded hesitant. Thoughtful.

  “Yeah, well.” He pulled his hand away and walked through the living room, hooking a lock of hair behind one ear. “Reese opened his office door and flung his cell phone out a few hours ago.” He stepped out onto the small balcony for privacy.

  “Oh.” Chad sighed. “Oh boy.”

  “It hit the coffee table. I’m surprised it’s working actually.” He knew he probably sounded a little panicked. Mostly because he was starting to feel a little panicked. The more he talked about it, the worse he felt. He took a deep breath and tried to stay calm. “He’s been locked in there since yesterday.”

  “Yesterday?” Chad seemed a little shocked by that. “When?”

  Owen cleared the emotion from his throat. “I’m not sure. Since before I left for the studio. Early afternoon?”

  “Jesus.” Chad’s reaction was not terribly reassuring, and Owen really needed reassuring right now.

  “What do I do
, Chad? Do I knock? Do I go in?”

  “Not sure. Has he come out at all?”

  “Apparently he came out long enough to take a bottle of scotch back in with him.”

  “Mm. I see.”

  Chad wasn’t being any help to him at all. Owen should have just gone in. His gut was telling him to go in. “Come on, man. You’ve dealt with this before, right? What did you do?”

  “Honestly, Owen, I’ve only done it once or twice when he needed to be somewhere. And I never knew how long he’d been in there; all I knew is that he needed to come out.”

  “So you went in,” Owen said flatly. Fuck this, he didn’t need Chad’s help.

  “I have come over and tried to get his attention, yes. But Owen, I—”

  “Okay, Chad. Thanks, that’s what I needed to know.”

  “Owen—”

  Owen ended the call. He went back into the apartment and set Reese’s cell phone on the coffee table. He’d only gotten two steps away when it rang. Chad again. He picked it up. “Yes?”

  “Do you want me to come over?”

  Owen actually thought about that for a bit. Did he want backup? But then he remembered the last time Chad got involved, the morning after the absinthe. Chad’s help had grated on Owen’s last nerve. “No. We’ll be okay. Thanks.”

  “Sure?”

  “Yeah. Thanks, Chad.” Owen shut the phone off and put it down again. He took a deep breath and walked back to the office door. He didn’t want to just barge in, so he started gently.

  “Hey, babe?”

  There was no answer.

  “Reese? Babe, you want some dinner?” When no answer came, Owen knocked. “Reese, I was thinking of making some pasta—”

  “HANDS ON top of your head,” Harris ordered. “Now!”

  It had been a very long, emotional night, and Harris was feeling every second of it, the chill of predawn settling right into his bones. He was tired. His head ached, but he finally had the guy. He leveled the barrel of his gun at his target.

  “Matthew.”

  Harris raised an eyebrow, still catching his breath. “I beg your pardon?”

  “That’s my name. It’s Matthew.”

  “Great, Matthew.” Harris cocked his gun and touched it to Matthew’s temple. “I’m still going to kill you. I’d suggest you say your prayers, but there’s no hope for a soul like yours.”

  “Tate.”

  Tate. Harris growled. “What the hell is this now?”

  “My name. It’s Matthew Tate.”

  Tate. His sister’s married name. “Is this a fucking joke? You think that’s funny?”

  Reese’s brow furrowed. “Wait,” he whispered.

  “Oh, it’s no joke, Uncle.”

  “Fuck you!” Harris pushed the muzzle of the gun hard into Matthew’s temple. “That’s enough bullshit.”

  “Oh, but it’s not bullshit, Uncle. Ask him.”

  “He’s telling the truth, Greg.”

  “Fuck. No. Nonono.” Reese muttered. “Last book. You’re supposed to be done, Harris.”

  Harris stiffened at the sound of a third voice in the room. He’d been so intent on the subject that he hadn’t heard the detective come in. But now that he was aware, he could see all four officers in the room with him. “Let me do this, Turner.”

  “Harris. He is your nephew, Matthew Tate. Well, he was Matthew Tate. He became Matthew Russell after your sister and her husband were killed—”

  “In a traaagic aaaccident,” Matthew interrupted, drawing out the words.

  “Impossible.”

  “Ten years ago today, in fact.” Matthew’s voice dropped low, his tone hypnotic. “Don’t tell me you forgot the date? Jenny and Robert, and their seven-year-old son—”

  “The weather was bad.”

  “Bucketing down. Daddy ran off the road after leaving Grandpa Hugh’s house.”

  Harris nodded, remembering. “A horrible accident.”

  “Mm. The crash was an accident, yes.”

  Reese’s fingers were moving furiously on the keyboard, but he was shaking his head and his eyes started to sting. This couldn’t be happening. Harris was going to jail, yes, but not this way.

  “Wait. What are you saying?” Harris blinked and his attention snapped back into the room.

  “Harris.” Turner said gently. “Put the gun down.”

  “What are you saying!?” Harris shouted. This sick, violent, demented imitation of a human being was his fucking nephew? Matthew had been the only survivor of that awful crash, and Jenny and Robert had named Robert’s sister and her husband as guardians in their wills. It was possible, but he didn’t want to believe it.

  “Still going to shoot me, Uncle Gregory?”

  Reese recoiled from the keyboard as if it had burned him. “Oh fuck, Harris,” he breathed, exhaling heavily. Slowly, tentatively, Reese started typing again.

  “Fuck you,” Harris spat.

  Turner’s voice cut through the darkness. “Harris! Put the gun down. Now!”

  Knocking. Someone was knocking.

  “Shoot me, Uncle. Go on, do it,” Matthew sang to him, smugly. Harris’s hands started to shake, and he felt the sickening weight of grief deep in his chest. Jenny’s son. Jenny would never forgive him.

  “No.” He couldn’t do it.

  But he couldn’t just let it go either, and he knew he wouldn’t get another chance. He unleashed his rage and let it surge through him. With a sharp cry, Harris raised his arm and brought the handle of his gun down across Matthew’s temple.

  “Now!” In seconds, Harris was facedown on the floor, his hands wrenched behind his—

  “—making some pasta, you want some? Reese?”

  “Fuck! Go away!”

  —wrenched behind his back. He could see an officer in his peripheral vision checking Matthew’s pulse. She spoke into her radio.

  “Subject is down, repeat, the subject is down. Roll an ambulance to our location, fast!”

  Harris was hauled to his feet.

  “Dammit, Greg.” Turner sighed. “Do not say anything to anyone when you get to the precinct, do you understand me? Nothing. Wait until I get there.” Turner was trying to get Harris to look at him he knew, but he couldn’t focus. “I will come find you, you hear me? Tell them I’m bringing an attorney. Not one fucking word.” He looked at the officers and jerked his head toward the door.

  “Gregory Harris,” a deep voice said from somewhere behind him as he was hustled outside to a waiting patrol car. “You have the right to remain silent….”

  There was a sound, loud and percussive. Reese looked up from his laptop, squinting at the figure in the doorway.

  “—but I’m not going to be told to go away.”

  Reese rubbed his eyes. They still stung, and now his hands were shaking. He clasped them together to make them stop. “I’m working.”

  “You’ve been working for more than a day, Reese.”

  Reese turned back to his keyboard. “Just need to finish this scene.”

  “Take a break, babe. You need some rest.”

  “Don’t tell me what I need to do!” Reese bellowed.

  He felt Owen pull away suddenly. “Reese.”

  He shook his head. “Something’s… I need to… I have to finish. Just… you have to go now.” There was nothing he could do about the ending now. He knew that. The creative piece of him was thrilled with it. It was the rest of him that wanted it done. Frustration was building. He could feel it start to coil in him like a spring.

  “Oh Jesus, Reese. And you have been drinking. I knew it! This is what you decided to do in the middle of the night instead of going to bed with me? You walked right by me. Did you know that? Did you even see me?” Owen leaned over Reese’s keyboard and picked up the nearly empty bottle of whiskey. “Really?”

  That was the last straw. Suddenly, wound too tightly, Reese bolted out of his chair and emotion shot from him as if fired from a cannon. “Get the hell out! How many times do I have to tell you,
I’m working, dammit! I’m working!”

  They stared at each other for what felt like an eternity, Reese angry and tense and Owen’s eyes dark and emotional. Finally, Owen broke it off and stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind him.

  Owen… slammed the door. Reese shoved his hands into his hair and pulled. That outburst was wrong and he knew it, and Owen was rightfully angry. Owen had just slammed the fucking door. Owen. Fuck.

  “Fuck!” he shouted.

  He picked up his laptop and flung it across the office. It smashed into his mother’s antique glass-front bookcase, shattering the ornate doors. The bookcase rocked back with the impact and then forward again, the contents of the shelves spilling to the floor as it fell and landed inches from Reese’s feet.

  Eyes wide, Reese stared at the wreckage of the delicate bookcase that his mother had loved so much. He was horrified. He was terrified. Oh God, he had to stop Owen. He looked at the closed office door and tore it open, staggering into the hall. “Owen?”

  The apartment was silent. “Owen? Owen! No! No, no, no, please, no.”

  Not again.

  Reese ran to the front door and looked out into the hall. “Oh God.”

  The hall was empty.

  Chapter XIX

  HE’D CALLED and called. Owen must have turned his phone off.

  Finally, he had no idea how long after Owen had left, Reese had forced himself into a shower and then into the kitchen. He’d choked down a peanut butter sandwich and some milk, and then he’d called Owen’s cell phone again.

  Not surprisingly, Owen didn’t pick up.

  After that he’d fallen asleep on the couch and when he woke he was disoriented, and honestly embarrassed that he couldn’t figure out what time it was, or what day for that matter. He’d called Owen again, but, again, Owen hadn’t answered.

  He picked up the bottle of whiskey that Owen had taken off his desk, taken away from him like Reese was a child. Reese had been wrong on so many levels, but that made him angry. Yes, he’d had a drink. But the fucking bottle was already close to empty when Reese brought it into his office. There was certainly no denying that he had some real issues, but alcohol was not one of them.