Unwanted Girl

by M. K. Schiller

  “Why do you write under an alias?”

  He stood, holding his hand out to assist her. He opened a hall closet and retrieved a broom and dustpan. “For a few reasons. My first book was under my real name, and it’s very different from the fifteen Max Montero books. My agent figured it would be a good idea to use a penname. Once readers get to know an author, they have certain expectations of their work, and we didn’t want to disappoint them.” Nick scooped up the glass, walked back to the kitchen, and deposited it in the bin. He returned with fresh water for Shyla, but this time it was in a plastic bottle. “We shouldn’t chance it again,” he said with a wink.

  “That’s probably wise.”

  “Anyway, I decided I liked the other name, and it gives me a bit of anonymity.”

  “What was your first book about?”

  Shyla started clearing the table, but he took over, gesturing for her to sit. She flopped on the dining room chair, playing with her scarf, happy to have something to occupy her hands.

  “My grandfather’s life.”

  “Like a biography?”

  “Sort of. He didn’t relay his whole life story, but he gave me some interesting snippets. I pasted enough together to write the book.”

  “He must be very special.”

  “He was,” he said in a low voice.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “He had a good life.” Nick glanced at a picture on the wall. “He was kind of a bastard….but a loveable one.” Nick’s blue eyes grew wistful. “He used to have all these grampisms or grumpisms, depending on how you looked at it. He would give me advice, but it always fell a little short of its mark. Like he’d say, ‘Nicky, it’s true you can be anything you want to be in this country…but for fuck’s sake, make sure whatever you choose, you aim for rich.’” Nick’s voice had turned gruffer when he quoted his grandfather.

  “It sounds like you were close to him.”

  “He raised me.” Nick took the seat across from her again. She forced herself not to stare at his ripped jeans or bare feet. Why was that appealing?

  “What happened to your parents?” she asked, folding a paper napkin into a tight square.

  “I don’t have any,” he said without emotion.

  “I’m sorry for your loss.”

  “I don’t mean to lead you astray. My parents are very much alive, but their existence has no bearing on mine.”

  “I understand,” she said, although she didn’t. She wondered if she should take her leave now that her constant curiosity had ruined the mood.

  “You do?”

  “Not really.”

  He sucked in a deep breath. “I was four when my dad left. I’ve seen him maybe a dozen times since then. All of those visits involved monetary requests…on his part. Another reason I chose an alias.”

  “That’s awful.”

  A flicker of a frown eased into a dismissive shrug. “It could be worse.”

  “Your mother?”

  “She resented being saddled with a kid. She’d take off for weeks at a time, depositing me with Gramps. The last time was when I was eight. He told her not to come back again.” Nick laughed cynically. “The one time she listened to him.”

  Shyla wanted to find some words of comfort, but nothing came to her. There didn’t seem to be much else to say, but Nick didn’t appear to need a response. “Wow, this turned into a therapy session, didn’t it? Would you believe I never talk about this stuff, or have you already categorized me as a wallowing prick?”

  “I would believe you with no doubts. I shouldn’t have asked so many personal questions.”

  “Inquiring about someone’s parents isn’t a personal question…not usually, but you can ask me anything.”

  Her heart wrenched for him, but she was grateful for the warmth of his words. “Your grandfather must have been proud of you.”

  “I finished the book right before he died. He was the first one who read it. He cried. He said it was like his life had a purpose. I’ve been lucky enough to receive many accolades in my career, but the statement from Gramps, by far, was my greatest moment as a writer.”

  “I would love to read that book.”

  Nick strode over to the bookcase. He jumped on the ladder, skipping several rungs, and then leaned his body until the whole structure slid effortlessly to the other side of the long shelf.

  She tensed at the carefree, almost reckless way he carried himself. “Be careful.”

  “I do this all the time.”

  He reached for a book on the top without looking, and then jumped off. He walked over to her and deposited the small hardcover in her lap. “Here you go.”

  “You’re lending it to me?” She traced the embossed cover that featured a black and white deck of playing cards. She cleared her throat and gripped her fingers on the novel with enough force to cause her knuckles to crack.

  “You won’t find it in a bookstore anymore. It did well critically, but it was no commercial success. You can keep it.”

  “I couldn’t.”

  “I insist. I have other copies. Besides, you can’t hate my work if you haven’t been exposed to all of it.”

  “Thank you. I can’t wait to read this.” She held up the small book with a surprisingly steady hand. “Irish Hold’em?”

  “Yeah, it’s a play on Texas Hold’em, my grandfather’s favorite game. He was a gambler. He didn’t win much, and it’s probably the reason we were always broke, but he sure as hell loved the game. He’d take me with him when I was younger.”

  “To the casino?”

  Nick shook his head. “He didn’t like casinos. These were underground games. Gramps knew it wasn’t the right place for a kid, but he also couldn’t resist the lure of a poker table. We’d go to the library first where I could check out all the books I wanted. The kicker was I had to read them the same day. I guess that’s where my love for reading started. Because in those hours in smoky pool halls, while old men played cards, I was able to go to a different place and have adventures of my own.”

  “Is that when you came up with Max Montero?”

  “Yeah, I suppose it was,” he said, as if realizing it himself. “I had this imaginary friend as a kid. I guess it’s not uncommon, but my friend wasn’t exactly normal. He drank hard liquor, swore, and had some crazy adventures. Eventually, he developed into Max Montero.”

  “I’ve always wondered how writers come up with their ideas.”

  “I can only speak for my own methods. You know why people like Max? Well, besides present company?”

  “Tell me.”

  “He appeals to everyone. Men enjoy the action-adventure components and his badass personality. Women appreciate a man who’s both a voracious lover and a lovable jerk.”

  “You really think women like that?” she asked, genuinely curious. After all, it was exactly what she disliked about the character.

  “Women are compassionate and kind. They have this innate need to fix broken when they see it. And Max Montero is all kinds of broken.”

  Shyla had a feeling Nick Dorsey was “all kinds of broken” too, but she kept the thought to herself. “I see.”

  “Anyway, you’ll be happy to know Max Montero is done with his kickass life and panty-dropping adventures.”

  “What? You killed him off?” she gasped.

  “No, he has a strong fan base, and readers would hate me if anything untoward happened to him. He’s simply going away.”

  “Why would you stop if the books are successful?”

  “It appears my imaginary friend has abandoned me.”

  Shyla blinked her eyes in confusion.

  “He used to talk to me. Shit, that makes me sound crazy.”

  “You have writer’s block?”

  “Yes.”

  “Does it hurt?”

  His laugh held little joy. “No, it just feels empty, frustrating, listless…unproductive…lazy. I guess those are the right adjectives.”

  “Maybe you just need some inspiration
,” she offered, part statement and question.

  “A muse would be welcome.” He lifted a brow suggestively.

  Shyla inhaled a deep breath, attempting to recover her composure before he managed to crumple it once more. “Where would you ever find one?”

  “You seem like a qualified candidate.”

  She stood and started backing toward the doorway. “I should go.”

  He stood, but remained rooted in the spot, shoving his hands in pocket. “Did I make you uncomfortable?”

  “Not at all. It…it’s late. Thank you for this,” she said, holding up the book. “I can’t wait to start it. And thank you for tonight.”

  “It’s no big deal.”

  “It is…or at least it was to me.”

  He helped her with her coat. She took swift steps toward the door, clutching the book against her chest, hoping it would mask the harsh sounds of her beating heart.

  “Shyla,” he called, leaning against the doorjamb, just as she was once again on the outside of his home. Perhaps the side she belonged on.

  She pivoted toward him.

  His lips turned up in a tight smile as he dragged a hand across his thick hair. “If I ordered a sandwich tomorrow, would you deliver it?”

  There was something endearing in the way he’d asked. Her answer came automatically without any forethought. “Of course, I’m your delivery girl.”

  “Would you stay and eat with me?” The hope in his voice surprised her.

  “If you wish.”

  “Do you wish?”

  She did wish, more than she had wished for anything in a very long time. “I would like that very much.”

  “I’ll see you tomorrow night then.” He took out his wallet and handed her another bill.

  “You already paid me.”

  “It’s later than usual. Take a cab back to the campus tonight.”

  “I don’t have far to go.”

  “It’s not the distance I’m worried about. I’d rather your pepper spray remain unused.”

  She swallowed back a tiny lump. “I’ll take a cab, but I can pay for it myself.”

  He opened her palm, placed the bill inside, and closed her fingers around it. “That’s not the point.” There was something in his stance that deterred her from quarrelling. Not to mention his proximity made the simple task of articulation difficult. She whiffed his intoxicating scent, clean and soapy, yet masculine.

  “Thank you.”

  “Be safe, Shyla.”

  Chapter 5

  Nick’s day followed the usual sequence. A morning jog with a stop at the flower shop, followed by a visit to the cemetery, repeating his apologies to a girl who could never answer back. A mid-morning addiction meeting complete with robust coffee and painful stories. He spent the remainder of the day gawking at the damn blinking cursor, mocking him with its slow, shameless dance. Today was different, though. Not in his habits, but definitely in his demeanor. He was excited…to see her again.

  He disapproved of his own enthusiasm. He shouldn’t like her this much. It was dangerous for him. Her name was appropriate because she was shy, but at the same time opinionated, perhaps even brash. Oh, and she did have goddess-like qualities. She had a sense of humor, and she listened to him with rapt attention. He listened to her, too. In fact, her lyrical voice made his dick jerk, which in turn made him feel like a jerk, but hell, that part of his anatomy had a mind of its own. Interestingly, it had been inactive for a very long time. It was good to know, unlike his career, his dick wasn’t dead.

  She arrived on time, wearing her large trench coat and an even baggier blue sweater underneath. She certainly didn’t dress to impress, which was almost a sin in this city. Yet, she managed to be sexy nonetheless.

  “Hello, Shyla,” he said, gesturing her inside.

  “Nick,” she greeted.

  She placed the paper bag on the table. Nick helped her with her coat and took her knapsack, and just like the night before, she seemed surprised by his small gesture. His hand twitched slightly, aching to tuck the loose strand of hair behind her ear, but he refrained.

  She cupped her hand to her mouth, her grin transforming into a long yawn.

  “Tired?”

  “Very much so, and it’s your fault, Nick Dorsey.”

  “My fault?”

  She reached into the knapsack and pulled out his book. “I read this last night. I stayed up very late, but it was worth it. I loved it.”

  Nick tried to subdue his grin, but couldn’t help it. The fact she liked something of his meant a great deal, especially coming from such a harsh critic.

  “I’m glad you enjoyed it.” And relieved, too.

  “It’s amazing, Nick.”

  “Stop swelling my ego.” Among other things.

  “I have to get this out. The fact you can get a girl from rural India to sympathize with an Irish poker player from New Jersey…well, that’s pretty special. I think that’s what a good book does. It brings us together as people no matter how different we are, because in the end, the human experience connects us.”

  Nick swallowed as he took in her words. A sense of gratitude filled him, but he wasn’t sure why. “I’m humbled by your description.”

  She handed the hardcover back to him.

  He held his hands up. “I told you to keep it.”

  “I plan to. I was hoping you would autograph it.”

  “Of course.” He walked over to his desk and grabbed a pen. “Would you like something to drink?”

  “I bought drinks this time.”

  He took his time autographing the copy for her. By the time he handed it back, she’d set up the table for them. She handed him his drink.

  “Juice boxes? Is this a joke?” The confused look on her face made it quite clear she wasn’t joking. “I haven’t had one of these since preschool.”

  “I know it’s childish, but I love them. I thought you might like one, too. They actually do taste like candy.”

  God, she was so fucking innocent. How would she survive in this city? He shook the ridiculous question out of his head as soon as it entered. She had survived, and it was a miracle in some ways. Not because she had—naive girl versus the big, bad city wasn’t a unique story. That she survived with her innocence intact was the true miracle.

  Nick laughed, taking one of the small boxes with its colorful design and tiny straw. She misunderstood his hesitation because she took the straw, freed it from the wrapper, and punctured the tiny dot at the top of the bright yellow box.

  “Thank you.” He sipped, wincing at the artificial sweetness.

  “You’re most welcome. He had such an interesting life, your grandfather.”

  “Yeah, he had some good stories.”

  “Enlisting in the Army at a young age and then losing his wife. And the relationship you two had. I can see how you both needed each other. How he influenced you.” She walked over to the wood frame hanging in a prominent place in his living room and ran her finger along the border. “These are the cards, right?”

  “The only royal flush ever dealt to him. When I graduated college, he gave them to me.” Nick deepened his voice, bringing out the Jersey of his Gramp’s accent. “He said, ‘All I have to give you are these cards I’ve been carrying in my back pocket for twenty years and some advice. You’re smart enough to know there is a sucker at every table, but I hope you’ll be wise enough to realize that sometimes it’s you. I never was.’”

  “Wise words.” Her smile widened when she opened the book and read his inscription. “To Shyla, a shining light in a dark world. Love Nick Dorsey.” She looked up at him, the dimple deepening with her grin. “It’s beautiful. Thank you.”

  “My pleasure.”

  “Do you think the world is dark?”

  “Sometimes.” He didn’t want to have this discussion with her. She had an ability to draw out his sorrow in a way that both relieved and surprised him. “But not tonight. I don’t want to talk about me anymore. Tell me about you.”
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  “What do you want to know?”

  He pulled out a chair for her. “Anything.” Everything.

  “My father is retired. My mother passed away a while ago.”

  “I’m sorry. That must be difficult.”

  “It was.”

  “Any brothers or sisters?” he asked.

  “I’m an only child.”

  “Me, too.”

  “That’s about it.”

  “I doubt it. Do you like NYU?”

  “It’s a great school. I’m here on a scholarship.”

  “Impressive. I graduated from there myself.”

  “Why didn’t you say so yesterday?”

  “I didn’t want to change the subject. Big surprise, I was an English Lit major.”

  “How come you didn’t move back to New Jersey?”

  Nick dropped the needle on the record player, hoping the music would defuse, possibly distract him from making an advance on her. Nick didn’t have a trace of an accent so he wondered for a split second how she knew he was a Jersey boy before it dawned on him that she knew a great deal about him from the book.

  “I love Jersey, but this city has an ebb and flow that’s conducive to writing.”

  “I get it.” She gestured to the turntable with its record spinning on the track. “Who is this?”

  Nick tilted his head. “Jimi Hendrix. The song’s called “All Along the Watchtower.”

  She moved her lips, silently repeating the name as if trying to commit it to memory. “Jimi Hendrix, I’ll have to remember the name.”

  He arched a brow. “You’ve never heard of Jimi Hendrix?”

  “No, but I like this.”

  “I have so much to teach you.”

  She chewed her sandwich slowly. “Are we friends then?”

  Nick hadn’t quantified it. To him, friendship was something natural that progressed without definition, but she needed reassurance. “Without a doubt. Why do you like the song?”

  “I can feel the words. Do you understand?”

  “I follow.”

  Her voice lowered to a whisper. “This has to be one of the most crowded places you can live. It’s exciting, exuberant, and exhausting. It’s easy to get lost, in every sense of the word.”

  “You’re right, but it’s also one of the few places where a guy like me and a girl like you can break bread and converse. What made you ask to come in last night?”