by M. Pierce
“Nah, I’ve got nothing. I might go to yoga. There’s a class at seven.”
“Don’t forget your little bird mat.”
I grinned and rubbed my neck.
“Yeah, can’t forget the mat. I dunno if I’ll really go.”
“Make yourself go. You’ll feel better.”
I paused by the window, my hand on the curtain.
“How do you know I’m not feeling good?”
“I know, Hannah. I know you like I know my own self.”
“How come I don’t know you like that?” I remembered the memorial guests relating stories about Matt. I remembered Nate discussing Matt’s faith. I even remembered the laughter I heard as I hid in Nate’s basement, which seemed to mock me for being an outsider. Outside of the mystery of the man I loved.
“You do, Hannah. You know me. Let’s not say good-bye. Say you’ll see me soon.”
“I’ll see you soon,” I said.
“So soon. I love you, Hannah.”
Matt hung up first. I tossed the phone onto the bed, but I picked it up immediately and returned it to the wall safe in the closet. Don’t leave this lying around, Matt told me the day he came home with two prepaid cells. Keep the minute cards in the safe too. No one can see these things. And we can’t use them all the time; we can’t talk every day. It’s too risky.
How did he know all that stuff?
Sometimes, I got a feeling that Matt had contemplated vanishing before.
I changed into my yoga pants and workout top.
I set my yoga mat and water bottle by the door.
Music. I needed music, or TV or maybe a movie. I needed noise and distraction—which reminded me.
I unpacked my laptop and booted it up. I sat cross-legged on the bed as I waited for iTunes to load.
Then, with a smile on my lips, I deleted every Goldengrove song in my library. Good-bye, Seth Sky, I thought.
I never expected to see him again, and I resented the swirl of confusion I felt when I thought about him. It was Matt I loved. Matt I wanted. I didn’t need anything from his dark-haired, cynical brother.
Chapter 14
MATT
Hannah sat on our bed, angled away from me. Her shoulders moved with quiet sobs. The room was dark, and I could just make out the silvery satin of her nightie.
“Hannah?” I reached for her. “Baby, why are you crying?”
“I miss you,” she whispered.
“Bird, I’m right here.”
“You’re not. You don’t want to be.”
Something tightened inside me. I didn’t want to be with Hannah?
“You’re the one who won’t run away with me,” I said. “You won’t leave Denver … won’t leave your life. You don’t want to be with me.”
“Matt … I miss you. Where are you?”
With that, Hannah slipped off the bed and rushed out of the room. I watched, mesmerized, as her little nightie shifted around her body, as her curls fanned across her back, and she disappeared out the bedroom door.
“Hannah!” I darted after her.
I reached the hallway in time to see her rounding the corner into the kitchen.
I heard the condo door opening.
When I got there, I found the door hanging open and no Hannah.
“Hannah!” I called. “Where the hell are you going?”
Barefoot, I dashed down the complex stairs and out into the Denver night. A wall of cold air crashed into me. Improbably, a crowd filled the street—masses of strangers milling and laughing. I glimpsed Hannah’s body vanishing into the mob.
Silver satin. Pale skin. Dark, thick, heavy hair.
Mine. Mine. Mine.
“Hannah!” I lunged after her. A commanding anger filled my voice. “Hannah, get back here!” The crowd on the street closed around me. Hannah slipped away effortlessly; I slammed into an immovable jam of bodies.
“M. Pierce!” someone shouted.
“Matt! Matthew Sky!” said another.
Strange hands touched me. Eyes staring. Voices rising.
“Hannah!” I roared. “Hannah!”
My eyes flared open.
I lay alone in the cabin bedroom, my arm outstretched and hand grasping air. Fuck. My heart pounded in my ears.
Was I screaming Hannah’s name? My throat was raw.
I sat up and checked the time. Seven at night. My cell and Jack Reacher novel lay at my side. I must have dozed after getting off with Hannah.
When I collected my breath, I forced myself out of bed and pulled on jeans. The wind had picked up. It gusted against the cabin—a lonely, howling sound—and I felt hollow.
I hardly needed to analyze my dream. I knew what it meant.
It meant that Hannah wasn’t mine, not truly, and that my best efforts to bring her to me were failing. It also meant that I couldn’t live without her, no matter what I’d thought. Wanting Hannah plagued me all day. Now it invaded my dreams.
And it wasn’t enough, getting off miles apart. It wouldn’t be enough, seeing her this weekend. I needed her with me—always.
That evening, I tried to get back into my writing, but the scene was closed to me. I flipped to a clean page and sketched Hannah.
I checked my phone periodically.
“Melanie, Melanie.” I sighed. “Where the fuck are you?”
She’d better be busy erasing Night Owl from the Internet—at least insofar as she could. I doubted Shapiro and Nate would go after torrents and forum posts. No e-book, no case.
I messed with my sketch a little more, and then, hurriedly, as if I could convince myself that I wasn’t doing it, I keyed in a Google search: Night Owl by W. Pierce.
I hit Enter.
The search results loaded with agonizing slowness. Agonizing because I had plenty of time to realize I was making a mistake. Sure, I read news and reviews of my other books, but Night Owl wasn’t like my other books.
Night Owl was about Hannah and me. It was precious.
Google found four hundred thousand results. I smirked and scrolled down, my eyes jumping from one link to the next. I saw Facebook pages, fan pages, forum posts, blog reviews, and URLs from Goodreads, Amazon, the iBookstore, Barnes & Noble. Damn …
And there was a link to the e-book, which wasn’t supposed to exist. I clicked it. Still available, still ninety-nine cents. I balked. Night Owl was number thirty-five on the digital bestseller list. It had six hundred reviews and a 4.6-star average rating.
My cursor hovered over the one-star reviews. I clicked.
The first was a refund request with “pornographic quotes.”
TERRIBLE, said another reviewer. Pure porn, no story!
The negative reviews went on like that, attacking my plot, my writing, my person. I was mentally disturbed. I was single-handedly sending women back to the Dark Ages.
By the time I got to the last one-star review, my hands were shaking.
“Hannah,” I said aloud. Her name was a talisman.
I forced myself to read the last review. I always twist the knife.
Don’t waste your money, it said. Matt is a psycho and Hannah is nothing but a slut.
My eyes widened.
Oh, it was one thing for me to call Hannah a slut. She was my slut. She was a slut for me. When we went mad together, when she got on her knees … only I called Hannah “slut.”
But this? This was a backhanded slap—a stranger calling my lover a whore.
I slammed my laptop shut. I nearly snapped my phone in two as I opened it.
When I rose, my chair tipped over with a crash. I found Mel’s number in my recent calls. “Answer,” I snarled as soon as I hit Send. “Answer!”
“Hello?”
At the sound of Mel’s voice, my anger erupted.
“Take it down, you bitch!” I snarled. “I told you to take it down. Take it down. Take that fucking book off the Internet now. Now!” Flecks of saliva wet my lips.
“I did!” Melanie’s voice was tiny.
“You
. Did. Not.” I spat the words into the phone. The heat of my rage scalded my throat.
“Calm down,” Mel bleated. “It takes—it can take up to t-two days for the—”
“No!” I shouted over the small voice on the phone. “Don’t you try to fucking handle me! You have twelve hours—twelve fucking hours—”
My threat broke into silence. Twelve hours, or else what?
I ended the call.
My phone began to ring. It was Mel. I ended the call. It rang again. I hit End. Again, then again. Ring … end call, ring … end call.
I set the volume to mute.
The screen lit up. I ended the call. It lit again. She called again. Again and again, and I couldn’t walk away. Leave me alone!
I threw down the phone, which bounced off the floor with an unsatisfying pop. I drove my heel into it. The plastic plates snapped.
Implausibly, the mangled phone lit up. The cracked screen glowed with a new call.
I smashed my foot into it. I did it again.
Again, the frame cracking, fragments skittering across the floor. Shards of metal stabbed at my sole, but it didn’t hurt enough to make me stop. A mountain lion dragged my body off Longs Peak. That didn’t hurt enough to make me stop. I was living apart from the only woman I wanted. That didn’t hurt enough to make me stop.
When the phone was a shapeless mosaic of debris, I turned to the chair. I lifted it easily and swung it against the wall. I did it because I could, because I was as strong as any animal. A psycho, they called me. They were right. They were wrong. They couldn’t come close to my fire. They couldn’t touch my heart.
Chapter 15
HANNAH
When I strolled into work on Monday morning, I found my boss, Pam, dressed in a winter white skirt suit. I was wearing a too-bright blue turtleneck and dress slacks. Our outfits shouted: Not in mourning! I suppressed a grin.
Really, I was getting tired of being treated like a porcelain doll. The sad eyes, the lingering hugs, the artless dodges of Matt-related topics drove me crazy.
Maybe Pam knew the feeling.
“Come in here,” she called from her office to mine. “No, wait, stay there. One moment.” She typed and swore at her mouse. “There. Check your e-mail.”
Pam grinned and peered at me over her glasses.
I opened my work e-mail. A hideous number of queries loaded—my new duties included reading queries—and at the top was an e-mail from Pam: SURROGATE JACKET.
My heart skipped.
I opened the e-mail and then the attachment.
Pam moved to lurk in the doorway.
“Knopf sent it over this morning,” she said.
I took my first look at the book jacket for The Surrogate, Matt’s last novel. The title, in unadorned white type, hung on a backdrop of stars. Tall towers or tree trunks lined the sky like bars. Behind the bars, a dark figure. Visible and invisible. The surrogate. Matthew Sky.
Matt’s pen name was a splash of red, front and center. M. PIERCE. No blurbs busied the cover, no needless accolades announcing that Pierce was a bestseller everywhere.
I let out the breath I was holding.
“Beautiful,” I said.
“Yes.” Pam came to stand behind me and we admired the jacket in silence. After a time, she said, “This is the book jacket everyone will remember this year.”
I knew she was right.
I blinked rapidly to keep back tears.
Sometimes, I almost believed my own act.
“Well, it looks like you have your work cut out for you, Hannah.” Pam nodded at my in-box, then went clicking out of my office and closed the door.
The workday flew by. I had a sandwich delivered for lunch so that I could stay in my warm office. Besides, I was having fun. I worked at the center of a world I loved—the world of publishing—and I believed in the old romance of book writing, bookmaking, and bookselling.
I bundled up and left the office at six. I brought two manuscripts home with me.
My thoughts turned to the empty condo, and instead of driving home, I headed to Cherry Creek for a little retail therapy.
The mall was surprisingly busy. I smiled as I wandered through Macy’s and into the open shopping center. This almost made me feel less lonely. Almost …
I paused in front of Fragrance Hut and glanced at the rows of perfume and cologne. Hm. I should buy something for Matt. Something for … us.
I hesitated outside Victoria’s Secret. The windows displayed super-lean, leggy mannequins in getups that probably required instruction manuals. I swallowed and looked closer. Well, Matt did like me in lingerie …
I headed into the store, a light blush warming my face. The simple act of choosing lingerie to wear for Matt was a turn-on.
I drifted around the tables, trailing my fingers over satin and lace, bustiers and corsets. The more risqué lingerie hung in the back. I picked out a delicate black baby doll and held it up for inspection. It was tiny, and it was all sheer lace. I draped it over my arm. Perfect. What else?
As I shopped, I began to feel more daring. Matt would flip when he saw me in this stuff. I chose a form-fitting garter slip with polka dots, ruffles, and matching thigh-highs. I bought mesh panties with a bow on the back and a slip with a bustle that would barely cover my ass.
I left the store with a smile on my face.
I made a shopping trip each evening after work, ticking off items on a list I titled “Weekend Getaway.” Matt’s list-making habit had rubbed off on me.
I stocked up on canned foods and frozen meals for Matt. I bought a big cooler, a new first aid kit, two flashlights and a wholesale-sized pack of batteries, a can of bear spray, camping rations, antibiotic ointment, even long underwear.
And that was when I made myself stop. I was standing in Cabela’s with the underwear removed from its package because I wanted to check the length. I unfurled the scrunched, withered white legs, and I began to giggle. My giggles turned to laughter, which turned to louder laughter. Louder laughter turned to fitful howls.
I couldn’t stop, even when other customers began glancing at me. Oh … my God … what was I doing? My worry for Matt was somehow manifesting as thermal underwear.
I bought the long underwear because I knew Matt would get a kick out of it.
It was Thursday. Enough is enough, I told myself. My pile of Matt supplies looked like Y2K prep plus lingerie. Everything was laid out on the living room floor. Laurence eyed me as I added the thermal underwear to the pile.
“I know,” I said, holding up my hands. “I’m done. Seriously.”
On a whim, I flicked on the Christmas tree lights. They winked merrily and lit the condo white and blue. I sighed.
Yeah, it was definitely time to take down this tree … so why couldn’t I?
In our haste to plan and execute Matt’s disappearance, Matt and I forgot all about the holiday. Two presents sat under the tree, one from Matt to me, one from me to Matt.
He’d wrapped mine in gold paper with black ribbon. I shook the small box. Hm.
“What do you think?” I said to Laurence. He flicked an ear. I grinned and moved both gifts into my suitcase.
Chapter 16
MATT
The chair listed left a little. I tilted my head. Good enough.
It was broken at three joints, where two legs met the seat and again where a spindle fit into the top rail. Really, I could have done worse.
Duct tape formed a lumpy seal around the joints. I set the chair in a corner.
“It was like that when I got here,” I said. I frowned. No, no. I should sound more offhanded. I tried a little laugh and eyed the chair as though seeing it for the first time. “Oh, that? No idea. Kevin is weird.”
I even rehearsed the truth.
“The chair? No big deal. I lost it after I read some bad reviews. Oh, and I crushed my phone with my bare foot because I’m manly like that. Ha…”
On second thought, I carried the chair to the cellar. Out of sight, out o
f mind.
I swept the fragments of my TracFone into a dustpan.
I would buy another phone in town and give Hannah the number when she arrived. I doubted she would call between now and then. We kept communication to a minimum.
I replaced the desk chair with a kitchen chair and scooted closer to my computer.
“Okay, Mel,” I said, opening my laptop, “let’s see the damage.”
A new e-mail announced three private messages on the forum. This poor fucking girl. I skimmed the messages, all from Melanie, all apologies.
I sent a reply.
SUBJECT: “Matt is a tool”
by nightowl on Sunday, February 9, 2014
Hi, Mel,
Thanks for your messages.
I’m the one who needs to apologize. I was an out-of-control asshole on the phone. I am a “tool” and a “psycho” according to customers who should know. And they want their money back. (I’m laughing.)
Can you guess what happened here? Yes, I decided to read the Night Owl reviews. Just the one-star reviews. Fuck me. I wigged out and called you. You know the rest.
Of course you forgive me because I’m charismatic and winning.
—M
P.S. You should still remove the book before my brother sues your ass.
P.P.S. I broke my phone. I’ll send you my new number soon.
Mel’s reply was waiting in my forum in-box the following morning.
She forgave me, of course, and iterated that I was “an out-of-control asshole on the phone (and probably off it, too).” I laughed as I read.
“The book is off Amazon, B&N, and Smashwords,” she wrote. “I like my ass and don’t want it sued.” She said she understood my anger. She said she was “waiting for it, actually.”
My grin faded as I read the last line of Mel’s message:
So, Night Owl is no more. What now?
I pondered the question: What now?
I had to admit, I liked this Melanie chick. She had guts and wit. And she was straight-up insane, so we had something in common.
Plus, it was nice to have someone to chat with occasionally. No man is a fucking island.
I typed, “I told you, I’ll give you my new phone number soon. I pulverized my phone after you called fifty times and activated man mode.”