And with that thought, I turn off the lamp and settle beneath the sheets, wondering what kind of demons he's hiding. Because that is one thing all humans have in common—we all have some type of demon riding our backs. Some are just far worse than others.
I stare out of the windshield, my hands gripping the steering wheel. Janine went to have drinks while I was at the spa. One too many, she said as she tossed me her keys. I don’t like driving her car. The gas pedal is too sensitive, the steering wheel too tight. She’s put the radio on some pop station. Each song blaring through the speakers is more annoying than the last, and she's singing along. When she turns the volume down, I'm thankful, but I know that’s my cue to glance at her.
"How can you look that tired after a day at the spa?" Janine asks.
I shrug. "Didn't sleep well, I guess." And I didn't. I barely slept last night.
“Oh.” She points out of the window. “Turn in there. I’m starved.”
I put the blinker on and check the rearview before switching to the far right hand lane.
"So you said EA was camping out?" She laughs. "Him and his ways to find inspiration. Give me cable and a bottle of cab sav any day. That's plenty inspiration. Who needs dirt and the elements?"
I laugh, not because I find it funny but because I know that's how she meant it. "Yeah, I guess everyone has their thing."
"Like I said, he's a nice guy, just a little quirky."
"Yeah, well." I sigh. "The fact that he apologized speaks volumes."
"That it does. All these years and I think I've gotten one 'I'm sorry' that sounded more like a sneeze and a fart than anything."
I pull in between two pickup trucks, the bed of one filled with wire cages housing chickens.
"A burger okay? This place has the best burgers," she says, not really waiting on a response as she opens the car door and hops out.
"Yeah, fine." I'm speaking to myself because Janine's already heading toward the entrance of the tiny restaurant. I shut the door, lock the car, and jog to catch up with her.
"Don't let the looks of it scare you," she throws over her shoulder. "And don't look at the health rating either."
The tiny bell hung above the entrance jingles as a group of men dressed in blue coveralls open the door to the diner. They hold it for us, and we skirt around them. The thick smell of grease slaps me in the face the second we step inside, and my nose crinkles. I follow Janine to the counter and take a seat on one of the red stools.
A frazzled-looking waitress is sorting silverware behind the counter. She looks up and grins, revealing a gap-toothed smile. "Hey there, baby doll. Give me just a second, and I'll be right with ya."
Janine smiles and hands me a menu. "The Classic is the best, and the Coke floats here…" Her eyes roll back in her head, and she bites her lip. "They are amazing."
I skim over the menu, every so often eyeing the grill that looks as though it hasn't been cleaned in months. Janine rambles on and on about how good the food is, but I don't really believe her. And I definitely don't look for that little framed piece of paper with the health rating on it either.
After the waitress takes our order, Janine turns her chair toward me and smiles. "So that guy the other night, the one at the bar…"
I stare blankly at her. "Yeah?"
"You gonna meet up with him at any point?"
"What? No."
A group of men sitting across the counter from us are staring and whispering. Damn perverts.
"Why the hell not? Did you not get a good enough look at him?" She tosses her menu on the counter. "His muscles, his face—a man like that would ruin you."
"Uh, I'm not really… you know. I just…"
The waitress sets my soda in front of me, and I take the opportunity to glance away from Janine's look of utter shock. This entire socializing bullshit is not my forte.
"Miranda?"
I slowly turn to look at her. "Yep?"
"Any normal woman would climb that man like a tree. I mean, hell, what, are you a virgin or a Jehovah's Witness? Are you into girls or something?"
"No." I take another sip of my drink, staring at the piece of overly processed meat sizzling on the griddle.
"Okay, so I don't understand the problem here. He—" She places her hand on my shoulder and spins my chair to face her. "What was his name?"
"Jax."
"Sexy name." She smiles. "So Jax was obviously interested. You were interested. I mean, hell, you two were basically eye-fucking each other."
Covering my mouth, I choke on my drink. To be so crude, she sure as hell looks put together. "I'm not really a people person."
Janine rolls her eyes. "Yeah, yeah. I haven't met an author yet who is a 'people person.' Did you give him your number?"
"Hell no… he gave me his."
She arches one of her perfectly sculpted brows. "Interesting."
"What's interesting about that?"
"That he gave you his number instead of asking for yours." She shrugs. "I like to analyze people, figure out what makes them tick. That's the only reason I work well—huh, as well as one person can work—with EA. You have to learn what drives someone, you know, and the fact that he gave you his number, well, he put the damn ball in your court…" She smirks before lifting her drink to her lips. "Life is about experiences, Miranda. Do something that takes you out of your comfort zone."
"Oh." I laugh. "I assure you this entire ordeal with Edwin"—I wave my hand—"way, way out of my comfort zone."
Shooting a disapproving look at me, she shakes her head. "Just call the damn man, would you? One call. Ask him to have coffee with you or something." She turns back to the counter just as the waitress sets a plate filled with soggy fries and a gigantic burger in front of her. "Coffee and a quick fuck, is that too much for a woman to ask for?"
Easy enough for her to say. Not in a million-fucking-years would I call him. No matter how badly I may want to.
“People Are Strange”—Goodbye Nova
"You're fucking sick, man. I'm telling ya. A fuckin midget? Really?" Tommy asks, scratching his slightly balding head.
"A hot one? Yeah, what's there not to get here, man? You can spin them. Carry them around. There are all kinds of benefits," I say, my eyes counting the cracks in the sidewalk, my brain anywhere but engaged in this ridiculous conversation. If I had known my comment after passing a shop with a midget stripper billfold in the window would've led to this conversation, I would've kept my mouth shut.
A migraine is rocking my skull right now, and my aviators do little to keep the noon sun from making matters worse. Nightmares kept me up most of the night. The kind that make you feel like you’re right there in it. Living and breathing the nightmare, fighting to get out. I sat up and drank and stared blankly at some shitty TV rerun until the sun came through the shades.
Cruising Tenth Street for prostitutes with my chatty partner is not how I want to spend my day.
"You just wanna see them tiny carnie hands around your junk so it makes you feel like I do every day." He laughs heartily, pulling at his junk then putting both hands to his gut. With each bit of laughter, jolts of pain tear through my brain.
"Fuck, Tommy, can you keep it down? I'm fucking dying over here."
"Yeah, you don't look so good. Long night?" he asks, a pep in his step that makes me hate his ass right about now.
"Yeah."
"Nightmares and shit again?"
"Don't you know it," I say with a bland tone as I make the turn down an alley peppered with half-clothed prostitutes.
A few of them scatter, trying their best to act inconspicuous. One drops what's obviously a joint and follows them.
"C'mon now, ladies. No one’s in trouble here. We just wanna talk," Tommy calls.
"Ain't nobody wanna talk to you, pig!" one of them yells, leaning nonchalantly against the brick wall. Her bleached-blond hair is in pigtails, and a tiny black mini skirt hugs her tight ass.
Tommy just laughs as we approach her. He l
ooks over at me. "Well, ain't she sweet, partner?" He looks back over at her. "You on your period or something, sweetheart?"
She flips us both the bird before slinking around the corner, disappearing into some old shop.
“They’re not gonna talk to us,” I say as I turn toward Tommy, whose attention has been drawn to the hot dog stand on the corner.
"Partner…" he says without looking. "Fucking hot dog time."
I follow him as he's guided by his gut to the rickety little cart with a white-and-yellow striped umbrella. The man behind the cart is busy slopping wet hot dogs onto buns. He opens one of the containers, and the smell of chili wafts up in a cloud of steam.
"He’s picking up speed. Killing faster than he used to." I mumble more to myself than to Tommy as he places his order.
"He’s agitated, all right.” He hands a wad of cash to the vendor before taking the hot dog and immediately burying it inside his mouth. "Did you see the mouth on that cunt…" He shakes his head, his mouth full of food. “I would have throttled that one real good.”
I pass him a look of complete disgust, but it goes unnoticed. "Finish. Chewing. Please."
But he just laughs, bits of hot dog escaping his mouth. That’s about the time I decide to walk away. I hear him shuffling behind me as I cross the street, and I roll my eyes as he grunts through the last of the hot dog. He catches up, wiping grease from his face with his suit jacket, just as my phone rings.
I pull it from my pocket and answer the call. "Hello?"
"Um, is this, uh, Jax?" a familiar voice asks.
"This is him. May I ask who's calling?"
There's a pause before the woman clears her throat. "Miranda. I, uh… met you in that bar the other night…"
Now I’m left without words. I know exactly who she is, though I didn't spend nearly enough time with her, because she hasn't left my mind in the day since I met her. I was hoping she'd call, but I surely wasn't expecting it.
"Miranda? Yes, of course. Sorry, I wasn't really sure if you'd call or not." I swallow hard, fighting back the nerves. "I'm glad you did though."
"Yeah, I don't really do stuff like this and I—" There's a rustle over the line, and I can make out her whispering to someone. "Fine, Janine," Miranda says with a groan. "Look, I'm in Asheville. Do you want to have coffee or something?"
Without a second’s thought, I respond, "Off Fletcher and Richter Streets. There's a little coffee joint down there. It's right by the baseball stadium. Would that work?"
"Yeah. Sure. Um, what time?"
"I gotta drop my partner off at the station. Give me fifteen?" I ask, pushing Tommy away as he's started eavesdropping.
"Yep. See you there."
"I look forward to it," I say before hanging up. Without my even realizing it’s happened, a shit-eating grin has taken up my face.
“What the fuck was that?” Tommy asks, a suspicious look in his eyes.
“Don’t you worry about it, fucker. C’mon, let’s go.”
She's already in the diner when I walk in, seated at the counter with her back to the door and a coffee in her hands. For a fleeting moment, I think about turning around and hitting the liquor store, maybe grabbing some last-minute liquid courage. Instead, I muster up the natural stuff and work my way toward her. When I tap on her shoulder, her head turns.
"Hey, Miranda, sorry I'm a little late. Traffic here can be a pain."
She smiles. "It's fine."
I notice her foot bobbing up and down, a lip between her teeth. She looks more settled today, more relaxed, like whatever was bothering her the other day has been lifted. I like that a lot. She was beautiful when she was sad, but with just a little more light in her eyes, it takes my best not to be a bumbling asshole.
When I realize that I've been standing entirely too long, I put up a palm and motion to the stool beside her. "Mind if I take a seat?"
"Nope." She smiles—just barely—nodding at the stool, and I sit before the nerves take my legs completely out from under me.
I motion to the waitress for a coffee of my own then redirect my attention to Miranda, though her rich hazel eyes are scanning the countertop.
"So…" Words are lost to me. I haven't been on a date, or whatever the hell this is, for a long time. And certainly not sober. I’ve almost forgotten how the fuck to do it. Fucking say something, man! "I gotta say, you were the last person I was expecting on the other end of that call. And you even ignored the three-day rule. Nice!" I say as playfully as I can, though I probably come off sounding more like a total jackass.
She shrugs. "Yeah… something like that.” She brings the coffee cup to her lips, her gaze dropping to the grease-stained floor.
She's so short with me that I can't tell if she's not into me or just quiet. I remind myself that she probably wouldn't have called if it were the former as my sweaty hands fumble with a fresh cup of coffee.
"How much longer do you have here?" I ask.
Her eyes lift back to mine. "A few weeks. But, um, I'm not actually staying here, you know, in Asheville."
"Oh, that's right. So where about are you? I've lived here in North Carolina my whole life."
"In the middle of East-Budda-Fuck up in the mountains. About fifty miles outside of town, I guess. Some place called Devil's Hatchet. Fitting place for an author, huh?"
My eyes go wide, the coffee mug settling back on the counter. There's only one author anyone knows up in those mountains, and he happens to be one of my favorites. "Wait a second. EA Mercer lives up that way. And you said you were here for writing research. So…"
She cracks a grin. "You know the name?"
I nod. "Who doesn't? The guy is a genius. Detective Bryce Hernandez from his Bloodlust series is the reason I became a cop."
"No kidding? I love the gruesome way he describes those murder scenes…" She shudders a little. "Unbelievable."
"I can definitely appreciate his ability to make you feel like you're right there in the story, but it's the character development that I've always loved the most. He has the most ruthless villains. Tragic, unapologetic heroes. It's the best."
"I love the tragic heroes. Fuck all that flowery bullshit other people write. That’s not life. His stuff is raw and gritty and just…" She gets lost in her words and bites her lip, her eyes locking with mine.
I laugh, knowing exactly what she's talking about and appreciating the commonality. "Let me tell ya… there's only one other big-time author anywhere close to here, and his name is Nicholas Sparks." Her face wrinkles with disdain, and I grin. "So I know all about that flowery crap. No fucking thanks."
She laughs, and fuck, she's adorable when she does. "Have you ever met him?"
"No, never have. Actually, that’s the thing. No one’s really met him. The stories around Asheville about EA Mercer are abundant, though they’re all just hearsay. No one’s ever really seen the guy…kind of a hermit, I guess." I laugh. "So wait, you said you're here for writing research… tell me you're not trying to meet the guy. I'm not trying to discourage you here, but he's literally a ghost. I mean, he has an assistant who does everything for him, right down to his grocery shopping, and from what I’ve heard, all she does is bitch about what an asshole her boss is."
"Oh, well"—she arches a brow—"while he is a literary genius, he absolutely has his moments where he's a big-time dick." She shakes her head. "He means well, I think, just has a very short fuse."
My body stiffens and eyebrows rise. "No way. You're fucking with me, right?"
"What? That he's a huge dick? No." She takes a sip of her coffee, smiling around the cup rim.
"No, the fact that you actually know he's a huge dick. How? Spill."
Her eyes drop to her lap, and she fidgets with a loose piece of thread on her shirt. "I, uh… I'm doing this book with him. I mean, it's not really a—it's more of a writing project. So anyway, he had me come up to his cabin to work on it with him, and well, he can just be an asshole sometimes." She glances at me, a nervous grin inching
across her lips. "So, yeah…"
I glance from side to side and twist around to scan behind me before looking back at her. "Am I on Punk’d right now or something? You said you're still in school, didn't you? And he's EA Mercer. Did you win some kind of author lottery?"
Her cheeks flush, and she shrugs. "Kinda. I won some contest he held to find a co-author." An uneasy laugh bubbles from her throat, then she swallows hard. "Crazy, huh?"
I put my head in my hands and run my fingers through my hair. "Consider my mind blown. Very impressive. You must be one hell of a writer."
Now her cheeks are full-on red. "I'm just… sick in the head enough for him, maybe?"
"Well, the cat is out of the bag. I'm going to go ahead and apologize ahead of time if this ever dominates future conversations. Just give me a swift kick to the shin or something to reset me."
"It's fine. And I'm not kicking you."
"So I'm going to assume, by that response, that there will, in fact, be future conversations?" I smile, though I can feel my face flush with nervousness. I've never been confused for being smooth. That's just not who I am.
"I mean"—she swallows—"sure."
My gaze fixes on the tiled wall. I’m unable to read this woman whatsoever. I finish my coffee, and without turning to her, I say, "I like the enthusiasm." I smile, the cup still held to my lips.
"I'm not one to get overly excited about anything… but I do like talking to you, and I don't like most people, so there's that."
"Oh yeah, you either?" I say, setting the cup down, a devious smile stretching across my face.
"Nope. People are assholes."
"I spent three years in the army. Two of them were spent fighting against the most vile pieces of shit this world has to offer." My eyes drift to hers. "It takes the optimism right out of a man. When it comes to humanity at least. I guess that's why I became a cop." I lean in just a bit, smile, and shrug. "Well, that and EA Mercer."
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