by Mari Carr
Rough Draft
By Mari Carr
Rough Draft
Copyright 2014 Mari Carr
Formatted by IRONHORSE Formatting
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
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Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Epilogue
About the Author
Other Stories in the Invitation to Eden series
Excerpt: Full Position
Other Titles by Mari Carr
Chapter One
“What are you doing here?”
Jett Lewis stopped just inside the door of the Royal Lunch, his favorite dive in all of New Orleans, but the bartender—and his best friend—Carissa was looking at him as if he’d just committed some unspeakable crime.
He tilted his head, confused by the hostility in her tone. “This is a bar and I want a drink. Those two things seemed to fit together.”
Her scowl remained firmly in place. “It’s Sunday.”
He chuckled. “No shit.”
She rolled her eyes, not amused. “You always go to your mother’s house for dinner on Sunday.”
Carissa wasn’t behind the counter. In fact, she appeared to be on her way out. “You’re not working today?” he asked, ignoring her previous comment.
He was purposely avoiding Sunday dinner at his mother’s house, but he didn’t want to get into that with Carissa. Truth was, he wanted exactly what he’d told her. A drink. Preferably a stiff one. And then maybe two or three or a dozen more after the first.
Carissa seemed flummoxed—something his self-assured, straight-shooting friend never was. “Um…no. I was going to run, um, a few errands.”
Jett was fairly certain he’d never heard Carissa tell a lie until that moment. “Is that right?”
She narrowed her eyes as if annoyed, but swallowed heavily, her guilty behavior telling him she knew she’d been caught. “Yes.” Her single-word response came just two beats too late.
“Where are you really going?”
She crossed her arms and blew out an exasperated breath. “What the hell are you doing here? You never come in on Sundays. Ever.”
He ignored her question and glanced at Shawn, one of her part-time employees, manning the bar. “I’m having a drink.”
Jett walked to his usual spot at the end of the counter and sat down. Raising his hand to catch Shawn’s attention, he said, “Scotch on the rocks.”
Shawn nodded and began pouring as Carissa audibly sighed from across the room. She pulled her cell out of her back pocket, typed something onto it then came over to join him.
“What about your errands?” he asked when she claimed the stool next to him.
“They can wait.”
Jett grinned then picked up the drink Shawn placed in front of him, lifting it in a silent toast before taking a sip. The liquid gold slid down his throat, the heat it provided a welcome relief.
“Isn’t it a bit early for Scotch?”
There was no judgment in Carissa’s tone—she was a bartender, after all—so he just shook his head.
“Jett—” she started.
“I need this drink, Rissa. And then I need the one after this. And probably four or five more after that one.”
“Oh. It’s like that, is it?”
He grimaced. “Yeah. It’s like that.”
“Any special reason for getting shit-faced on a Sunday afternoon?”
Jett shrugged. He’d come to drink himself into oblivion, hoping to forget the reason that brought him here to begin with. Then he realized that was wrong.
He’d come here to talk to her.
He’d met Carissa Pierre seven years earlier, when he’d been a wannabe writer and stumbled into the bar. He had been laid off from his job as a reporter at the New Orleans Sun. The newspaper had decided to downsize just a year after he’d landed the job, and as a result, the last hired was the first fired. He’d tried to find another job, even working part time as a waiter to make ends meet, but short of relocating, he was out of options.
He’d been walking along Toulouse, wondering what the fuck he was supposed to do with his life when he’d spotted the bar with its name—Royal Lunch—written in neon. All he could think about was how he was “royally” screwed, so he’d walked in and claimed this very same spot at the bar. Carissa had been holding court behind the counter, chatting to a couple older guys who were clearly regulars. Something about her had reminded him of his foster sister Dani, and he’d felt instantly drawn to her.
When Jett had been a teenager, Dani was his confidante. He’d talk to her and she would find a way to make him feel better. When the court system decided she’d be better off with her abusive father than with his family, Dani had run away. He’d never seen her again, though he’d never stopped looking for her face in every crowd, hoping, praying that one day he’d find her. He hadn’t realize how big the hole left in his life when Dani disappeared was until he’d found Carissa and she filled it.
“You remember the first time we met?”
If Carissa was taken aback by Jett’s abrupt change of topic, she didn’t let it show. That was one of the things Jett liked most about Carissa. She was steady as a rock. Which was funny considering he always put himself in relationships with women who were her polar opposite—high-maintenance, high-strung, high drama. Small wonder none of those relationships had lasted longer than a few months.
“I remember. You were crying in your beer over a job interview for some company that hadn’t gone well.”
He grinned. “I was hardly crying.”
“That’s true. You were actually pretty pissed off. They gave the job to one of the boss’s nephews or something, right?”
“Yeah. They interviewed me just to make everything look like it was on the up and up, when they’d known all along who they were going to hire. Do you remember what you said to me?”
Carissa considered his question. “I think I asked you about the job. It sounded like some really horrible paper-pusher, fluorescent-lighting, cubicle kind of career.”
“It was. You questioned if I really wanted to live like that. I said no. And then you asked me what my dream job was?”
She crooked her finger at Shawn, pointing to Jett’s half-empty glass. “Set him up with another round.” She lifted his Scotch and drank what was left. “You said you wanted to write a book.”
<
br /> “Yeah. And you said, ‘so write one.’”
She smiled. “And you did.”
Shawn brought him another drink in a fresh glass, taking the empty one away before walking back to the other end of the counter where a small TV was set up. The Angels were playing the Nationals. Shawn was clearly rooting for the Nats and unhappy that the new shortstop had missed a ground ball when he muttered, “You clumsy fuck. Go back to St. Louis.”
Jett looked at Carissa. For the first time since walking into the bar, he realized she was actually sort of dressed up. While she still wore her usual ponytail, she’d replaced her standard black heavy-metal-band-of-the-day t-shirt and faded blue jeans for a pair of nice black pants and a pretty top. The outfit looked totally hot, even though he knew that wasn’t her goal. He suspected she was going for respectable—and in truth, she’d accomplished that. It made him long to see her with her hair down. Something he’d never seen before.
He started to ask her about her appearance, then worried he’d kept her from going out on a date.
It was on the tip of his tongue to tell her she didn’t have to keep him company, but he needed to be with her. His depression had hit an all-time low this morning and it had taken every bit of energy he possessed to get out of bed, pull on some clothes and walk here.
“Were you meeting someone?”
She hesitated then shook her head. Another fib. On a better day, it would have bothered him that she felt the need to lie. He’d always admired her honesty, but today he let it slide because she was where he needed her to be. He’d depended on her no-holds-barred honesty ever since their first meeting.
“You told me what I needed to hear that day. I mean, it was write a book or move away. There weren’t any jobs around here for a fresh-out-of-college journalism major.”
“Your mama was never going to let you leave town, Jett.”
He snorted. “You’re damn right about that.”
The Lewis family had deep roots in New Orleans and the thought of leaving the Big Easy hadn’t set well on Jett’s shoulders either. He was very close to his siblings—foster and real—and his mother. When he’d gone home after his first meeting with Carissa and told Mama he wanted to write a book, she’d merely nodded as if that had been the obvious answer all along. She’d loaned him two hundred dollars to buy a used laptop and told him to go write a bestseller.
The first novel hadn’t hit any list, but it had caught the attention of an agent, who managed to sell it to a publisher. The story had only just earned out the advance, but it had done well enough for a debut book that the publisher bought the next in the series. That one barely squeaked onto the New York Times list, hitting at number twenty-five, but it was the money it brought in that made the difference. Jett was offered a lucrative three-book deal and the rest, as they say, was history.
He had a reputation as a quick, clean writer, a master of crime thrillers whose stories followed the exploits of a diamond-in-the-rough police detective. Patterson had Alex Cross, Berry had Cotton Malone and Jett had Riley James.
He’d added three or four Riley James novels to his backlist each year and luckily his readers continued to cry out for more.
Then the words had dried up.
The same ache that had resided in his chest for the past six months returned with a vengeance. He picked up the Scotch and drained the glass in one long swig.
Carissa frowned when he waved to Shawn, silently ordering another.
“You should have gone to your mother’s house for dinner.”
He gave her a sad smile. “I can’t face that again, Rissa.”
He didn’t have to explain. Carissa was well aware of his writer’s block, knew perfectly well why he was here with the intention of getting wasted.
The reason he’d opted to hang out at the Royal Lunch was because, unlike his well-meaning family, Carissa had never offered him advice on how to overcome the block or told him to be patient, that his words would return eventually. She didn’t suggest meditation or relaxation techniques or send him emails with hyperlinks to articles about writer’s block and how to beat it. She didn’t dump him, like his last girlfriend, because he was “a real downer lately.”
“They love you, Jett. That’s what families do. They worry and fret and try to fix shit in your life when it’s broken. They don’t mean to annoy you.”
He knew that. And if he weren’t in the midst of the world’s biggest and longest-running pity party, he’d appreciate their efforts to help.
Jett ran his finger along the rim of his glass. “I understand that. I do. I just needed a break from it today. I’ll call my mother later to apologize for missing dinner.”
Carissa nodded slowly. “You know, you’ve never asked me for advice about this.”
He frowned. “You have advice?”
She raised one eyebrow as if to say what do you think. “Are you kidding me? I have an opinion on everything. You know that.”
“But you’ve never said anything.”
“Everyone’s been offering their two cents’ worth and it’s pissing you off. I figured if you wanted to know what I thought, you’d ask.”
“Would it hurt your feelings if I didn’t ask?”
She chuckled. “Oh ye of little faith. I think you might like my answer.”
He was sure it would be more of the same. He’d heard everything the past few months. There was nothing she could offer that would help. “Rissa—”
“And it won’t really matter if my advice doesn’t fix the problem because you’ll still win.”
Curiosity began to outweigh the self-assurance that told him nothing was going to help at this point. With that truth crashing down on his head, he realized he had nothing left to lose. “Okay. What’s your answer?”
She took an envelope out of her purse and slid it across the counter to him. “This.”
He opened the expensive linen envelope, pulling out an ornate piece of parchment paper, the words written there in embossed gold. Tucked inside the letter were two tickets. “A trip?”
“Read the letter.”
Jett scanned the details, his eyes widening.
Carissa was offering him an invitation to Eden?
“I don’t understand.”
“It’s two tickets to paradise. Do you want me to break out into song? It includes airfare, the hotel room, all your meals and drinks. You need to get the fuck out of here, Jett. Clear your head and let go of all this anxiety. Grab that woman you’re dating…” Carissa tapped her lips with one finger as if she were trying to remember something. “Dipshit…ditz…dingbat. God, what was her name again? Starts with a D.”
Jett grinned, perfectly aware of Carissa’s opinion of… “Darla. Her name is Darla.”
“That’s it. Tell her to pack a bag and the two of you can get the heck out of here for a while.”
“I can’t take this, Rissa. It’s too much. This must have cost you a fortune.”
She shook her head. “Didn’t cost me a dime. I won the tickets.”
“How?”
She pointed to the old radio on the shelf amidst the bottles of liquor. Whenever she manned the bar, she turned the TV off, opting to listen to music instead. “The bar phone rang last week. It was one of those radio station contests that basically said, ‘Give us the phrase that pays and you’ll win.’ It was actually the only radio station I listen to. So, I said ‘K92.5 keeps the music alive’ and the next thing I know, this envelope appeared in my mailbox. Pretty cool, huh? I’ve never won anything in my life.”
He pushed the envelope across the counter to her. “It’s your trip. I’ve heard you talk about Eden before. You said you’d love to go there and see it. Here’s your chance. Grab that delivery guy you like to hook up with every now and then.” He snapped his fingers as if thinking. “Um, jackass or jerk-off or something with a J.”
She laughed. “Joshua. And hell no. He’s okay for a one-night booty call when my vibrator’s not cutting it, but there’s no way
we could keep that party going for a week. Our conversations begin and end with “You busy tonight” and “See you around sometime.”
“So take another guy.”
“And where am I supposed to conjure this fictional boyfriend from?”
He lifted one shoulder. “I don’t know. Why don’t you invite a girlfriend?”
Carissa rolled her eyes. “Look at the fine print, Jett. It’s a romantic getaway. Oceanfront room with a Jacuzzi tub and king-sized bed, champagne and strawberries, the works. The room is called The Lover’s Retreat. Besides, I don’t really have any girlfriends. Sad as this may sound, you’re sort of my best friend.”
He feigned a wince. “Damn. Poor girl.”
“I know, right? My life sucks.”
He laughed at her teasing.
“Anyway,” she continued, “the tickets have to be used next week. I could never find anyone to run the Royal Lunch for a whole week on such short notice. If you don’t use them, they’ll go to waste.”
“I’d love to go to Eden, Rissa, but I’m afraid I’m sort of between lovers myself right now.”
“Seriously?”
He nodded. “Darla dumped me a few nights ago.”
“Oh. Is that why you’re getting drunk?”
“Good God, no. I’d been trying to figure out how to break things off with her. She saved me the trouble. So, you see, that Lover’s Retreat would be wasted on me too.”
“Bummer.”
“Yeah.”
Carissa reached for his drink, taking another big swig. He didn’t bother telling her to get her own drink. She didn’t allow her employees to drink on the job, so she covertly hid her own alcohol consumption during work hours by taking sips from his. They’d been sharing drinks for years.
They sat in silence for a few minutes—neither seeking to fill the quiet with words. They simply passed the glass back and forth between them as Jett considered her generous offer. It was so like Carissa. On the surface, she appeared tough as nails, but once a person broke through the gruff exterior and earned her trust, there could be no better friend on the planet. He wasn’t surprised by her willingness to give away something she really wanted if she thought it would make him happy.