Night Owl (The Night Owl Trilogy)

by M. Pierce

"It's me," she said. "Matt, it's me. G... give me the gun."

  "Give you the gun?" I laughed and waved it. "So what, I can have some horrific dream in which a figment of my imagination blows out my brains? No fucking thanks."

  "I'm real, Matt. Please. It's me, I—"

  Hannah reached for the pistol. I backed away, smirking.

  "Oh no you don't. This is Chekhov's gun. You know what that means, right?" I aimed at a wall, sighting down the barrel. I thought about going outside and firing a round into the forest. Fuck, that would feel good.

  Hannah's clammy hand touched my forearm. Our eyes met. Too real, that touch. I moved my finger off the trigger.

  "Hannah?"

  "Yes, Matt, it's me. God, it's me. Help me."

  She slid her hands down my arm to the gun. She covered my fingers with hers and lowered it slowly.

  "Help me," she whispered. "How do I..."

  Her hands shook on mine.

  "Here. Like this."

  I popped out the magazine and racked the slide. A round clattered to the floor.

  Hannah flinched.

  "It's okay," I murmured, locking the slide. "It's empty now."

  "Can... can I—"

  "Anything," I said.

  Hannah stood so close that our hips touched. She loosened the pistol from my grip. She took the magazine and collected the fallen round.

  "I'll be right back," she said. "Right back. I promise." She darted to the door. I shuffled to the window and peered out, but I couldn't see a damn thing.

  My god, Hannah was here. Could it be?

  And I pulled a gun on her.

  And however she got here, she was probably about to hightail it into the night.

  With my gun.

  Fuck.

  I slumped on the couch.

  Was this really happening?

  I began to drink from a bottle of bourbon standing on the coffee table. God, this stuff tasted seriously sickening.

  I didn't hear Hannah return, but suddenly she was kneeling by my feet. She gazed up at me with teary eyes.

  "Do you have any other guns? Any weapons?"

  "No," I mumbled. "Unless kitchen knives count."

  She let out a breath.

  She reached for my bottle, then retracted her hand.

  "Oh, Matt. What's happening? Look at you."

  I looked at myself. I was wearing a cheap pair of boxers and two tatty slippers with pompoms on them.

  "These aren't mine. These—I found them here—the slippers. Not mine."

  I swallowed another shallow mouthful of bourbon. I couldn't think about any of this—Hannah being here, me, the gun, anything.

  Hannah smiled. A tear slipped down her cheek.

  "That's okay," she whispered. "That's okay." She patted one of my slippers. "Nice and warm. You gotta keep your feet warm."

  I shifted my feet on the floorboards. I stared off.

  "Yeah, it's cold," I said.

  "It really is. It's freezing. Let's close these windows, okay?"

  Hannah stroked her hands along my face. God, I needed to shave. She tried to make me look at her. My eyes were burning. I rolled them away.

  "Here, I'll get the windows. You stay put."

  I nursed my bottle while Hannah drifted around, closing windows in the main room.

  "Do you want to sleep? Are you tired?"

  "No," I said.

  "You want the lights on?"

  "No."

  "Okay, how about a fire? I'd like to build a fire."

  I shrugged.

  Hannah began to move wedges of oak from the holder to the grate. I watched her work. Wordlessly, she found matches in the kitchen and got the fire going. Then she started to load dishes into the washer.

  The mess around her was incalculable. I knew she couldn't put a dent in it and maybe she knew that, too, but I sensed she needed something to do.

  As for me, I remained seated on the couch.

  I had decided on silence.

  Silence and drunkenness.

  Hannah tidied around the kitchen area, wiping down the counter and piling empty bottles into a bag. She lifted a half-empty bottle of Malbec. With a glance in my direction, she began to pour the wine down the drain.

  "Are you ready to stop drinking?" she said.

  I shrugged and took a swig from my bottle.

  I couldn't take my eyes off Hannah.

  Only as the alcohol numbed me and firelight began to fill the room did I notice how greatly changed she was. Her hair was straight and short, falling at a dramatic angle around her face. Her cheeks were hollow, her high cheekbones standing out. Her whole body was slimmer.

  I rose and took a few steps toward the kitchen.

  I needed a better look at her.

  Hannah paused, watching me.

  What was that expression on her face? Was she afraid of me?

  What an awful thought.

  I stopped where I was, standing at the edge of the kitchen area, and Hannah resumed emptying bottles into the sink.

  My gaze trailed up her ankles and calves. Her leggings left nothing to the imagination. She wore a loose long top that just covered her bottom.

  The old possessiveness stirred in me, but I didn't move. Three months ago, I would have lifted her shirt and squeezed her ass. It was mine then—mine to look at and touch.

  Hannah edged past me. She ducked her head and drew in her shoulders, trying to make herself small.

  Yes, she was afraid of me. Of course. Why wouldn't she be? I was a drunken stranger who pulled a gun on her moments ago. And now I was hovering around staring at her body.

  I turned to watch her collect bottles from the coffee table and floor. She paused by the fireplace and pulled out her phone.

  I advanced.

  "Who are you texting?" I growled.

  Her eyes went round. They looked so much larger in her hungry face. She was still beautiful, though. The weight she had lost somehow made it easier to read her expression. It was as though, with nothing spare on the stage, she became pure emotion.

  "Nate," she said. "Your brother."

  I barked out a laugh.

  Nate, of course. Nate with his grand ideas.

  I began to pace, kicking bottles and clothes out of my way.

  "Nate, fucking Nate. He sent you here?"

  "He asked me to come." Hannah slid her phone away.

  "Well isn't that fucking sweet. And here you are. Good of him to warn me. You know, a heads up might've been nice."

  "He thought you would be angry. He thought you might leave. I think he was right."

  I glowered at Hannah.

  She ignored me and continued emptying bottles. I tightened my grip on the neck of what would soon be my last bottle of bourbon.

  "I hope you're happy; you've poured about a thousand dollars in wine down the drain."

  "I'll pay you back. You have to stop drinking, Matt. Everyone's worried about you."

  "Everyone, huh?"

  "Pam, your brothers, your uncle."

  "What about you?" I tipped the bottle to my lips. I was drinking too much, too fast. I leaned against the back of the couch as the room swayed.

  Hannah's eyes were wet again. Fuck, I wished she would quit crying.

  "No one is as worried as I am," she said.

  She plunked the bag of bottles down in the kitchen and disappeared into my bedroom. I closed my eyes. I heard her moving through the cabin, shutting windows.

  She returned with a few more bottles, which she emptied and tossed. She cleared the booze from my fridge and freezer and swept broken glass from the floor into a dustpan.

  Her eyes landed on the kitchen table. It was littered with pill bottles and papers.

  "Those are mine," I said.

  "I won't get rid of anything else." Hannah moved toward the table. I thought I might fall if I let go of the couch, and besides, the game was up.

  The game had been up for a while now.

  Hannah examined my prescriptions. Fresh te
ars rolled down her face as she lined up the bottles.

  Firelight fell across the table, illuminating my notebook and piles of loose pages. Hannah picked up the first pile. I watched her face as her expression changed.

  Emboldened by the bourbon, I wanted to demand to know why she had never returned my zillions of calls, texts, and emails. Why, if she was so worried, did she leave me alone this long? Why? Why couldn't she forgive me? And why couldn't I forgive myself?

  I was still too scared to ask.

  If Hannah really couldn't forgive me, I would never find my way. She left me alone in the riddle. I needed her because I loved her—or I loved her because I needed her. Why had the feelings turned to a maze? Now I was lost in the dark. In my dreams I ran paths walled with high hedges. Always the leaves brushing me like laughter. Always the long night.

  "I couldn't... get you to hear me," I said, speaking carefully so I didn't slur.

  "So you did this?"

  She lifted the handwritten pages of The Surrogate. I nodded.

  Hannah was silent a long while. I could see her thinking... a parade of questions, answers, realizations. She must have looked like this when she first learned I was M. Pierce.

  Finally, she set down the pages. She came toward me. This time, I was scared.

  I closed my eyes and braced myself against the couch. Hannah slipped the bottle from my fingers. I heard her set it on the floor.

  She hugged me from behind, folding her hands over my heart.

  God, that soft skin...

  "You are always deceiving me," she whispered.

  I clasped the couch with both hands.

  "Always, Matt, always speaking to me from any mouth but your own. Don't you know that I love you? I see you under all your lies, and I always find you."

  I opened my eyes and rolled back my head, staring at the vaulted ceiling. I wouldn't let these brimming tears fall.

  Hannah's fingers skated over my chest and stomach. Desire's dark eye cracked open.

  "Hannah... I can't."

  "Can't what?" She kissed my back. Her open mouth lingered against my bare shoulder. She bit down gently and held my hips.

  "I can't write the scene," I mumbled. I can't get it up.

  "I was waiting for that scene. I've been living on your words. Why can't you write it?"

  "I can't feel it. The feelings, I can't..."

  I dug my fingers into the back of the couch. God, how humiliating. I would have broken away from Hannah if I didn't feel sure I would fall.

  She moved sinuously against me, kissing a trail up my neck to my ear. She stood on her tiptoes and tugged at my earlobe. I moaned softly.

  "I can't," I pleaded, "I can't."

  "Shhh, Matt. It's okay now, it's over. I'm here and I'll never leave you."

  Hannah crushed her breasts to my back. She pressed a hand to the front of my boxers. I gasped. For the first time in months, heat surged into my loins.

  "Ah, fuck," I groaned. "Hannah..."

  I began to rub my cock against her palm. She whispered sweet nothings in my ear. The sense of the words fell away; all that remained were her hot breath and encouraging voice.

  Soon, I was straining against my boxers. Hannah slid them down. Her fingers curled around my shaft and she cupped my balls. I gazed down in disbelief.

  Nothing less than this was enough.

  I humped into Hannah's hand frantically.

  "I haven't—" I stammered. "I won't last."

  "It's okay, Matt, it's okay."

  The firelight flashed on our skin, dyeing us amber-orange. The silence of the cabin closed around us. Hannah matched my desperate rhythm with her hands.

  "Oh," I sighed, "oh... oh."

  With a cry like a sob, I came into her hand. I sagged against the couch. Hannah moved off, discreetly wiping her hand clean, and returned to embrace me. I wrapped an arm around her.

  "I'm tired," she said, kissing my neck. "It's late. Can you sleep?"

  "Mm."

  I leaned my weight on her. Fuck, I was really feeling the alcohol.

  As we passed my bottle, Hannah plucked it up and helped me toward the kitchen.

  "Last one," I said, eyeing the bourbon.

  "Then you do it."

  My hand shook as I poured the amber liquid down the drain.

  Hannah didn't know—how could she?—what this meant for tomorrow.

  As she helped me into the bedroom, I glimpsed a pendant resting near the hollow of her throat. It was bright against her pale skin.

  "The lock," I mumbled. More like three of the locks; I was seeing triple. Still, I knew exactly what it was—the padlock necklace I bought for Hannah in Estes.

  "I got it engraved," she said. She brought my hand to the smooth metal and I traced a finger over the letters... H... M.

  Hannah.

  Matt.

  I collapsed onto the bed and reeled into darkness.

  CHAPTER 26

  Hannah

  _____

  I WOKE WITH a start. The bed was cold. The room was dark and quiet and it took me a moment to remember where I was: in a cabin in Geneva, NY.

  Under the bathroom door, I saw a strip of light.

  God, Matt...

  I sat up against the headboard and gathered the quilt around myself. Was he sick, or just using the bathroom? Did he have a secret stash of alcohol in the cabin? I stared into the darkness and tried to empty my mind.

  Inside, I could feel the chipped fragments of my heart. My poor, beautiful lover... what had agony done to him?

  He was twenty pounds lighter, at least, and his eyes were wild and glassy. His handsome features were scruffy with stubble. His hair grew long down the back of his neck.

  Worst of all, though, was the total absence of his proud spirit. Shuffling around the cabin, refusing to meet my eyes... he was broken.

  My intentions dissolved when I saw him. Why did I think I could keep my distance? Why would I want to? Love is relentless.

  The bedside clock read 5:12 a.m. No wonder I felt like a train wreck.

  I slid out of the sheets and pulled on my tunic top. I had pajamas in my suitcase, but my suitcase was in the car and I had no desire to step away from Matt last night, even after he faceplanted into bed.

  I didn't want him to wake up alone. Not ever again.

  I padded to the bathroom door and listened.

  "Matt?"

  Silence.

  I knocked gently.

  "I'm fine," he said, his voice quiet. It sounded like he was on the floor. I crouched and flattened both hands to the door.

  "Are you sure?"

  "Mm, I—"

  I heard scuffling, then silence.

  Last night, watching Matt breathe greedily in his sleep, I wondered if I should be worried about alcohol poisoning. Worry gnawed at me again as I listened through the bathroom door.

  "Matt? Are you sick?"

  "Hangover," he said, "it's nothing."

  His tone definitely said—leave me alone.

  He was probably puking his guts out.

  Sure enough, I heard more scuffling followed by retching. The sounds were hoarse and painful. I nuzzled closer to the door. Typical Matt, suffering alone.

  Why did he hide from me?

  By now he should have known that not even a loaded gun could drive me away.

  I was fully awake, so I began to pace around the bedroom. I pulled on my leggings. I made the bed. I'm a productive worrier.

  The toilet flushed, but Matt didn't emerge.

  I roamed through the cabin and did a little more cleaning, gathering laundry and emptying ashtrays. I changed Laurence's water and fed him a few raisins. Poor little guy, the things he must have seen...

  My eyes strayed toward the kitchen table with its stacks of pages. I felt a familiar stab of betrayal. I thought of Matt and Pam, conspiring to get The Surrogate to me. A love story. A lie story. I remembered how I felt at the cusp of Matt's unwritten sex scene: I wanted it to happen, the deception didn't matt
er.

  Was Matt trying to manipulate my feelings about what he'd done, or was he simply trying to explain himself?

  My heart wasn't made of paper. That was fiction. This was my life.

  I was making my way back to the bedroom when I heard a cry.

  "Matt!" Fuck this hiding bullshit. I barged into the bathroom.

  Matt cowered in the corner, hugging himself and staring at the floor. The smell of vomit hung in the air.

  "Oh god, baby," I whispered, kneeling at his side and stroking the hair back from his brow. His whole body shook. He was soaked with sweat.

  "Hannah. Hannah..."

  He clasped my arm. I had never seen such fear in his eyes. His gaze darted around on the tiled floor, where all I could see were pale tiles with gray speckles.

  "Matt, it's okay now, listen to me, it's okay."

  Every time I brushed back his hair, a fresh sheen of sweat sprang up on his brow. I touched his neck. His heart was racing. My god, what was this?

  "Xanax," he chattered. "Get me one. Get me a Xanax. In the k-kitchen."

  "Matt, I don't think—"

  "Hannah!"

  I scurried to the kitchen. Okay, Xanax. Get a Xanax. Maybe Matt was addicted. Fuck, maybe that's what this was. Fuck. Did he need some kind of fix? Was he doing more than drinking himself to death?

  Panic made it impossible to focus. My hands knocked against the table and scattered pill bottles. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Which was which? Why did Matt have all these fucking pharmaceuticals anyway?

  Finally I found the Xanax. I shook out one blue oval and ran back to Matt, who was gripping the sink. Water dripped from his hair. He grabbed the pill, chewed and swallowed it, his face twisted in disgust.

  I hovered at his side. He smiled grimly at me.

  Oh god, I despised my emotions right now. Tears gathered in my eyes and I dashed them away. Fuck, I couldn't stand to see Matt—a man who always seemed so smug and in control—this frightened.

  He splashed water on his face. He drank from his cupped hands. I tried to rub his back, but he flinched from my touch. His skin was on fire.

  "Matt, what can I do? What's going on? This—" I hesitated. This didn't look like any hangover I had ever seen.

  Matt shrank into the corner again. He opened his mouth, then lunged for the toilet, clinging to it and gagging. There was nothing in his stomach. Nothing but water, bile, and a blue swirl of crushed Xanax.