by Ali Parker
“I leave tomorrow.”
Chapter 2
Wes
Blood stained the white ceramic plate as my steak knife slid through the cut of tender, juicy, perfectly pink steak. Beneath the cut of meat, side of garlic potatoes, and assorted roasted vegetables, was elegant script writing in gold that read: El Cartana. My cutlery was also gold and so was the thread that kept the thick dinner napkin together that was presently draped over my right knee.
Instrumental music poured out of the speaker on the dresser in my hotel room. It was the very same playlist I’d cultivated over three months ago when I first started writing my current project and I hadn’t bothered to turn it off when room service arrived with my meal. It played a pleasant tune with a balanced mix of a piano, harp, and violin, and my foot tapped out a somewhat offbeat rhythm while I chewed.
I was a writer, not a musician, and it showed.
Lucky for me, there was nobody there to see.
The El Cartana had become somewhat of a sanctuary to me over these last couple of years. The hectic chaos that was New York City had a tendency to stifle my creative side and make it hard to put the characters in my head down on paper. I was constantly pulled away from my work by obnoxious neighbors in my apartment building above, below, and beside me. The car horns blaring down on the street were no treat, either. Clanging pots and pans from the restaurants down below accompanied domestic arguments on patios and screaming children at bedtime.
But the El Cartana?
This place was blissful. The loudest sounds in the mornings and afternoon were the hum of my in-room coffeemaker and the rustle of palm leaves blowing in the tropical breeze. It smelled like salt and sweet nectar flowers. I ate well, slept well, and wrote well whenever I stayed at the honeymoon resort that I really had no place being at.
Fortunately, I had connections in the hotel.
Katie, the honeymoon coordinator, had caught wind that their guest, a Mr. Wes Parker, was not just an ordinary solo traveler, but rather the world-famous romance author, W. Parker. She’d approached me quietly one day while I was writing by hand at one of the bars and asked if she could sit with me. She had a bag over her shoulder and a bashfulness to her smile that I’d found endearing, and every interaction we’d had previous to that one had been pleasant.
She’d pulled a book out of her bag—one of my books—set it facedown on the table to hide the cover, slid it toward me, and tapped her index finger on the summary. Then she’d looked me in the eye and asked if it was my book.
At the time, my feathers had been ruffled.
I preferred to keep my identity a secret for a reason. A writer like me tended to attract fans that were quite passionate. Also, romance books with steamy sex scenes could sometimes give people the wrong idea of who I was as a person. I wasn’t the epitome of my books. I was just a guy who wrote about what he dreamed of having one day.
I was the sad fraud behind the love and the picture-perfect happy endings.
Katie hadn’t fan-girled over me. She’d grinned like a fool, to be sure, and was very proud of herself for solving the little mystery. She’d promised not to tell a soul who I was, but over the years, she and I became friends. I started giving her free advance copies of my work and, shortly after that, was giving her boxes of signed books to send to friends and family. They all knew she knew me, but they didn’t know who I was, and that was a happy balance for me.
When I checked into the hotel this go around, Katie had been in a particularly good mood. She was in a new relationship and she and her man had moved in together somewhere nearby on the island. I’d joked and asked her if this new guy of hers would care if I still used her as a muse. She’d told me she’d be upset if I didn’t. Just because she was off the market didn’t mean she wasn’t still charming as hell.
I steadfastly agreed.
Katie was a woman any good man would be lucky to love.
I finished the rest of my meal, and three more songs played on my playlist. When I finished, I set the dishes outside in the hall on the same tray the meal had arrived on. Moving to the liquor cart near the patio doors, I poured myself a drink and stepped through the sheer white curtains and out onto my patio.
I preferred ground-floor corner units. That way, I could eliminate the potential of there being loud guests on one side and below me. Sure, I’d spent my fair share of nights here listening to newlyweds fuck like banshees, but that was unavoidable at a hotel that made its revenue off of new lovebirds. Besides, every now and then, it made me inspired to write steamy scenes in my work when I was procrastinating.
I’d heard wives scream for their husbands to put it in their ass.
To fuck their throats.
To bend them over and spank them.
To fuck them like they hated them.
To make love to them.
To suck their toes.
Yep. Suck their toes.
I’d heard it all. And a lot of it had ended up in my books. Some people might call that eavesdropping. I called it writing off of reality. That was what my readers wanted anyway. They wanted love stories that felt real. They wanted a promise that there were happy endings out there for everyone—even the people who didn’t deserve it.
Sometimes, especially the people who didn’t deserve it.
I breathed in the salty sea air and leaned against the balcony railing. Before me was the expansive green property of the El Cartana. The hotel itself sprawled outward on either side, so my view wasn’t obstructed by architecture and shadows. I had a clear view of the turquoise ocean and the setting sun that painted the horizon orange. Up above my head, the sky was a deep indigo color, and soon, stars would be winking to life, painting constellations across the dark canvas.
Feeling connected to the island and the sky and far too spiritual for my own good, I moved over to the patio lounger where I’d been working before my dinner arrived. The seat was warm beneath my back as I settled against the reclined cushions and traded my drink for the open notebook that rested on the wide armrest.
My pen waited for me to pull it free of where the clip held it to the top of the page. I clicked the tip out and scanned the page I’d written. It was rough, as all first drafts were, but there was promise in this story. I could feel it.
And my agent liked it, which was really all that seemed to matter nowadays.
My pen hovered over the last sentence I’d written for just a moment.
She ran her finger over the razor-sharp edge of the broken china cup, her heart as split as the floral pattern that once had been.
My hesitation lasted only a brief moment before the words started to flow. The pen scribbled madly from one line to the next. One idea became another and then another, and before I knew it, three more pages had been written, and the woman holding the broken china cup had thrown it at the floor to break it once and for all.
After that, no more thoughts came.
I grimaced at the page.
If I wanted to get this book done before my deadline, I was going to have to be able to sit down and pump out more than three handwritten pages at a time. Productivity had not been my friend as of late and my agent was up my ass about it.
Something had to give.
I hadn’t left my room in over forty-eight hours, so I decided to put my notebook down and go socialize. Even if the only person I could talk to was one of the resort bartenders, it might be enough to shake something loose and get me back into the writing groove. I finished my drink and left my room, making for my favorite bar at the hotel.
It wasn’t busy when I arrived. I suspected tomorrow morning, all the new guests would arrive and flood the resort, so now was the time to enjoy a quiet drink.
It kind of contradicted my desire to socialize but whatever. I was inherently an introvert and didn’t like crowds. It sort of went hand in hand with the whole writing gig and author persona.
I slid onto a barstool and ordered a mojito. It was warm out, and this bar was an outdoor bar.
It sat on a veranda with tables for two around the railing and the bar in the middle. It was dimly lit with tiki torches that luckily didn’t smell like citronella.
I’d only been sitting for about three minutes with my drink when someone tapped me on the shoulder. I turned, dreading having to talk to a stranger, and was relieved to find myself looking at a familiar, beautiful brunette woman.
Katie nodded at the stool beside me. “My shift just ended and I’m waiting for my ride to arrive. Mind if I sit with you for a few?”
“Please.”
Katie tucked her pale yellow dress under her thighs as she slid onto her seat. The bartender didn’t ask her if she wanted a drink, but he fixed her one anyway, and seconds later, she had a tall glass with sparkling clear liquid in it garnished with a wedge of pineapple. She pursed her lips to the straw, sucked, and turned to face me on her stool with the heels of her sandals resting on the bar between the stool legs. “How has your writing been going the last couple of days? I haven’t seen you out and about. I assume that’s a good thing?”
I shrugged. “It’s going. Could be better. Could be worse.”
“You always say that.”
“It’s always true.”
Katie smiled, set her drink down, and leaned forward conspiratorially. “What’s it about?”
I chuckled. She always wanted to know what the upcoming stories were about that I was working on. “If I tell you…”
“I won’t tell a soul. Not even Peter. Pinky promise.”
“Fine,” I agreed. “It’s about a young woman, close to your age, who gives up the only man she ever loved for her dream job. She lives the life she always dreamed and wanted. She gets the promotions. The raises. The house. The family. The expensive SUV. All of it. But she’s never happy because of what she gave up to get it all.”
Katie’s brows drew together. “That doesn’t sound like a very good love story.”
I laughed and shook my head.
“Was that rude of me?” she asked, blushing.
“Not at all. I’m not going to give anything away because I always appreciate your feedback after you finish reading one of my books, but let’s just say I play a little bit with timelines in this one.”
“Consider me intrigued.”
“Tell me about this Peter of yours. Are you two still blissfully happy?”
Katie couldn’t hide her smile. She twisted in her stool and took a couple sips of her drink before answering. “He renovated his entire house for me to move in with him. We’ve been working on expansions together and rebuilding the porch. It’s all so good that sometimes I catch myself wondering if I deserve it. You know?”
“You deserve it.”
“Thanks. For the record, so do you.”
I arched an eyebrow. “Oh yeah?”
Katie slid off her stool and took her drink with her. “It’s possible to find the kind of love you write about out in the real world, Wes. You just have to be out in the real world to find it. Not in a hotel room.” She winked, slung her bag over her shoulder, and asked the bartender to make me another drink—on her. “Have a good night, Wes.”
I watched her go. “Yeah, you too.”
Chapter 3
Briar
My luggage was in pretty rough shape. The integrity of the bag had long since been compromised, but I wasn’t in a position to go out and pay a bunch of money for a new set, so I’d resigned myself to being the girl boarding the plane in her sweats, hoodie, and a duffel bag as her carry-on. With any luck, the check-in counter wouldn’t criticize me for toting apocalyptic suitcases through the airport and putting more faith in the zippers than they deserved.
The three suitcases sat at the front door of the apartment while I sat in the egg chair one last time before my entire life changed.
Madison and Riley had been at work all afternoon but had promised they would leave on time in order to drive me to the airport. Riley was the only one with a car in the house. At first, I’d suggested I just take a cab. The airport wasn’t easy to get to, and I felt bad making them go out of their way, but my besties insisted on doing this right and driving me themselves.
I appreciated it.
Leaving Waynesville without a proper goodbye at the airport wouldn’t have felt right. I needed closure from this place. I needed a hug and maybe some tears and well wishes, after which I could get on the plane and look out the window as it crept into the sky and feel like I left on good terms.
If my parents were in town, I’d have asked them to drive me. But they were in the south of France sipping wine they probably crushed in barrels with their bare feet.
“Lucky retirees,” I muttered.
Riley and Madison were twenty-five minutes later than they said they’d be. I’d been watching the minutes tick by while the pit of nerves in my stomach grew tighter and tighter. I didn’t want to miss my flight. I hadn’t purchased cancellation insurance and I wouldn’t be able to afford a new ticket.
“Where the hell are you guys?” I grumbled.
Another ten minutes passed and I bid farewell to the apartment that had been my home for two years. I locked up and struggled down the stairs of the older building with my three suitcases and duffel bag slung over my shoulder. Every piece of clothing I owned was packed away in those bags. I’d left my furniture behind so the girls could use my old bedroom as a guest room for now. Once I had my shit together in New York, I’d pay a moving service to go back into the apartment, collect my things, and drive them to the Big Apple.
There was no telling how long that would take.
I’d given myself a year. If I couldn’t make it in a year, then I didn’t have any right to dream so big and live in a place like New York. I’d come back to Waynesville and settle down with a mechanic or a farmer’s son or some shit. At least I wouldn’t ever wonder what might have been.
At least I’d have done the damn thing. Failure or not.
I nearly lost the wheel off the bottom of my medium-sized suitcase as it bounded down the steps behind me. By the time I reached the first floor, I was huffing and puffing, sweaty, and in an even fouler mood than I’d been when I was upstairs. I dragged the bags out the front door, which I propped open with one hip, and when I spilled out onto the sidewalk, a car horn beeped at me.
I looked up through a curtain of my red hair that had fallen loose of its bun and spied Riley’s red Volkswagen Jetta pulling up to the curb. She rolled down her window and waved for me to put my bags in the trunk.
Madison got out and helped and complained about how heavy my shit was. We managed to get it crammed in the trunk, and once we were back in the car, Riley pulled back out into traffic and headed for the airport.
“Sorry we were late, babe,” Riley said as she glanced at me in the rearview mirror. “Our manager was in a fucking mood and we had to fold tables before our shift ended.”
I pretended I wasn’t annoyed and rubbed my sweaty palms on my sweatpants.
Madison twisted around in the passenger seat and looked at my outfit. “Is that what you’re wearing on the plane?”
“Yes.”
Her nose scrunched up like it did whenever she drank beer and pretended to like the taste in front of cute boys. “Oh. You know sometimes they’ll bump people up to first class if they have open seats. That’s why I always dress nice. You never know who you might end up sitting next to.”
“With my luck, I’ll end up between a crying baby and someone with bad body odor,” I said.
Madison snickered. “Dressed like that? You just might.”
I rolled my eyes and looked out the window. Forgive me for not wanting to wear leather leggings and a bodysuit on an airplane, Madison. Fuck.
Comfort was my middle name. Fuck heels, heavy earrings, handbags with no straps, bras with underwire, and anything that caused me any level of discomfort or irritability. Life was too short for that shit and I didn’t have the patience to endure it all for the name of beauty.
Dying my hair red h
ad been the boldest statement I’d made about myself in years. Up until now, I liked to blend in.
I doubted blending in would get me anywhere in the big city, though. It was time for big changes, leaps, strides, purposeful actions.
Change.
I told myself over and over on the drive that I was ready and capable while my friends chatted and told me about their day.
When we reached the airport, my nerves were gone and I had clarity. I took my bags out of the trunk and hugged my friends. I thanked them for driving me and promised to call when I landed.
“You have everything?” Riley asked.
I nodded. “Yep. Everything except for you guys.”
Her bottom lip trembled. “What are we going to do without you, babe?”
“Yeah.” Madison nodded. “Who’s going to take care of us?”
“You’ll take care of each other,” I said. “This is for the best. And just think, maybe sometime soon you’ll be flying out to come stay at my place in New York. We can order some greasy-ass pizza.”
“And go to Central Park,” Riley added.
“And Times Square,” Madison gushed.
“And Broadway,” I added.
The girls squealed and we hugged each other fiercely. They smelled like vanilla and burnt sugar.
We pulled apart. “Okay,” I said more to myself than to them. “This is it, ladies. Thank you for driving me. Thank you for the last two years. We’ll talk soon, okay?”
“Okay,” they said in unison.
They held hands and watched me go, and I looked back over my shoulder before stepping through the doors to blow them a kiss. They caught it, returned it, and nodded for me to go.
So I went.
The airport smelled like French fries and new luggage. I was immediately insecure about my set as I loaded it onto a cart to haul it all to my airlines check-in counter. I moved slowly forward in the line, checked my bags, got my boarding pass, and moved to security, where I was scolded for trying to go through the metal detector without taking my sweatshirt off.