I rested my chin against my chest and briefly debated the pros and cons of bashing my face into the keyboard by way of response. I didn’t have a publisher—I didn’t even know any.
Well, that wasn’t exactly true.
I knew a lot of publishers.
Just not any that would publish my words.
I did, however, know of an agent.
Rachel of The Janice Morrison Agency had read my last Detective Hopkins novel and loved it—she said it had a lot of potential, but that they were looking for something a little edgier.
So, I’d gone above and beyond to deliver this time around. Maybe the fans weren’t as receptive as I’d hoped, all I needed was for Rachel to see that I wasn’t afraid to take risks. The Detective Hopkins series could go on without Detective Hopkins.
I had complete faith.
Any day now she was going to reach out to tell me that The Janice Morrison Agency wanted me as a client. Until that day though, I was just going to keep hustling.
It was exciting, knowing that my life was about to change for the better. I couldn’t wait to announce that I, Hayden Michaels, was being traditionally published at the next family dinner. That was the next logical step after getting an agent. They’d pitch me to the big five publishing houses and then they’d battle it out.
I could see it now; my mother would weep about how she always knew I had a rare talent, while my father made a toast in my honor. My brother would choke with jealousy; finally coming to the realization that he was no longer in the spotlight.
I was debating whether it was in poor form to throw money in the air when a loud thud at the front door sent me hurtling backward in my chair. Bootsy, never one for surprises, bolted for the safety of the bedroom.
“A lot of help you are,” I grumbled, before picking myself up off the floor. A quick glance through the peephole revealed my neighbor and friend since sixth grade, Aaris.
“Are you going to let me in or should I just drop these perfect margaritas all over your doorstep,” she called out.
“Hey,” I replied through the door. “I’m actually in the writing cave tonight.”
Her smile was instantly replaced with pursed lips. “Do not give me the same lame excuses you give your family. I know you’re not writing. You’re stalking that damn review site, hoping someone else wanted Jake dead as much as you did. Now, let me in, bitch. It’s Thursday!”
It was girl’s night.
And I’d completely forgotten. I lost track of time, wrapped up in my bubble of bad reviews.
Shit. I think I was in charge of snacks.
I threw the door open and took the pitcher from her left hand while she juggled two margarita glasses in her right. “Damn, woman. You almost wasted the top shelf tequila I smuggled home from the bar the other night.”
I placed the pitcher on the beige laminate countertop and gave her my best stern expression. “You stole liquor from your work? Again?”
She lifted one shoulder in a shrug and began filling the glasses. “Bryan shorted me on tips again, so I did what needed to be done.”
Bryan was her tyrant of a boss and the owner of Magenta, ‘a bar created by millennials, for millennials.’ It was supposed to be sleek and sexy with its floor to ceiling windows and black leather couches.
There were television screens mounted throughout that displayed nothing but social media tweets and updates from the hot ‘celebrities’ of the week. To have their name up on the screen was the closest some would come to seeing their name in Hollywood lights.
The bar came complete with USB chargers on every table, for the patron who couldn’t be separated from their smartphone for more than a few minutes.
Even as a millennial, I’d always found it odd. On the rare occasions that I did go out, I did it to get away from social media and the urge to spend my every waking moment online.
Plus, Bryan was a supreme douche bag. He withheld tips from the female bartenders unless they offered him something in return. Never mind that they’d been schilling beer and avoiding the groping hands of inebriated men for their entire shift; now they had to worry about their boss.
“When are you going to tell him to go screw himself and find something better?” I stopped rummaging through my small pantry, coming up with a half-eaten bag of blue corn tortilla chips. It would have to do.
Aaris perched on the edge of the barstool, somehow looking like royalty in her ratty joggers and loose fitting tank top. “As soon as this modeling thing takes off, I’m done. Until then, I’ll suffer through it. My regulars make it worth it, you know?”
I found a questionable jar of salsa in the back of the fridge and placed it alongside the stale chips while nodding along. Questionable because I couldn’t actually remember the last time I went grocery shopping, much less my last salsa purchase.
Tomorrow, I was going to start being a responsible adult. I’d wake up early, go for a jog, grab some groceries, learn how to cook, and then maybe I’d pay some bills.
You know, if there was enough time.
Aaris scrunched up her nose in disapproval. “Hayden, I know you’re not serving this to me. Not after I went out of my way to steal good tequila for you.”
I blew out an exasperated breath. “This is all I have—I’ve been a little busy today.”
“You were on Goodbooks again, weren’t you? Hayden, how many times do I have to tell you that focusing on the negative is a shit business plan? You’re better than this.”
I nodded and straightened the chip bag without making eye contact. “Look, I just need to know what they’re saying. Consider it research for my newest book.”
She took a sip of her drink and rolled her eyes simultaneously. “Sure. Research. And how exactly is that going to help you with your new book? You gonna bring Jake back as a zombie? I can see it now; Detective Hopkins: Ghosted.” She paused to laugh at her own joke. “C’mon, girl. Focus on your female detective and make all the haters eat their words.”
I mulled it over, back to imagining how good it would feel to throw the phrase ‘published author’ in my brother’s stupid face.
On the other hand, zombies were kind of in right now. It wouldn’t be unheard of to bring him back; soap operas did it all the time.
Detective Hopkins: Highway to Hell.
She sighed. “You’re really considering ways to bring him back to life, aren’t you? Stop. You aren’t going to please everybody—you’re not Nutella.”
She was right.
I was getting far too invested in the opinions of strangers.
“Okay,” I reluctantly agreed. “I’ll focus on the new book and not the reviews.”
This was just step one in becoming the new me.
This was the moment I’d recall when being interviewed by the Today show.
They’d probably have Kathie Lee interview me and I’d look her right in the eye and say, “Kath.” Obviously, I’d shorten her name as we’d have become very close in the green room. Kindred spirits, perhaps. “Kath, one night over margaritas with my dear friend, I realized that life was too short to spend time obsessing over who does or doesn’t like you. I took that negativity and channeled it into the mega-blockbuster book, turned movie. It’s truly been a remarkable journey.”
Kathie would lean in conspiratorially, she’d probably even pat my leg as she mock-whispered, “I knew from page one that this book was going to be huge.”
I was plucked from my fantasy by the sound of Aaris loudly slurping her margarita.
Once she had my attention, she eyed the sad selection of snacks on the counter. “Order me a pizza while you’re fantasizing about being interviewed on the Today show, okay?”
Two
“Is it just me or did Jeremy Piven suddenly get hot?” Aaris asked around a mouthful of vegetarian pizza as we sat side by side on the couch.
I adjusted my glasses and looked at the commercial on the screen again before frowning at her. “Really? Him?”
I mean, I’d
had quite the crush on Keanu Reeves ever since I found an old VHS of Bram Stoker’s Dracula mixed in with my Disney movies. My father had recorded it off “the HBO,” and I’d assumed that it was okay for a six-year-old to watch.
It wasn’t, but that didn’t end my Keanu obsession. I cut pictures of him out of magazines, strategically placing them around the mirror over my dresser like he was looking down on me. Twenty-four years later and the pictures were gone, but I was still in awe of the man.
Jeremy, on the other hand? Not so much. He was definitely not in the same league as Keanu.
She continued chewing, a dreamy expression on her face. “Maybe it’s the glasses. I don’t know, I’d do him though. Ooh, speaking of doing, how’d the date with that guy go? What was his name? Spencer? Shawn?”
That was the thing about Aaris. She was stunning, yet always seemed to go for guys who were closer to middle age. Men who inevitably ended up being married or in the throes of a mid-life crisis.
Seriously, the girl won the genetic lottery. Her Indian father met her German mother and they fell in love, creating the three most aesthetically perfect children in the world. After moving around the world, they finally chose to settle in my city and she and I had been friends ever since.
With her long black hair and flawless skin, Aaris could’ve been modeling for years. Instead, she chose men who made her feel insecure and kept her working for guys like Bryan at Magenta.
“So close—Cole,” I said with a laugh. “And it went about like everything else in my life does. Disappointingly.” I glared at the half-empty margarita glass resting on the side table as I swayed slightly on the couch. I swore I wasn’t going to talk about yet another failed attempt at dating, but Aaris didn’t mess around when it came to alcohol.
The date with Cole had been another fail in a long line of fails. He’d seemed nice enough online but was pushy and arrogant in person. Maybe that was why it had been easy for me to write a cocky man whore like Jake Hopkins; because it was all I ever seemed to meet in real life.
Bootsy strolled past the couch, judgment evident in her stare. She’d never approved of any of my dates or even the mere mention of dates. She didn’t really approve of me leaving the house period.
“Bootsy, how the hell are you?” Aaris teased, earning herself a tail flick. “She really is the cat from hell, isn’t she?”
“She’s not! She’s a wonderful companion,” I argued, my words running together thanks to the tequila.
She shook her head with a laugh. “Whatever you say. I still think she’s an evil bitch.” She held her index finger up. “Nay, an evil murderous bitch.”
“Allegedly.”
Aaris and Bootsy’s relationship had been doomed from the start. We’d been drinking at my apartment one night and Aaris decided to stay over—she lived across town at the time. I’d gotten up early the next morning to take a shower when I heard the screams coming from my bedroom.
According to Aaris, she’d awoken to Bootsy’s paws over both of her nostrils. In her eyes, it was clear proof that my cat had tried to murder her while she was sleeping. I’d suggested that Bootsy was simply warming her paws by the warmth of her nose, but Aaris was not having it.
“Allegedly, my ass. Satan cat,” she said as she stood up with a soft belch. “Pitcher’s empty. Decide on a movie while I make another batch, will ya?”
I snorted, “That’s easier said than done. You never like anything I pick out.”
She cradled the empty pitcher in her arm like a newborn and unsteadily made her way toward the front door, calling over her shoulder, “I’m easy. Just pick something that isn’t all action-y, based on a fairy tale, or with sci-fi crap. Simple.”
“Simple,” I mimicked as the door slammed shut behind her. I scrolled aimlessly with the remote, but came up empty-handed. Nothing was going to meet her stupid criteria.
Three sharp raps on the front door had me dropping the remote in fright. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, just yell. You’re going to give me a heart attack.” Bootsy yowled in agreement as I went over to the door.
I threw it open, ready to lay into Aaris, but was immediately stunned into silence. The man standing in front of me was most certainly not Aaris. He glanced up from the ground at the sound of the door opening and I damn near swooned. Something about him was so familiar, yet I was certain that we’d never met before.
Trust me, I would’ve remembered.
He towered over me; which wasn’t really saying a lot as most people did when I wasn’t wearing heels. His light brown hair was close-cropped on the sides, but longer on top. Every strand was combed back perfectly, except for a cowlick that poked out near the back of his head. He had a dusting of hair along his strong jawline and brilliant greenish-brown eyes that probably had the ability to hypnotize me if I stared long enough.
And he was absolutely, without a doubt, at the wrong apartment.
“Hello,” he began, and a small frisson of lust moved through my veins.
I chalked my reaction up to the dry spell I’d been in as of late and nodded politely. “Hello. Can I help you?”
He lifted his hand and consulted a book I hadn’t noticed him carrying before looking back at me. “I’m sorry to bother you, ma’am, but I’m looking for Hayden Michaels.”
I took a hesitant step back when I realized he was holding a copy of Detective Hopkins: One in the Chamber. So far, hate reviews had been the only thing I’d received. I hadn’t factored in the possibility of a crazed reader showing up on my doorstep to vent. It wasn’t like my address was listed on the back cover or anything.
The hottie was looney.
Damn.
I forced my voice to remain calm. “I think you have the wrong apartment.”
He flashed me a megawatt smile, complete with dimples. “Sorry to have bothered you, ma’am. Have a nice evening.”
I closed the door and latched it before sinking down to the carpet. I’d never been more grateful that I chose not to put my picture on the back of my books.
What would he have done if I’d said I was Hayden?
Shot me?
Murdered me for offing his favorite fictional character?
Forced me up against the nearest wall and taken his frustrations out on my body in a more passionate manner?
Okay, so the last one was stretching it a bit.
The next knock at the door had me scrambling into the kitchen for a weapon. I grabbed the first thing I could find and tiptoed back to check the peephole.
“Hurry up and let me in,” Aaris complained.
I quickly unlocked the door and dragged her inside, sloshing some of the margarita mix onto the linoleum floor in the entry.
She took in my weapon and carefully asked, “Everything okay, Hayden?”
I dropped the rolling pin back onto the counter and whispered, “No. Did you see a man outside?”
Her brow furrowed as she turned back toward the door. “Uh, I saw Eddie that lives two doors down. Are you sure you’re okay?”
I shook my head. “No. There was a man here. He had my book and wanted to know if Hayden Michaels was here.”
She nodded slowly. “And you told him what exactly?”
“I said that he was at the wrong apartment. Jesus, Aaris, why would he have my book?”
She gestured toward the kitchen. “I think the more pressing question is what you planned on doing with the rolling pin? Baking him a pie?”
I shrugged. “It was the first thing I found. I’m seriously freaking out here. Bad reviews are one thing, but showing up on my doorstep? That’s psycho-level stuff, right?”
She refilled my glass and handed it to me with both hands. “Okay, sweetie. Here’s what we’re gonna do. You’re gonna sit down on the couch and drink this, while I find something for us to watch.”
It didn’t escape my notice that she kept glancing toward the front door, expecting my book-wielding assailant to burst through at any moment.
I kept an eye on the rolling
pin just to be safe.
In my severely hungover state the following morning, I’d almost convinced myself that the entire thing had been a joke. It was just the sort of thing my asshole of an older brother would do. Just because I hadn’t invented a thing that did a thing that Oprah put on her list of favorite things, I was somehow beneath him.
I popped a coffee pod into the machine and leaned against the counter for support as it began brewing.
To make matters worse, my parents were the same. I was constantly asked at family gatherings when I planned to give up writing and get ‘a real career.’
I blearily tapped out a text to him.
Nice job sending a psycho to my apartment. Don’t think I’m going to forget that anytime soon.
The bright light streamed into the room through the cheap vertical blinds covering the balcony door and I winced in pain before retrieving my sunglasses from my purse. After adding half a carton of creamer to my coffee, I laid my face against the cool countertop and groaned, “Bootsy, why’d you let me drink so much last night? You know I have to write today.” She wound her way around my legs, clamoring for my full attention, clearly not giving a fuck that I felt like dying.
Her meows were like ice picks to my skull, each one louder than the last. Seeing that I wasn’t moving, she resorted to caterwauling. The yowls had me up and searching for her food within seconds.
I dumped a cup of dry food into her bowl with a tersely whispered, “Please, for the love of all that is good and holy, shut the hell up!”
She glared past me, toward the cabinets where I kept the canned food. “Oh, no. You are not getting that fishy smelling shit this morning.”
I pushed past the nausea and sipped my cup of coffee like a frat boy chugging a pint before deciding that a second cup was a must. Once that was settled, I pulled up the manuscript for Detective Hopkins: Angel of Death. It was still in the very rough stages—so rough in fact that I’d only written the title so far.
I cracked my knuckles. It was time to introduce a new detective and win my readers back.
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