Protagonized

by Shannon Myers

  “‘One in the Chamber wants to be deep, but comes across as trite and shallow. Ending this book with a cliffhanger would’ve been acceptable, you know, had there been any redeeming qualities in the main characters. With the earlier work, I was convinced that Hayden was the next Nicholas Sparks. Now, I’m convinced that Hayden is a frat boy who probably wouldn’t know a balanced character if it was doing a keg stand right in front of him.’ That’s good constructive criticism,” Jake paused to note.

  I buried my face in my hands with a groan.

  “No, really. You’re getting caught up in the stereotype. You’ve kept your characters two-dimensional. This is something I can help you with in the book. With a little insight, I think we can turn this whole thing around.” He continued reading the review aloud, eviscerating my career with every word.

  Apparently, I’d been putting too much of the frat boy lifestyle into my books. Because, obviously, I was a man. What woman could ever be named Hayden?

  • Confession: When I was nine, I wrote a book. Nothing fancy, but god, was I proud of it. I’d even taken the time to draw my own illustrations on each page with colored pencils. When I asked my parents for one of my school pictures to tape to the back, my father informed me that it was better if people not know I was a girl. He said they’d be more likely to take me seriously if they thought I was a man. It was why he’d chosen the name Hayden. As sexist as it was, it stuck with me and I’d never felt comfortable using a photo since.

  I knew Jake was expecting a snarky response, but I was still reeling from the review. The reader had been ‘bored as hell’ for the first half of the book, but finally became invested by the second half—until I threw Jake off a balcony.

  I stared blankly at the word document in front of me, my muse beaten to the point of silence. The cursor flashed, taunting me. Each flicker was like a beacon, alerting the world to my failure.

  Blink.

  Failure.

  Blink.

  Failure.

  My throat began to tighten, eyes stinging with unshed tears. Jake must’ve sensed something was off because he stopped reading. I felt his eyes on the back of my head and my skin flamed with disappointment? Anger? I didn’t know.

  I blinked rapidly, my teeth sinking into my lower lip, gnawing away at the last remnants of lip balm. I’d sworn I was going to break the habit but, like so many other things in my life, hadn’t succeeded.

  Blink.

  Failure.

  “Hayden.” Jake’s voice was soft. A loud knock at the front door silenced whatever he’d planned to say next. He was up off the couch with his gun drawn before Bootsy even had a chance to react.

  He’d lost his boots at some point and was now padding across the carpet in his socks. Inexplicably, that irritated me more than him commandeering my couch and my cat. Socks indicated familiarity and a sense of being at home.

  This wasn’t his home, and I certainly didn’t want him getting comfortable.

  “Does anyone know I’m here?”

  I shook my head. “Wait, yes. Aaris does. That is, if she remembers anything post-hangover.”

  He checked the peephole. “What does she look like?”

  “Gorgeous. Tall. Looks like she fell out of a fashion magazine?”

  “Would she have gone for backup?”

  The sheer absurdity of it all had me mashing my lips together to keep the laughter inside. “Backup? Jake, this is the real world. Just let her in; if you don’t, she’ll definitely get the police involved. The real police,” I amended.

  He nodded and holstered his gun before unlocking the door. “Aaris?”

  She strolled past him and into my apartment with a frown. “I’m going to quit! I can’t work like this anymore. I was supposed to have the early shift last night, but then Kara called in, so I had to stay and close. You know how hungover I was, so I’m sure you can imagine how well that went. I paid out the bartenders and then Bryan called me into his office. Accused me of drinking on the job and—holy shit, sweetie, are you handcuffed to the chair?”

  I nodded. “Oh, well, yeah. But, what happened with Bryan?”

  Jake leaned against the front door with a bemused expression on his face.

  “Who the hell are you?” she asked, clearly noticing him for the first time. Perhaps, he should’ve had his ass greet her at the door. She’d seemed quite familiar with that yesterday.

  “It’s Detective Jake Hopkins. You know, from my books.”

  Her mouth fell open and her eyes darted from him to me and back over again, like a tennis ball at Wimbledon.

  “Jake from the books, why do you have my best friend handcuffed to a chair?”

  He dragged his thumb along the side of his mouth. “We, uh, had a difference of opinion on how to write the next book.”

  “So, you handcuffed her?” I winced as her voice went up several octaves.

  At some point during the commotion, Bootsy had joined Jake near the door and they both eyed Aaris warily.

  Jake crossed his arms over his chest defensively. “She threw me off a thirty-story building! Don’t let the sad expression fool you; your best friend is a sociopath.”

  She made a sound that could only be described as something between a groan and a scream before pulling her cell phone from her purse. “Oh my god, you really think you’re a fictional character? Hayden, honey, I’m calling the police.”

  Jake put a hand on his holster. “Don’t do this, Aaris. I will be forced to restrain you if you don’t put down the phone. Hayden, tell her.”

  He looked to me and I shrugged helplessly. I was the victim here; he’d do well to remember that. “What am I supposed to tell her exactly? I’m just the resident sociopath, remember?”

  His brows knitted together. “Goddammit. Tell her that I’m Jake.”

  “This man says he’s Jake.”

  He rolled his eyes and gave me a thumbs up. “Thanks for that, Hayden. Super helpful.”

  Aaris’s breathing had turned ragged, and she gripped the wall behind her for support. “P-prove it.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You heard me. If you’re Jake, then prove it. There’s got to be something that proves you’re him—something that’s not in the books. Hayden can verify.”

  Oh, she was going to eat him alive.

  I wasn’t sure why I hadn’t thought of making him provide proof. Probably because he had me handcuffed before it could come up in conversation.

  She stared meaningfully at me and, unsure of what she was trying to communicate, I returned it. That earned me another eye roll and an exasperated sigh. “I need a suggestion. What is something that only you would know?”

  I wracked my brain. “Uh, his mother’s maiden name?”

  “Olson,” Jake replied. “Next?”

  Aaris looked to me for confirmation and I nodded.

  Lucky guess.

  “Okay, where did you go to high school? Is that something you know, Hayden?”

  I nodded. I’d created an elaborate back story when it came to Jake but had kept the details to myself. It hadn’t seemed important enough to add into the novels.

  He paused and looked up at the ceiling, and I knew we’d busted him. He wasn’t Jake—he really was just some crazed reader.

  “Well, Aaris,” Jake announced like he was hosting a game show. “That would be the completely fictional Sierra Pines. Home of the fighting Bobcats.” He didn’t smile, but the corner of his mouth turned up ever so slightly at my facial expression.

  I looked like a fish out of water, gasping and spluttering in shock. “How?”

  His lip twitched. “Ask me another. This is fun.”

  “Tattoos?” Aaris blurted and I nodded vigorously.

  “Yes, tattoos!”

  I visualized my make-believe detective, suddenly convinced that the other two answers had been mere flukes. Jake had some very distinct pieces.

  He sighed. “Should we start with the family tattoo? Where the f is actually the branches
of a tree? Or, were you referring to the bridge? Because sometimes, you have to see—”

  “Where you came from to know where you’re going,” I finished with a whisper. “You’re really him.”

  Satisfied with the interrogation, Aaris crossed the room to him. “I’m going to need to see them.” His eyes narrowed and she added, “For verification purposes.”

  Jake turned away from me and unbuttoned his shirt, while I strained against the chair, hoping to get a better look.

  “There. Are we all good now?”

  Aaris’s eyes widened and she nodded dazedly, never once taking her eyes off of his chest. The cuff around my ankle rattled against the chair, but he kept his back to me.

  “Hayden,” Aaris murmured. “I want one of my own.”

  Her hands snaked around his biceps, kneading at him like Bootsy did when she craved attention. “Is everything real?”

  I infused as much boredom as I could into my voice. “I wouldn’t know. I really thought I was the only one on this crazy train.”

  “Tickets for two, please,” she purred. “Jesus, it’s like he was carved out of stone.”

  Jake dropped his hands and began refastening the buttons on his shirt. “Yeah, uh, I can hear you.”

  “Sweetie, I don’t care.” She continued squeezing him. “I told Hayden not to kill you off, but she wouldn’t listen. She just got so caught up in getting this publisher’s attention—”

  “Aaris!” I shrieked.

  She stood on tiptoe and peered at me over his shoulder. “What? I did tell you.”

  Jake’s eyes flashed with amusement as he turned back to me. “I like her.”

  There was nothing sexual in the way he said it either. It was just further proof that he had to be fictional. There wasn’t a man alive that was oblivious to her beauty.

  She kept his arm pinned in her hands, even as he tried to sidestep her grasp. “Holy hell, you’re like a superhero. Tell me, do you have a brother?”

  No.

  Another thing the world would never know about Jake? His parents were killed instantly when a robbery suspect ran a red light and t-boned their car following a high-speed chase with the police. He had no other family members and spent a year in foster care until he turned eighteen.

  “I actually have a sister.”

  I froze. “No, you don’t. You were an only child and with the tragic loss of your parents as a teen, you decided to go into law enforcement to prevent another child from experiencing the same tragedy. I know everything about you!”

  My voice got a little shrill toward the end and it sounded like I was reading from a script, but I lived and breathed Detective Jake Hopkins.

  He smirked. “You think you know—”

  I began ticking things off on my fingers. “No, I do! Your mother loved, uh, crafty stuff. She was into cross-stitching and whatever. And, and your dad—he was a former Marine, so he was strict with you, but you never once doubted that he cared. The loss of them made you who you are. You didn’t have anyone else to turn to, so you became your own hero of sorts.” I wracked my brain, trying to drum up more evidence.

  Aaris’s eyebrows shot up. “I never read any of that—”

  “It’s because she never put it in the books. She made vague references to my family, but never clarified whether they died or were on an extended vacation.” The slight quirk of his lips incinerated me. “My mother still enjoys cross-stitching and whatever, in case you were wondering, but, go on. Continue with your list.”

  “She looks like she’s about to combust, doesn’t she?” Aaris noted dryly.

  How was it possible that I knew so much, yet so little?

  Seven

  “Do you want the last egg roll?” Jake asked around a mouthful of food.

  It appeared like the universe was going to be doing everything in its power to keep my libido in check. It didn’t matter if he had half a burger in his mouth or not, if Jake had something to say, he was just going to say it. Flying bits of cow, be damned.

  And, the smacking…

  I grimaced and shook my head. “I’m suddenly not hungry.”

  “Why?” A masticated piece of what appeared to be hamburger bun landed next to my laptop. I stared at the soggy piece of bread and felt the bile in the back of my throat.

  Knowing if I looked at it much longer, I’d run the risk of hurling onto my laptop, I reluctantly brought my eyes up to meet his. “I’m…” Deep breath. Swallow. “I’m just not hungry.” I looked back down at my laptop, dismissing him.

  Aaris had left us alone again to go back to the job she’d sworn she was quitting. By now, I knew that her threats were hollow, but listened to her vent all the same.

  Jake allowed her to leave only after she promised that she wasn’t going to tell anyone that he was here. She nodded along and repeated the words, but her gaze never left his arms. She’d stumbled out of my apartment like a drunk.

  He’d officially rendered my best friend useless. She wasn’t going to tell anyone that he was here. So, once again, I was back to square one. I was going to be Jake’s prisoner until I changed the story.

  Unfortunately, no matter how much I tried to center myself, my mind had taken those negative reviews and put them up on the big screen.

  “Hayden could be a good writer if he had any inkling how to plot or tell a story. In my honest opinion, he’s highly overrated as a writer.”

  Six books.

  I’d written six books, but it was hard to find the accomplishment in any of it as I stared at the mostly blank word document in front of me.

  What if I didn’t have it anymore?

  That scared me even more than the bad press. What if it was a fluke? I’d known after the Blood Letters trilogy that I wanted to write about a detective. Blood Letters had flirted with the thriller genre while still remaining heavily ensconced in the romance territory. Each book featured a main character searching for love after tragedy. There was enough suspense to keep the reader hooked while allowing the main characters to find their soul mates. Detective Hopkins abandoned any pretense of romance and happily ever afters before plunging headfirst into the waters of crime fiction.

  I’d spent many a summer afternoon in the small pool house behind my great grandmother’s house, lost in a world of earnest detectives and corrupt mob bosses. The apartment had belonged to a great uncle that had moved on to bigger and better things, leaving his family and hard-boiled fiction behind to gather dust.

  The wall that faced the pool was entirely made of glass and was therefore subject to the afternoon rays that bounced off the water. It had also been built without air conditioning, leaving me to often wonder if that was the catalyst in my great uncle taking off. I’d prop myself up against the wooden frame of the old waterbed, amid the mildewed cardboard boxes, to read for hours.

  The men wore suits and smoked like freight trains, while the women were mysterious and seductive femme fatales, leading the hardened detectives into dangerous situations. And I loved everything about them, especially the fact that there never seemed to be a happy ending. It was such a contrast from the fairy tales I’d cut my teeth on.

  So, after Blood Letters, I branched out into noir fiction, creating a detective who was more villain than hero. The night before Detective Hopkins: Body of Proof released, I couldn’t sleep. I’d become convinced that my readers were going to hate it because it wasn’t romance and anything remotely romantic was done off-page. I finally convinced myself that it was just one book. If they hated it, I’d simply go back to romance.

  They went crazy for him.

  My inbox was flooded with readers asking when the next book was coming out… what his next case would be… some even wrote me to offer themselves up as the inspiration for his next love interest. Even my brother’s girlfriend, Emily, had loved it and asked for more.

  It should’ve been good news. I’d gotten to write in the genre I’d loved as a young girl, but it felt like something was missing. It took me three books,
but I finally figured out what that something was.

  The men were the heroes, and the women were nothing more than pretty distractions. Growing up, I’d never read one story where the woman saved the day. They were one-dimensional figures whose superpower was rocking a pair of stilettos.

  So, I killed Jake off, thinking that my female readers would support my decision to revamp the series with a female lead.

  Girl power and all that.

  Now I was without an agent and facing the wrath of a very angry detective.

  “You need coffee?”

  I jumped at the sound of his voice and was surprised to see that all traces of Jake’s hamburger were gone. He sat on the edge of my desk, watching me curiously.

  “What?” I asked, fighting to pull myself from the realm of bad book reviews and antihero detectives.

  “You zoned out on me. I asked if you needed coffee. We’ve got a long night of writing ahead.”

  My upper and lower molars connected at the use of the word ‘we.’ As if he was going to be sitting down to write anything. I knew what he’d be doing; sitting on the couch, offering unsolicited advice.

  I nodded. It was going to be the longest night of my life. It almost made me miss being handcuffed to my bed.

  Almost.

  The coffee maker grumbled to life, struggling just like I was to do its job. I highlighted a word and deleted it before promptly rewriting it again. The last two hours had been some variation of this exact thing. At this rate, Angel of Death would be complete in five to six years.

  The coffee maker gave its final phlegm-laden groans, filling the air with scents of caffeinated goodness. Maybe a strong cup of coffee would jolt me out of this fog.

  “Do you want cream?” Jake called from the kitchen before lowering his voice. “Or does Satan drink it black?”

  “I heard that and if you think that I’m going—”

  A deafening boom filled the room and the balcony door splintered into a series of cracks before my chair was flung backward onto the carpet.

  Jake had me and the desk chair pinned beneath his body, like a massive riot shield, while my addled brain tried to determine what the hell had just happened.