Awake (Reflections Book 3)

by A. L. Woods

  “I don’t give a shit what you think,” I said, sidestepping him. This inn room was about to turn into a crime scene because I was going to kill his mother.

  Paul swayed in my direction again, waylaying me with a smile. “No, I mean it,” he insisted. “You’re talented.”

  Apparently, the apple didn’t fall far from the tree and he was nuts, too. “You came all this way to tell me that?” My hands nested on my hips, the flame of my stare burning. Rosa was one thing, but I didn’t need the addition of her spawn in my life.

  “Right. Forgive me.” Paul patted his pockets, pulling out a business card. He held it out to me with the patience of an Ativan-popping kindergarten teacher with all the time in the world.

  My throat worked before I accepted it, bringing it to my line of vision.

  “Paul Silva, literary agent,” I read, my grip on the card tightening.

  “I wasn’t in the market for new writers to rep, but I really think you have something here.” He fished the now-folded sheets of paper that Rosa had siphoned out of my room from the inside pocket of his suit jacket. “How close are you to finishing your manuscript?”

  I shook my head, nearing him to tear the folded sheets from his hand. Ignoring the way my insides twisted, I reached for my stolen property. “I’m not interested,” I said, although it was a struggle to ignore the tickle of curiosity that bloomed to life.

  “Puta que pariu,” Rosa said, driving the ball of her foot into the floor, mirroring my stance. I didn’t know what she said, but it didn’t sound good. She kicked her chin at her son, who looked equal parts amused and horrified by whatever his mother had said.

  I didn’t have a damn clue what she was prattling on about, and I didn’t care. I wanted them both out of my room. I had a date with a six-pack of Pabst Blue.

  “You’re a little old to be job shadowing your ma, don’t you think?”

  “You are funny.” Paul gave me another easygoing smile that I was learning was his way of attempting to pacify me. “It’s nice to see that it mirrors your writing. It’s rare.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Great. I don’t care.” I just needed to continue to default to disdain so they would both leave.

  “There’s a bar about five minutes from here. I’d love to talk the opportunity over with you.”

  “I’m not interested,” I repeated weakly.

  Then Rosa, the sprightly little thing that she was, leaped from around him and whacked my backside with her open hand.

  “Teimosa!” she screeched. I pressed a soothing palm against where her hand landed, dodging her as she moved to swat me again.

  She’d just hit me for the last time.

  “Listen, lady.” My voice was low-pitched and threatening. “I’m only going to tell you this one more time. The last broad who regularly hit me eventually got hers. I don’t want to do the same to you,” I cautioned, my accent unusually thick and rich even to my own ears.

  It always sounded heavier when I was nervous, and I felt that way right now. I was sweating buckets from places I didn’t know I could perspire from.

  “So, it is about you?” Paul asked. I responded with a sharp glare. His eyes rounded, his jaw slackened. “Mariah, she’s your author surrogate?”

  Mariah was the name I’d gone with for the lead in my book. I’d read the name off of some gossip rag in the inn lobby. There was no meaning behind it. No sentimental value.

  It was just a name, a placeholder of sorts, because I had no intention of publishing it, never mind letting anyone else read it.

  My shoulders set tightly, my chin tilting upward. “Author is not a word I would use to describe myself, but sure.”

  “It will be soon enough,” he assured with another laconic smile that tilted to the right with ease.

  “Go,” Rosa said, grabbing me by the wrist and pulling me toward the door. “You talk, you sign, you make money.”

  “I don’t—”

  Rosa stopped me with a jutted finger in front of my face like a weapon.

  This conversation was over.

  “I think you’re illustrating a side of South Boston that’s primarily explored through the perspective of the mob or men.” Paul talked with his hands, just like his mother. I assumed he would have eventually exhausted himself with his level of animation, but he just seemed to get more passionate as our meeting continued.

  “John’s intro in chapter four was spectacular,” he continued. “It’s unusual for a male to take a copilot position in a story of this nature, but I think it provides the piece with an unexplored fortitude rarely seen in this genre. Mariah is no damsel in distress, and it’s clear that John provides her with the vulnerability she struggles with.”

  I stared into the golden amber of my pint, listening as he spoke.

  “Is he also based on someone?” he inquired.

  I cleared my throat, lifting my pint to my lips and sucking back a quarter of it. “Loosely.”

  “In likeness, or…?”

  I gave a perfunctory shrug in response. Did it really matter now?

  “And would that be apparent to the individual?”

  That would require the individual to be aware of what I truly felt for him, so no. I shook my head, which may as well have been a cheerleader spelling out N-O-P-E to Paul, because he tossed me another one of those megawatt grins that were soon going to cost me my retinas.

  I eyed the contract that sat in the middle of the table between us, careful to keep my expressions in check.

  “Can I ask you something?” I swirled the contents of my glass, watching as Paul leaned forward to take a sip of his cocktail.

  His lips relaxed against the straw, slouching back in his seat. “Go for it.” He had ditched his suit jacket against the back of the chair, the sleeves of his otherwise crisp dress shirt now rolled up to his elbow.

  “Why are you trying to sign me?”

  “You’re a talented writer. I meant what I said. I think you have something that the market needs.”

  I wasn’t trying to be surly, but my upbringing didn’t allow me to trust people prone to effusive and mawkish displays. “What’s the real reason?” I pressed over the clamor that filled the bar. His brow ticked upward, reticence thinning his lips. “I mean, you don’t make a habit of driving almost three hours from your cushy house in L.A. just because your ma tells you to on the regular, right?”

  “I live in Malibu.”

  He could have lived on Mars and it wouldn’t have made a damn difference to me. “Whatever, Paul. That’s not the point,” I said, apathy rolling through me.

  “What is the point then, Raquel?” He tilted his head at me, brown eyes round and curious. There was a dissonance between the way he spoke and his mannerisms. I suspected he wanted to match my indifference in his tone, but he couldn’t keep the excitement painted all over his face contained.

  “The point is, this is all too convenient.” I ripped a napkin free from the dispenser, making a show of tearing the edges. “What are you getting out of representing me?”

  “Twenty percent of whatever you make.”

  I recoiled in my seat, my head snapping back. “Are you out of your damn mind?” I sputtered.

  “Standard rate in this business.” He made a show of steepling his fingers together.

  Bullshit. What did he take me for? I had made it to a workshop at BU, and maybe a lot had changed in ten years, but I understood the foundation of how this negotiation period worked. “Ten percent.”

  He threw an arm over the back of the chair, his other hand playing with the tail of his tie. “Fifteen percent.”

  “Ten percent.”

  Paul’s molars ground together, his leg fidgeting from underneath the bar table. “Twelve percent and subsidiary rights.”

  I held his gaze, maintaining my poker face. I wasn’t budging on this. If he wouldn’t give me a straight answer for why he was doing this, it would cost him—and his mother. “Ten percent, plus subsidiary rights on foreign translations a
nd first and second serial.”

  “Ten percent and subsidiary rights on all materials in different formats,” he countered.

  “Nope,” I said, folding my hands in front of me. “Ten percent, no subsidiary rights, and a one-year termination provision.”

  The glower he shot in my direction told me he’d gone into this expecting an angry, albeit ignorant fool. I wasn’t naïve.

  I never would be again.

  “You cocky little shit.” He threw his head back and barked out a grating laugh. “No wonder my mother likes you. You play hardball.”

  “Your move, suit.” I raised a brow at him, saluting him with my glass before taking another sip, smacking my lips together with self-satisfaction, though my stomach roiled. Was I an idiot for rocking this boat so hard? It was the opportunity I always wanted…and if I blew it, I might regret it.

  When he didn’t immediately reply, the worry bathed me. I’d fucked it up, hadn’t I?

  Paul blew out a breath, leaning forward in his seat. He drummed his fingers along the tabletop, his dark eyes searching mine as if he could pinpoint my bluff. I greeted him with an impassiveness on par with Mother Teresa herself. “Twelve percent, no subsidiary rights, three-year termination provision.”

  My nose wrinkled. “You hate the number ten or something?”

  “No, I hate negotiating with women who are aware that they have me by the balls.”

  I smirked. “And do I?”

  “I didn’t think they bred unicorns in Boston.” Paul’s fist bunched, and he bit into it, his eyes rolling back in their sockets. “Always thought your kind were a rarity. Pretty, creative, and wicked smart.” His usage of “wicked” and the attempt at emulating my accent was almost offensive, but I’d spare him an eye roll if he would agree to my terms.

  There was something salacious in the way he said it, and a brush of discomfort breezed through me at the same time someone opened the bar door, letting in a hint of briny air. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were flirting with me.”

  Paul smiled sheepishly, using the umbrella of his pina colada to stir the drink. He took a sip, the rays of the setting sun from the window catching on his dark eyes. “I am flirting with you.” His smile was slow and charming. My insides churned with dread. “And I’m happy to hang up my business hat in favor of a fun night out, if you’re interested.”

  “I’m not.” I tightly wrung my hands, my jaw turning to granite, my unease crawling up and down my spine. I couldn’t even fathom that kind of thing. I was nowhere near ready for that, and truthfully, I wasn’t sure I ever would be. “And if getting me on my back is contingent with signing me, then you’ll promptly do me a solid by getting back in your car, banging a u-ey and fucking right off.”

  Paul blinked at me, shock miring his features. Then he burst into loud quakes of laughter, drawing attention to himself, his shoulders shaking.

  What was so funny about this?

  My cheeks heated, mortification at the unwanted attention from other patrons making me uncomfortable.

  He swiped under his eyes, shaking his head. “My mother was right; you are a spicy little thing.” My eyes tapered in his direction, the blunt edges of my nails digging into my knuckles. “I want to rep you, Raquel. Regardless of,” he waved his hand in front of his face, “my carnal interests, so here’s what we’ll do.” He pulled a Mont Blanc pen from out of his suit jacket.

  Paul scratched revised negotiations onto the paper in chicken scrawl. “Ten percent, a mutually beneficial and agreed upon list of subsidiary rights, and a two-year termination provision.” He flitted his stare at me, leaning forward on the table. “Do we have a deal?”

  I chewed on the inside of my cheek, my eyes tracing over the revised negotiations. “What did your last deal go for?”

  “The advance?” he asked. “About fifteen.”

  “Hundred?” That wasn’t much more than what I had in the safe back at the motel.

  “Fifteen thousand,” he corrected, capping the pen.

  I whistled to myself, doing the math in my head. He’d walk away with just over two thousand of that if that was the deal he negotiated for my book. “C’mon, Raquel. Give me a bit of credit.”

  I scowled at him, shifting in my seat.

  “If there’s media interest in your book, I’m sure I can squeeze someone for more,” he assured with a deft wave of his hand, like it was no big deal.

  But it was an enormous deal for me. This was about my book. My book. This dream had been what kept me going for so long. It kept me hungry, and then it kept me stuck and fastened in place to old habits, surrounded by ghosts from my past and shadows of who I had been. I spent most of my waking life fantasizing about this; I just never thought after everything, that it would ever be a possibility for me.

  Now, it could be mine.

  And there was no one for me to tell. No one with whom to celebrate this small feat, because I was alone. Every choice I’d made until now had sealed my fate. I’d chosen this. So why was regret and longing knocking on my door? Why was it Sean’s face that flickered behind my lids every time I blinked?

  My stomach sank, a deep and hollowed ache forming low beneath my ribcage.

  It still wasn’t entirely clear to me why Paul was taking a chance on an unknown writer like me, but I suspected it had something to do with his ma. I didn’t want to feed into my suspicion, because there was a small chance he did genuinely believe in my writing, and perhaps seeing me in the flesh had made the rest of the pieces fall into place.

  Either way, I had to hand it to him; he came prepared. Almost like he was confident I couldn’t turn him down.

  Paul took his iPhone from his pocket and took a few snapshots of what he’d written before he slid the contract forward. “Take that with you, read it, and think about it for the next couple of days. I’ll be in touch.”

  Did I really need to think about it? After all this time, my dream was within reach. All I had to do was reach out and seize it. I could have what I’d always wanted, what I’d always envisioned. This moment invalidated all those rejection letters, lessened the burden of my inferiority complex surrounding my first manuscript.

  Maybe dreams coming to fruition didn’t just exist in a state of slumber. Maybe they could happen when I was awake, too.

  Even if it meant I was doing it alone.

  I motioned for Paul’s pen. His mouth tilted into a lopsided smirk as he handed the pen to me, observing as I struck out the previous terms and scratched my initials near his revised ones. “I agree to this, nothing more, nothing less. Send me a revised clean copy of the contract and we have a deal.”

  I resented that in the back of my mind, all I wanted to do was tell Sean.

  Paul’s eager foot bounced against the floor and yanked me out of the dark part of my thoughts before the sadness took the chance to germinate and grow new roots.

  Sliding the contract back in his direction, he extended a hand, fingers dancing. Enveloping my palm in his, he gave me a firm shake. “Not sure who the poor bastard is that screwed you, but I’m glad he did. You and I stand to make a fuckton of money if this goes the way I want it to.”

  His words were a sucker punch to the gut. My heart sank, but I kept the smile pinned to my face. The feeling was trite. There was no point in dwelling and reliving it repeatedly.

  Sean and I were over. It was pointless to keep myself suspended in this constant whirlwind of agony that reminded me it had all been a lie.

  Our actions doomed us from the start. The reminder of that was as real to me as the pulse that throbbed through me, the beer in my belly, and the ink on the dried contract I’d just signed. The one that would hopefully translate into the career I’d envisioned for myself so many years ago.

  If I was going to be alone, I wanted it to mean something. I wanted this inexpungible loneliness to mean something. To invest all this anguish and loss of love into something meaningful.

  Now I stood to gain another thing I’d never had b
efore.

  Renewed hope.

  Paul and I ordered another round of drinks, this time of the celebratory variety. When the waitress returned to our table, we tapped our glasses together in a toast.

  I was about to tip the beer down my gullet when he stopped me. “One last thing.” He regarded me with eyes so curious, they almost reminded me of Sean’s for a moment until I blinked my eyes back into focus.

  Keeping the glass trained to my lips, I flitted my gaze at him. “What?”

  “What’s your title for the book?”

  Settling the glass back down on the table, my thumb caught an errant pebble of condensation running down my glass. “Awake,” I said over the din of the bar, my throat working at the lump that lodged itself there. “It’s called Awake.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  July

  They say time flies when you’re having fun, but I wasn’t having fun. The level of stress I was experiencing must have been on par with a missed period if I could physically menstruate. I all but ran out of the city hall, barking thank yous over my shoulder and nearly trampling two city workers on my way back to my car, my tires screeching when I pealed out of the parking spot I’d been in.

  I was late.

  I was so unbelievably fucking late.

  Which was a weird thing to say, given this baby was two weeks overdue.

  It wasn’t like scheduling an oil change, being punctual to your appointment with the bank to sign off on your loan, or making sure you made it to the restaurant before the gas fitter showed up to install the commercial ranges.

  Babies were unpredictable. They marched to the beat of their own drum and didn’t give a shit about your deadlines or agenda. They came when they were good and damn ready and not a minute sooner.

  And Baby Patterson was ready now.

  Gratitude swam through me as I rolled the Wrangler into a visitor’s parking spot at Charlton Hospital. It admittedly came as a surprise to me that Penelope wanted to give birth in Fall River, as opposed to one of the cushier and medically advanced hospitals in the city. Small city life suited her just fine, and she wasn’t missing any of the luxuries Boston had provided her with.