Ghost Writer (Raven Maxim Book 1) (14 page)

He flipped through the newspaper, chuckling to himself as he looked at the black and white photos, skipping over the words due to not knowing a damn lick of French. He took notice of a photo of a Parisian café. In front of it stood a few round tables for two, one of which showcased a wine bottle on a white linen cloth. A smile broke across his face as he grabbed his phone again and made an overdue call.

“Hello?” He could hear the sound of light chatter in the background after someone picked up.

“Yeah.” He cleared his throat, feeling a tad silly. “Is this Emerald?”

“Yes, who is this?” The thud and clank of what sounded like a metal can of soda rolling out of a vending machine soon followed.

“Sloan…wine guy in aisle 15.” He chuckled as he ran his finger around the rim of his now empty coffee cup.

“Ohhhh, yes! I remember you.” He took pleasure in the jovial tone of her voice. “How are you doing today?”

“I’m good. Just out and about, getting some fresh air, and decided to get a cup of coffee. So, did I catch ya at a bad time?”

“I actually just walked out of the office for an early lunch break, so your timing is perfect.”

“Good, I like bein’ described as perfect, makes me feel like I did something right today.”

“I said your
timing
was perfect,” she corrected on a chortle.

“You couldn’t let me just have it, could you?”

She laughed all the harder. “You’re funny…”

“Yeah? Well, since we both like to laugh, you wanna go out with me tomorrow night to a comedy club or something? I thought about just taking you to dinner but hey…” He shrugged. “Maybe you’d like to do something else instead.”

“Do you know I haven’t been to a comedy club in probably over five years?”

“It’s time then, right?” He leaned forward in the seat, the smile still super-glued hard to his face.

“That sounds like fun, yeah, sure I’ll go. I’m glad you called.” Her voice sounded warm and, dare he say it, comforting. “I accidentally deleted your contact information and several others, actually. I still had your card though, just in case but this phone is new for me, only had it a few days and I’m still trying to figure out how to work it.”

“Just so you know, I would’ve called you right away, but things have been a little hectic and I wanted to make sure we had time to go out and not be interrupted,” he confessed as he toiled with the newspaper a bit, expending some hyper energy.

“Work? Writing that next masterpiece, huh?” He heard the metal tab from the soda can being flipped open and the fizz escape into the air. Then, he could imagine her tilt the can and drink from it…

“I don’t know about a masterpiece and all of that, but it’s turning out pretty well so far. I’ve got a deadline crawlin’ up my ass faster than a comet high on crack-cocaine. I mean…” He burst out laughing. “Sorry about the language, geesh! Talking to you already like you’re one of my buddies.”

“You’re cool,” she said lightly. “So you’re a little stressed out, I take it?” He could hear her walking, her steps like a fast beat against a hard drum.

“A little bit. That makes this all the better though. It’ll be nice to go out, get some drinks, laugh, talk, get to know a new friend…” He swallowed as he reflected on the fact he’d purposefully isolated himself by moving to Maxim. Yeah, everything he’d told his son was true, but he’d downplayed that portion of it. He
did
want to be alone, all holed up in his own little world. He soon realized that wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. Being a workaholic recluse who paraded around in the wee hours of the night had drawbacks and he wanted off the hamster wheel. “I don’t know too many people here.”

“Well, I’d be happy to talk you more about the city, the best places to shop and eat, the areas you want to avoid and any other questions you may have in general.”

He liked her voice. The way her soothing tone wrapped around the words was crisp, concise, yet easy and laid back.

“Yeah? Well, thanks. I’d appreciate that, I could use all the help I can get. So, uh, how about tomorrow, like around seven? Is that a good time for me to pick you up? I’m thinking we can eat at the club. They usually have a nine o’clock show from what I saw online so that’ll give us time to talk and get a bite to eat before it starts.”

“That sounds perfect. I’ll meet you there.”

“I said I’d pick you up. You don’t want that?” Silence followed on the other end; if he were a betting man, he’d say she was trying to find a batch of politically correct words that wouldn’t sound so rough as she hurled them in his direction. “All right, that’s fine. I understand. I’m the one who warned you about crazy people.” The sound of her laughter on the other end of the line warmed him up; this time it sounded like she blended it with a sigh of relief. “No pressure, all right? Just a good time.”

“That sounds nice, yeah, I’ll meet you there. I look forward to it.”

“So do I. Well, I won’t keep you. Enjoy your lunch.”

“I will, thanks. You enjoy the rest of your day, Sloan, and try not to work too hard.”

“I’ll have a great day now that I know I have a date with
you
tomorrow. Talk to ya soon.”

And then he disconnected the call. He placed the phone down atop the spread newspaper and looked over the ads, the illustrations, the pretty sounding words he couldn’t quite pronounce. The original photo caught his attention once more, the one of the bottle of wine, the café, the allure in splendid black and white perfection right before his eyes. He’d never initiated a date with a woman since he and his wife split. He’d been on a few dates people set up for him, an introduction through friends from time to time, but nothing where he took the first step, wanted it,
asked
for it, or planned it out.

Sometimes he went on the dates begrudgingly. Other times he was hopeful, but he just didn’t enjoy himself. The woman would come off in a way he found disconcerting, or only asked about his career in a roundabout way to discover information regarding his finances. Sometimes, it was none of those reasons. In all honestly, there were occasions where the lady in question was fine; it was just that the chemistry wasn’t quite there or something key, something crucial, unseen and unheard, was missing.

He ran his hand through his hair as he
went
there in his thoughts, got caught in between the heavy, asphyxiating layers, beneath the weight of what it truly meant to him to be in such a predicament.

He wrote about perfect women, but knew they didn’t actually exist. He’d never asked for perfect; as a matter of fact, perfection didn’t appeal to him in the least. There wasn’t anything mystifying about perfection… nothing he could wrap his dreams, worries, and heart around. His wish list was simple: he only desired someone perfect for
him
.

He waved the waitress over, slid a twenty dollar bill in her hand for the coffee and a tip, then got to his feet.

As he made his way towards the doors, he listened to the quiet music, the slow hum of the coffee machines, and spoons clinking against mugs. He inhaled the delightful aromas, took it all in, grateful for his fresh start in Maxim as he ventured into another chapter of his world, word by word. He finally felt in control of his own destiny. Sloan had come to a final conclusion… He no longer wanted to watch his own biography being written by a ghostwriter that looked a lot like him, but happened to be a lazy fraud, a man who lacked total ambition as it pertained to affairs of the heart and shared his same name. He didn’t want to have that irony chase him, make a mockery of all that he was and could become.

Snatching his black sunglasses out of his jacket pocket, he put them on and took himself out into the open air touched by a crisp Autumn kiss. Minute by minute passed like white sands through tempered glass as he window-shopped and waved at passersby who bled friendliness in a neighborly sort of way. His mind wandered like a child in a department store, stopping here and there to view breakable things, delicate, sweet, and full of detail. He wanted to be better, do better, work hard, perhaps even fall in love again…

You see a pretty lady in a grocery store at two in the goddamn morning… She’s got fruit and fish and other stuff in her plastic green basket and when she walks, her knees go inward ever so slightly. Her skin is the color of over-baked gingerbread cookies and her eyes are so dark, yet the whites so bright, when you look into them, you almost forget that she asked you a question.

Her voice sounds like trumpets, violins, and flutes, and her body is Venus’ envy. Her hands have worked, yet she takes care of the delicate epidermis that covers her well-toned muscles that she couldn’t quite hide under that tangerine jumpsuit with little splashes of aquamarine detail. Her feet are small, too small for her petite, 5’8 frame, but this just adds to her beauty. You’re talking to her about wine, trying to sound in the know, show off a bit, teach her a thing or two like some big shot. You puff out your chest and stand a bit taller, straighter, and really put on a show—but your heart is beating a little faster because her lips are distracting you.

See, they’re full and shaped flawlessly. They’re the kind of lips you see people paying for, the kind you have kinky thoughts about, the kind that make you forget your name and why you’re at the damn store in the first fucking place. So you wonder what they’d feel like pressed against yours while you have her up against a bin of cantaloupes and get the answer to your question… You haven’t fucked in a while, and jackin’ off doesn’t count. You’re not a little kid anymore; you need the company of a woman, a REAL woman, and you miss it…

You miss their scent when they want you inside of them, the way they snatch covers in the middle of the night and leave you shivering. So you snuggle up close to get some of the thief’s body heat, realizing that was their plan all along. You miss their fragility and strength all rolled into one lady. You miss their higher pitched voice, their sexy laugh, even their damn sneezes. You miss even being nagged at a bit… You miss what you were meant to have but eluded you, what you felt was actually owed to you. So as you look at this woman standing there with her big, radiant black eyes, dark hair cut into a shoulder length asymmetrical bob with a thin strand of silver running down the right side, you realize you’ve stepped out of your comfort zone, and now you’re no longer questioning yourself as to, ‘Why?’

When she told you her name, you thought to yourself, ‘I’m meant to have some jewels… emerald is a good choice.’

But you didn’t say it. Not because you’re a coward, but because it would sound like a pick up line, and you don’t want her to think you’re corny. You realize at that moment, all of that public speaking has made you sound smooth, even when under pressure, but you still hate first meetings. You care again, and that concerns you, too. It’s safe to not care… caring gets you hurt. You chose to be alone, but now that loneliness chose you, too, you don’t want her ass anymore…

You preferred a one-sided relationship, one where you called the shots, because that’s what you were used to. You were accustomed to being in love, but not being loved back. Alive in a house as a married couple, but not living… you were internally single despite appearances. She no longer made love to you anymore, barely spoke to you, and after a while, you no longer wanted her, either. Now that that’s over, you had to relearn interpersonal functionality, and that a relationship consists of two people. You don’t have to be forlorn. Admit it though, you’ve been scared…

You’ve been petrified because you think you fucked up the first time, and you don’t want to fuck up again with someone you might actually enjoy. When other people set you up with some lady, it was all right, wasn’t it, Sloan? Then you could have someone else to blame, or have the option to blame no one at all. But, this time, it’s different.

You want to know about her, how she got a name like that, what she does for a living, what she does for fun, what part of town she lives in, what kind of books she reads when she isn’t checking out yours… You have questions and she’s got the answers, so you keep thinking of everything you want her to tell you, like: What does she watch on television? Does she have any children and has she ever dated a white man before? You want to tell her that you dated a few Black women previously, but that sounds stupid, like a dumb ass thing to say, like you need a qualifier of some sort.

Truth was, you noticed her as soon as she walked in the store. You spent far too much time looking at salty snacks you don’t even fucking eat, just so you could steal glances at her, learn her, and write all of that somehow, some way, into a book. You grabbed some nuts you don’t care for as she moved from aisle to aisle, just to have something with you, to not look so strange drifting about. You figured you could catch an invisible ghost in a glass of water, do the impossible. How can you seize a butterfly, melt it down, and place it into words? You can’t. You can describe the butterfly, but no one truly understands until they see one for themselves.

Well, I guess the world will just have to take my word for it. I saw a nocturnal butterfly one night, and come to find out, she likes wine, books, and going out at the wee hours of the night to take flight. I hesitated on calling her, but thought about her every day. She made me curious to the point I had to do something about it. I don’t know hardly shit about her, but I whipped out my net, because I recognized her as a second chance with wings. So I figured I’d better hurry, before she flew away and up into the night, forgetting all about me, or worse, caught by someone else who’s searching for the same butterfly as me…