Ghost Writer (Raven Maxim Book 1) (17 page)

“You intrigue me.”

She paused, keeping her expression impassive—not a brow raised, a nose wrinkled, nor a lip curled. But inside, her inner being raced about, flopped onto sandy beaches, and made mad dashes into piles of cedar scented leaves.

“You already know that you mesmerize me, too. I think I’ve made that perfectly clear,” he stated matter-of-factly.

“By the way.” The crowd moved a little. “I’m not the least bit surprised that that was one of your aims, you know, to capture the mindset of people in a way many just overlook. You’re a great writer.”

“Thank you,” he said. “So you read a lot, huh?”

“Not as much as I’d like.” She glanced up into his emerald eyes again…yeah, emerald… that was the exact shade. Her stomach did another stupid flip.

What are you? Half dolphin?

She quickly turned away. “But yes, when I have time. Reading is fun; plus, it helps exercise the brain.”

“All right, quiz time.” He clasped his hands together.

“I’m ready! Do I win a prize?” she teased.

“How about if you answer the question to my satisfaction, I’ll give you an autographed copy of any of my books of your own choosing, an author T-shirt, and a couple of bookmarks?”

“Deal.”

“Okay, here we go. First question: Who are your top three favorite authors?”

“Will I get in trouble or not get the prize if I don’t say your name?” she joked.

Laughing lightly, he shook his head. “Of course not.”

“But if I believe you, then I’m a fool… The male ego can be fragile.”

At this, he cracked up even louder. “Seriously, I promise I won’t hold it against you.”

…You can hold something else against me though…

“Well, I love Alice Walker—”

“‘The Color Purple’ and ‘By the Light of my Father’s Smile’. Great choice. She’s excellent,” he interrupted with glints of enthusiasm dancing in his eyes.

Emerald nodded in eager agreement. “She is. Her style of writing has changed a bit over the years, but I still like her and she’ll remain in my top three. I also like John Grisham.”

“He’s one of my favorites, too.” He took her hand and gave it a gentle squeeze as they moved a bit farther in the line. “Even though he seems a little more commercial now, he’s remained fairly true to his style and I can respect that. And number three?”

“Pepper Winters.”

That gave him pause. The overhead blue lights of a canopied awning gleamed like a halo on his head, lending shimmer to his eyes, a certain wet quality, as if she was staring into a pond. The silver in his beard sparkled like galactic stardust.

“Romance?” She smiled at his expression. Was he surprised? “Hmmm.” He looked away again, seeming to mull that bit of information around and around, kneading it into something worthy. “You know, I’ve thought about writing a romance novel before.”

“Did you? Are you still considering it?” Now she was the one to be surprised.

He ardently shook his head. “I don’t think it’s my thing, but I won’t rule it out completely…. Who knows? My ex-wife used to read a lot of romance novels when she was younger.” He spoke innocently enough, but an infinitesimal spark of bitterness appeared to tiptoe along and in between the hooves of an invisible beast, the hairy thing leaning heavy against Sloan’s declaration.

“Yeah.” She sighed. “A lot of women do. Actually, a lot of people, period, from what I’ve heard, you know? And the books out now aren’t like our grandmothers’ romance paperbacks anymore.” A wave of warmth came over her as situations from some of her favorite risqué books flashed in her mind. “The covers with the lady with the long, flowing blonde hair locked in a tight embrace with her strong, clean shaven lover who’s popping with muscles isn’t always the clincher.”

“You used the right word.”

“What word?”

“The types of covers you described just now are called ‘clinch’ covers.”

“Oh?” Her eyes widened in surprise. “There’s a name for the Fabio and big busted beauties smitten and consumed with unquenchable lust while the sun rises behind them all at the same exact time?” He chuckled, real smooth, his eyes narrowing as the lines of mirth framed them so perfectly.

“Yeah, there is. You’re funny, you know that?” He regarded her appreciatively.

“Hmmm, must run in the family. Probably got it from my Aunt Sugar.” She huffed dramatically, rolling her eyes in a silly sort of way.

“Well, wherever it came from, I like it. The way you say some stuff I find entertaining. You make me laugh; sometimes that’s hard to do.”

“People say you’re too serious, huh?”

“Not really, just been pretty busy and distracted so it takes a little more than usual to get me there, I guess.”

She nodded in understanding. “Laughing is good for the soul. I try to act more serious than I actually am on most days, but…” She shrugged. “We’re at a comedy club, after all. Might as well blend in with the locals.” She glanced to her right and took note of a security guard wearing a button-down shirt that was two sizes too small. Seconds later, he asked to see their driver’s licenses. She quickly pulled her dark green faux alligator skin wallet from her purse and handed it over after Sloan had done the same. He quickly handed Sloan’s back, then paused. The man looked her over, his thin, purplish lips pursed tight. Slowly dropping his hand, he glared at the license, then back up at her, beaming.

“You look a hell of a lot younger than you actually are. Tell the truth, you’re in high school, aren’t cha?” the squatty, balding man teased. At this, she placed her palm out to retrieve her license from the wannabe comedian. He would definitely be no headliner. “Here you go, honey. Next!” He waved the group behind them closer in an impatient sort of way, as if he were directing traffic.

At last, they got to the front of the pack and Sloan dug into his pocket again. He flashed his driver’s license once again for the ticket collector. Leaning into the window, as far as he could go without his nose touching the frame, he spoke to the guy sitting behind the enclosure, “The last name is Steele. I bought two tickets for Bill Burr and paid in advance for the deluxe buffet.”

Peter Gabrielle’s, ‘Sledgehammer’ played loudly in the background.

“Yuuuuuup,” the man stated as he pointed to his computer with a long, knobby digit. His fingernails were rather bulbous, reminding her of clear marbles that had been cut in half. Emerald shook the inconsequential thoughts from her mind and ordered herself to stay focused. “I see you right here.” He handed him two tickets while a little machine that reminded her of a slip printer at the grocery store began to churn and buzz. Ripping the receipt off in an even tear, he handed it to Sloan. “Enjoy the show.” The guy grinned, exposing two rows of slightly yellowed teeth, yet his pinkish gums looked to be in perfect health. Perhaps the strange lighting in the place had something to do with her vision.

“Thanks,” Sloan murmured, sliding his wallet back into his pocket. The strong scent of beer hit them almost immediately upon entering the place. After walking down a long, dark hall with swaying red and orange lights and enormous framed and signed posters of their highly acclaimed acts over the years, they arrived into what looked like the terror dome.

“I’ve never been to the Comedy Castle before, and I’ve lived here for most of my life.” She laughed. “It’s been open for ages, and I can’t believe I’ve just ignored it all this time. This place is amazing!”

“Pretty cool, huh? I love comedy shows; they help me unwind. Come on up this way. Our seats should be over here.” He pointed to some steps that led to a cute little round table dressed in a crimson tablecloth. In the middle of it sat a flickering ivory candle in a holder. Grabbing her hand once again, he led her through the maze of tables and navigated expertly around the thickening crowd. They walked past a lavish buffet of heavenly smelling barbecued meats, grilled vegetables on skewers, and fattening potato dishes swimming in cream, chives, and butter. She followed him up the steps, then almost ran into his damn back when he suddenly stopped and snatched a card off the table.

“Yeah, this is our table,” he said over the noise. Before she could take another step, he pulled her seat out.

“Thank you.” She sat down, but instead of scooting her in, the man picked her seat up with her sitting in it and landed it gently closer to the table. At her gasp, he winked at her, then slid beside her, as if the little rollercoaster ride he’d taken her on was customary.

“All right, we’re here.”

They gave a quick glance about the place, both of them taking it all in. The lights dimmed and some funky, jazzed up instrumental music began to play.

“If you don’t want to go down there and get your food, I can get it for you.” He pointed towards the now swarming buffet, barely visible with so many people standing there, plates in hand, vying for their chance to load up.

“That is very nice of you, but I think I can manage.”

“Okay, well, I’ll tell you what? You go on first, get what you want, and I can put in our drink orders.”

“Perfect.”

“What would you like?”

She stood there for a moment or two, pondering it over. “How about a glass of wine?”

“What kind?”

“You’re the wine teacher. Surprise me.” She winked at him as she got to her feet and moseyed on down the steps. Truth was, Emerald was terrified of heights. Regardless, she swayed as she walked, praying to God, her guardian angels, the ancestors, and any stunt doubles within reach that her four inch, “fuck me good” high heels would find purchase on each and every step, which she got through with false bravado.

This is what I get for wearing these damn things! Trying to show off, be cute… how cute will I be if I fall and bust my ass, and my neck is stuffed in a brace?!

Her heart raced, her skin tingled under a layer of anxiety-induced sweat until the end appeared in sight. She paused in relief, gave her ‘fuck me good, too, please’ dress a tug from the hem as it rode up her thighs and made her way to the line by the buffet. Grabbing a plate and tapping out a tune to the bottom of the thing with her freshly painted fingernails, she surveyed the spread and made her choices in advance. Then, she did what she told herself she would not: she took a deep breath and looked up to her left toward that far corner…

And there he was, smiling down at her with mischief in his eyes. He raised his beer bottle in the air, as well as a glass of red wine she was presumed was for her. He clinked them together as if to give her a toast, set them down, then blew her a kiss…

Restoration of the Heart

“Y
eah…well… all right…but…mmm
hmmm… I can’t hear you, it’s too… I
said
it’s too loud in here! I can’t heeeaaaarrrrr yoooouuuu!” Sloan yelled into his cell phone as his agent spoke in her typical frantic, shrill tone, as though she were some jackal that had been set on fire with gasoline all over her pants. He couldn’t help being amused when she began to curse him out, give him what for, then burst out laughing.

Taking a good long swallow of his beer, he continued to listen to her rant and rave about a speaking appearance he was supposed to have coming up in two weeks… but he’d not completed the necessary paperwork. This type of conversation happened frequently, so much so, it seemed to him they’d had the same one just a week earlier. Perhaps they had.

She reminded him he was several weeks behind on two projects, one appearance had to be cancelled due to his demanding ways—which were still quite debatable—and physical access to him was a nightmare since he’d moved out in the boonies… Her words, not his. He glanced lazily down the long steps, trying to see over the people moving about the pathways, gathered together like ants across mounds and getting in his way.

Ahhhh, there she is…

Emerald was placing a bit of this and that on her plate. He wasn’t certain what she was getting—she stood entirely too far away for him to notice such a thing—but when she returned, a large bottle of Bollinger Special Cuvee would be waiting for her, along with her pre-poured glass of red wine.

“Where are you? The Roman Coliseum? What is all that racket? When can we meet at my office? I need you in Manhattan,
yesterday
. Can you come in the next couple of days? This paperwork needs to be completed. You have 200 books waiting here to be pre-signed, and we have an upcoming interview for CBS Sunday Morning and one for NPR to prepare for. I mean, seriously, Sloan, this is getting out of hand.”

“Mmm hmmm, I hear you, Deloris. I’ll take care of the paperwork first thing in the morning, I promise. I’ll handle my airline reservations, too.”

The woman made him promise a couple more times before he was able to safely disconnect the call, and even then, he was fairly certain she was still speaking when he hung up. He turned his attention back towards Emerald as she steered back to their table, her plate full and a gorgeous smile on her face. He began to piece together a short story inside his head as he studied her. As he sipped on his cold, refreshing beer, the cerebral words flirted with one another until they were soon fucking each other to death… sweaty with budding inspiration.