Ghost Writer (Raven Maxim Book 1) (55 page)

He’d been interviewed during a jaunt to the post office; that was when he’d confirmed the engagement, while also throwing in a plug regarding his upcoming novel. Just like Sloan, always business minded and definitely used to personal intrusions.

What a strange feeling to have people pulling her aside at work, questioning her, declaring how’d they’d known her for years and years, yet had no idea she was dating someone, let alone engaged to a superstar. A silly assumption, if ever there was one. Some ladies might have jumped at the chance to date a celebrity and make it known to the world, but what she had needed no advertising; it was real, without need of extra roving eyes to somehow give it validity.

And besides, why would she wear such an expensive and lovely piece of jewelry to a dental office? Most times her fingers were half way thrust in someone’s mouth, twisting and contorting as she gave a guy a thorough cleaning. More important, however, was her privacy. Her business was just that:
her
business. She saw no reason to broadcast her personal affairs, but made no concerted efforts to hide them, either. This was simply life, and she was living it to the fullest.

Sloan paused as they passed a frozen yogurt parlor, drawing her back into the now.

“That looks good.” The display of creamy and colorful delights drew a passerby in. “I wonder if they have gelato?”

She shrugged. “We can always go in and ask, but they’re still closed.” She pointed to the sign with the times of business printed on it. Sloan groaned, his heart apparently set on it. “Let’s just keep on walking; when we turn around and come back past, it should be open by then.”

Hands linked again, they resumed walking and talking about anything and everything, from wedding plans to the various types of foliage that grow in Maxim. As they passed a second hand children’s clothing store, she paused. The name, ‘Forever Child’ jumped out at her from above the entrance, printed in large, uneven letters, as if a kid had drawn them with the broken off nub of a crayon in all the colors of the rainbow. A toddler-sized fiberglass mannequin stood in the front window display, donning a pair of dark wash denim capris, a slingshot peeking out of one of the large pockets. A sweet, pale pink sweater with pearl buttons and a matching cap completed the ensemble.

“Is something wrong?” Sloan questioned as she kept staring at the exhibit.

She imagined she looked a bit miffed, perhaps even angry. She didn’t bother to glance at her own reflection though, only at the mannequin.

“Forever Child…” she mumbled. “You know, after my mother left, I had this stupid idea that I could somehow stop myself from growing. For some reason, the name of this place reminded me of that. That’s what I wanted to do… stay that same age for as long as I could.”

“Why? Most kids want to be adults. I remember being eager to grow up and go on with my life. Now though, sometimes I and some of my friends sit back and talk, and I know we’d do almost anything to get back to our youth and make different choices. Hindsight is twenty-twenty, but everything happens the way it should, I guess.” He chuckled. His cheeks took on a pinkish hue, and she could see in his face he was trying to pull her out of her strange mood.

She smiled sadly and tugged his hand, shepherding him along the sidewalk, now bustling with more and more people. Something in his eyes gleamed with concern, while his smile gave instant comfort.

“Emerald, tell me why you wanted to stay a little girl?”

She hesitated for some seconds. “I wanted to stay small so if my mother ever came back for me, she’d recognize me and would come get me, tell me she was sorry and carry me and Daddy and Willie away to some magical place.” She looked up at him, emotion welling inside. Sloan gripped her hand harder, then kissed her on her forehead. “It was stupid, I know that, but at the time I honestly believed it would solve all of my issues, you know? If I could just stay a child forever, then we could begin anew. I could have my mother
and
my father. Forget the past, all of it.” She waved her free hand as if wielding an imaginary magic wand. “And she could raise me. I’d never have to answer the question, ‘Where is your mother?’ again. Just foolish. I was real silly like that.”

“First of all, it’s not foolish, and it’s not silly. It’s solution driven. You were faced with a problem and you were trying to find answers, ways to make it all make sense. Kids are the smartest people on Earth.” Catching her wand-waving hand in mid-air, he brought both of her hands up to his lips and laid a kiss across her knuckles, then let go of the one. “They see things simply, uncomplicated by all the craziness of the world. It’s like we go backwards, in reverse, as we age. The more we know, in some ways, the dumber we become.”

She chuckled at that. “That’s sad, but in some ways true.”

“And you may not be a forever child.” Stopping in his tracks, he pulled her to him. “But you are
forever
my sweetheart.” His hard, barrel chest pushed against her, flattening her breasts. She rested her head on it, feeling comforted, his cool necklace against her cheek. His heartbeat was strong, and on time. With a tilt of her chin, she looked up into his eyes. He pressed his lips against hers and held her tight, so close, their souls had no choice but to dance. She never wished to let go.

The familiar scent of honeysuckle gamboled past them, wafting from a nearby essential oils and incense shop. The sounds of J. Dilla’s ‘Life’ poured out from the open doorway of the store, reminding her of a time when Nikki would bop about in her bedroom as a teenager, listening to all sorts of music as she studied or unwound for the day.

The sphere of life had come full circle…

And time waited for no one.

Emerald couldn’t hide from her moons, yet could revel in her suns.

She was now the mother, and one day, she’d be the grandmother, too.

Time wanted to be paid, receive its just due.

There were no forever children, only forever change.

From melted worlds that were long gone,

Emotionally empty parents without a compass that were estranged.

Ghostly memories may not give her a chance at a second dance,

But they always called her by name…

Baby, you are FOREVER loved…

Just like the
contents of the leather bound booklet he’d briefly mistaken for decomposing batwings, it was darker than he recalled. Sloan re-read his book before approving the final edits, and the feeling that best described him then was ‘horrified’. Not at what he wrote, or how he wrote it, but that the romance he’d penned was chock full of despair, the stuff shadowy alleyways and terrifying dungeons were made of.

He sat in his office glaring at the words, swirls of smoke from his rested cigarette twirling around him and ‘I Got a Woman’ by Ray Charles playing in a low hum on the record player. A glass of whiskey, liquid fire half way consumed, sat to the left of his laptop. He absently ran his hand over his phone, caressing it like some slumbering lover as he recalled Emerald’s recent words.

He’d called her in a semi-state of panic, yet doing his best to keep it under key, downplay it. What was he thinking? She’d seen right through it. He’d told her of his surprise, of his own broken heart, of his concerns and worries regarding the novel. It was nothing like he’d ever written. Had he been possessed and someone else jumped into his body and penned the words? They were beautifully macabre, devoid of humor… not his style and more in the vein of Peter Jones’ work.

“Sloan, baby, now look… It’s going to be what it’s going to be, all right? You told his truth, right?’
Emerald had told him, quite simply, matter-of-factly.

“Yes.”

“Then you did your job. You are the ghost writer, and now it is done.”

And she was right. He placed the cigarette to his lips and took a long drawl with a satisfied smile.

…Sometimes the truth ain’t pretty. It doesn’t powder its face, glue on lashes or wear form-fitting expensive dresses with plunging necklines. It just sits there in its stark nakedness, comfortable with all of its blue bumps and black bruises, scaly scabs, and pulsing, open wounds. We’re the ones who try to change it, to make it gorgeous when all it wants to do is be shared and accepted ‘as is.’ There is no room for buyer’s remorse. It’s not our place to form an amendment, just like we can’t rewind the rusty wheels of time and make it do our bidding. We can’t hide the truth forever, either.

It’s got a million legs, crawling forward and up, trying to show the world what it’s made of in the midst of sewage and bullshit. It’s got a billion missions and a hundred hourly wishes, and always gets its blessed way. The truth constantly comes out, like the sun after the rain, like weathered love letters out of a dark, stagnant hole in an office wall, hidden by brick rubble… It consumes your mental health until you accept it. Accept it like a love-sick, tortured soul playing records in the middle of the night while you wait to die a slow death; starving as you sit on the truth, then regretful you didn’t respect its power after all was said and done.

The truth won’t do your bidding,

It won’t conform to your rules and laws.

It won’t bow down to you.

But one thing it does promise, like a last wish before a final, dying breath…

It WILL set you free…

The sun would
be setting soon, and it would leave him shrouded in darkness. The Seriatee Dam had rushing waters that pooled into bursting white, hastening irrigation. As he stood there observing the sight, he found the noise almost deafening. Sloan held one of Peter Jones’ love letters in his right hand as he observed the scene around him, blinking only when necessary. He’d read about this location several times, and decided to make the trek to find the place the man had mentioned in a letter Sloan had found folded up inside of one of Peter’s many novels…

I go to the Seriatee Dam and just stand there. I ask to be loved at the Seriatee Dam. I come up with new ideas at the Seriatee Dam, and I die a little at the Seriatee Dam…

At the time when he’d first read the text, Sloan had no idea what Peter had meant.

‘I die a little at the Seriatee Dam…’

But now, as he stood there, leaning against his new black Weisman MF5 and looking about, hearing the rush of water and the birds, he understood completely. He’d put on a light gray cardigan under his black leather jacket and matching gloves, somber colors for the occasion—for he was preparing for a ceremony of sorts. Sloan wanted to look his best when he went to the Seriatee Dam because Peter was now his muse, and he understood him all too well. Like the rushes of cool water, the world he’d never known existed would flood him with ideas, and like one would praise God, one had to kneel down, pray, and offer a sacrifice.

Nothing in this life came for free, not even creative genius. So many articles about the man brought forth the age old question, “Where in the hell was Peter Jones getting these ideas from?” Jones had been clearly a man before his time, able to scare even the most unmovable of men. He managed to paint pictures with words that would haunt a person, poison them to the point they’d never be the same again…

And his readers were all the grateful for it. That was the Deity he’d spoken of, the belief that if you can crawl into someone’s brain, then you have reached the pinnacle of Transcendence.

But there was no God without love, for to create from one’s soul, love was always required. Peter mocked love by falling prey to his own fears. He wrote frightening stories, but couldn’t stomach the ideal of rejection, after countless years of admiration going up in smoke. This could possibly explain why the book Sloan had written about the man was marred with angst. His mission was to spread light and knowledge, tell the tale of two lovers, but so much more had transpired.

Slowly unfolding the letter, Sloan cleared his throat and spoke aloud, yelling out the words over the roar of the rushing water…

“Peter, it’s me, Sloan. I feel like you might be here. You’re no longer in my house, of that I’m certain. It’s like the moment Emerald and I found those letters and photos, you were officially done with us, because you’d gotten what you wanted all along.” He swallowed, quelling the roar of emotion inside him. “I’m not in the business of judging of you, so please know I don’t think any less of you because of what happened in your life. There was a time in my own life when I would have done just that, though. I would have looked down on you, thought myself better than you… I didn’t have the same struggles in life that you did. I never experienced being in love with someone society claimed you couldn’t have. I didn’t see the things you saw, nor have the things you had. During this journey though, I realized that you chose me.