Night Owl

CHAPTER 3

Matt

HANNAH SAID MY name for the first time in a motel bathroom somewhere between Washington and Colorado.

God, Matt... I can feel it, how wet I am.

It did something to me. It turned a feeling like a key inside me.

Then she asked if I was a fan of my own books.

That did something to me, too. It made me hang up.

I stalked through the apartment at 5:00 a.m., considering my rash of stupid decisions.


Stupid decision number one: giving Hannah my phone number.

Stupid decision number two: quoting from my own book. What are the odds Hannah would have read my books? I groaned and buried my face in my hands. Pretty f*cking high, considering I'm a national bestseller four times over.

Stupid decision number three: phone sex with Hannah. I didn't even know the girl. I had a picture (one that was rapidly fading from my memory), a name and age, a few other minor details, and a growing fixation. And a girlfriend.

What kind of girl was Hannah, anyway? What kind of girl has phone sex with a stranger she met on the internet?

I had no room to judge. After all, what kind of guy has phone sex with a stranger he met on the internet? At least Hannah was single. Maybe I could consider the bathrobe incident an accident, but the phone sex was clear-cut cheating.

I was heading into scumbag territory, fast.

I grabbed my emergency Dunhills and lit one on the balcony.

I "quit" smoking five years ago, along with drinking and drugs, but I always kept a pack of smokes handy for situations like this.

At 7:00 a.m. I was still smoking and staring into the city. The morning was cool and clear; I could tell the day would be a scorcher. Denver came alive around me. Joggers crisscrossed the street, dogs barked, and car horns sounded.

I had calmed considerably by then, and I had pretty much reasoned away my stupidity.

Quoting from my own book: so what? No way would Hannah make the logical leap to me being M. Pierce. In the light of day, my minor freak out seemed ridiculous.

Giving Hannah my phone number (plus phone sex): I was taking my psychiatrist's professional medical advice, "opening myself to new experiences," "letting myself need people," and "eschewing the confines of social norms." Good enough.

My phone chimed. There was a short message from Bethany. She was in Gramado.

Don't forget to water the lemon tree. Are you eating? I won't bother describing this place since you've been. Still wish you'd come. You better not be a skeleton when I get back. Remember, the stuff in the freezer is dated. Kisses, Bethany.

That was my girlfriend, excessive maternal instincts and all.

I'd reply later.

For now, I wanted to stay right where I was, lost in thoughts of Hannah.

I stripped off my t-shirt and flopped onto the living room couch with a sketchbook and a pencil. Laurence was up, rustling in his hutch. His long ears swiveled toward me. He stretched and hopped over to his litter pan.

"Hey buddy," I said to the rabbit, tapping my pencil on a blank page.

I began to sketch what I remembered of Hannah's picture. I started with her eyes, which were large and dark, then her slender nose, moving down to her expressive, full lips. I tried to capture the sweetness in her face, the oval shape of it framed by heavy brunette coils. I shaded in her glasses. Lightly, I drew the neckline of her top and hinted at her cleavage with a smudge.

I frowned at the portrait.

Not bad, but not quite right. I closed my eyes. I struggled to remember the picture. I remembered her voice on the phone. Not too high, not too low, velvety and feminine. What's so f*cking funny? God, she was adorable in her anger. And she was sexy beyond belief...

Do it with me. Matt, please.

I drifted awake at noon. I was sprawled on the couch, my sketchbook open across my thighs and my dick hard. Of course.

I stared at the lemon tree until my wood relaxed.

Then I called Hannah.

She picked up after two rings.

"Hello?" she said. Her voice sounded a little huskier.

"Hey little bird."

"Bird?" She giggled. "Sorry babe, this is Hannah's sister. Hannah's driving."

I glowered at my sketch and considered hanging up.

"Maybe you should take a turn driving," I muttered, "or not answer your sister's phone."

"She gave it to me Mr. Frostypants."

I heard Hannah's voice in the background. She sounded annoyed, but I couldn't make out what she was saying.

"What did she say?" I demanded.

"She said I should stop trolling you. She also said hi. Hey, are you Hannah's new guy?"

"Excuse me?"

I sat up. My sketchbook flopped onto the floor. New guy? Hannah had a new guy? Anger—and rash jealousy—tightened around my chest.

"Yeah. New guy. Are you the new guy?"

"No, I..." My mouth worked speechlessly. Hannah told me she was leaving her boyfriend. She neglected to mention she was leaving him for another guy. I guess that made us both faithless a*sholes. Perfect.

So why did this hurt? Why did I feel used? It wasn't like I could have Hannah. I couldn't even meet her—couldn't risk my little obsession morphing into full-blown infidelity. I wasn't that kind of guy. Was I? I felt sick to my stomach.

"Earth to Mr. Frostypants!" Hannah's sister shouted.

"F*ck off," I said, ending the call.