"Don't thank me. I'm not one for doling out compliments. I find them pointless. I am only stating a fact. You still need a lot of work, but I think the potential is there. I'm not set on who I will choose just yet—or whether or not I'll choose anyone at all. This is not something I wanted to do. Not by a long shot," he scoffs.
And what do you say to that? What kind of response could I possibly give to that? While I assumed he'd be arrogant, I didn't think he'd be rude. He almost seems disgusted by the idea of co-writing with someone, which does take away from the appeal, but no amount of arrogance in the world could make me step away from this opportunity.
"The fact that you see any potential with my work at all, honestly, is enough. I've read every single one of your books—several times—and you're a genius with words. So whether you decide to go any further than this right here, well…" I nervously drum my fingers over the tabletop, and he smirks. Something in that smirk makes me uneasy.
"That's what I like to hear. My publisher wants this book by December. That means we have a little over two months. While I don't often meet anyone's deadline but my own, I would like to get started on this book right away. If you are chosen, I would ask that you come out to my cabin to work. Whether you have school or not, this is the timeline. Would that be an issue?"
"Not at all." I shake my head. "I can take the fall semester off."
He stands. "Well, Miranda, my assistant will be in touch if I decide to work with you. Have a good day."
He turns on his heel, slipping his jacket on, and walks briskly for the door. My mouth gapes. I know I should say something, but his sudden departure has me at a loss for words. Did I really just come all the way out here for this?
I stand abruptly, the legs of my chair scraping over the floor. "Thanks, Mr. Mercer. It was nice to meet you," I call feebly, shaking my head at how stupid I sound.
Of course he doesn't respond or even turn. He simply continues toward the door, leaving me standing in an uncomfortable silence.
“Closer”—Nine Inch Nails
A gust of wind blows, leaves swirling in its wake. Another angry puff from the storm brewing, and the cold autumn rain slaps against my window. I stare mindlessly at the blinking cursor and blank page, my fingers tapping my antique mahogany desk. I write prologues that stick with you. They pull you in, beat the ever-loving shit out of you, and leave you begging for more. That's not an easy feat—even for someone with my skill.
I just can't seem to get the words out. They're right on the tip of my tongue, but just as all my other novels have started, so does this one—the words coming out in a big pile of steaming shit. Writer's block is not new to me, but the first page… the first page is a real bitch.
And Miranda. Fucking Miranda Cross. The woman hasn't left my mind since I left her at the coffee shop two days ago. Her talent is undeniable, though she'll never hear me say it, but I don't know if that's why she's taken up residence in my brain or if it's because fate seems to be wrapping its hands tightly around my neck.
She's beautiful, no doubt about that. I'd be lying if I said that hadn't taken me by complete surprise. Her story was good. Really good. And from the ruthlessness of it, I would've never expected someone so timid and beautiful. Beautiful women don't struggle. Beauty is like a free pass through life.
I pull her manuscript from my desk drawer. I turn to the climax and pour over her words once more:
I grip the handle of the hunting knife in my right hand. That woman is to blame for the way my life unraveled like loose thread. She's selfish. She took what should have been mine. She drove me to this. Really, she did, so it's fine that I don't feel guilty as I step to the edge of her bed and envision plunging this blade so deeply into her chest that it pins her to the fucking mattress. My pulse skips a few beats. My skin buzzes with excitement.
Without a flicker of hesitation, I quickly jab the knife into her side then pull it out. It feels just like stabbing a ripe pumpkin. And oh, does she fucking wail. Wakes up with a jolt and a high-pitched scream. She's balled up, clutching her side, not even paying attention to me standing at the side of her bed.
I laugh deep in my throat and lean over the mattress. Fisting her blond ponytail, I yank her face toward mine. "Shhh, Marian. Shhh."
She fights me, scratching and shouting, punching, but she's weak. She's losing a lot of blood. I know because I can hear it drip—drip—drip from the bed to the floor. Not to mention my jeans are soaked with it.
I climb onto the bed and straddle her as I grab her right arm. "Now, I do believe I remember…" I say as I rotate her arm clockwise then snap her shoulder out of socket with a more-than-pleasing pop.
And fuck me if she doesn't scream even louder. I slam my free hand—the one with the blood-stained knife—over her mouth to quiet her pathetic cries for help.