"Is this what I can expect for the next three months?" he goes on as if I haven't said a thing. "Because I'll tell ya, Miranda, I don't know how much more of this I can take." He yanks the desk drawer open, and everything inside jostles. Fuming, he digs around before pulling out a stack of papers stapled together. "Where is the woman who wrote this? Huh?"

He tosses the papers on the desk. I glance at the t.i.tle page with my name typed across it.

He puts his hands to his head, throwing it back in the process. "Where is the f.u.c.king pa.s.sion?"

My heart bangs against my ribs. He thinks I'm an idiot. He sees I can't do this. "I'm sorry. I just... you just... uh... I can..." I swallow. "You just make me nervous, and I'm trying really hard to write this the way you want me to. I just, you know, I have to go back and clean stuff up. I'm not a clean writer to begin with. I have to edit things, so it will be better once I go over it. I-" My vision blurs behind tears, my face heating with embarra.s.sment because Edwin Mercer thinks I have no talent. And if he believes that, it must be true. "I... I..."

He looks sharply at me, his eyebrows burrowed, a sick look of pleasure washing over his face. "My dear, if you experienced even a second of my life's worst pain, it would crush you. Take this for what it is. And for the love of f.u.c.k, save me your tears." His tone drips with acid. "They're worthless."

Worthless. That is all I have ever been in my f.u.c.king life, and now he sees that. My chest tightens, and I fight the sob working its way up my throat. I quickly stand and run down the hallway to my room before slamming the door and locking it.

Leaning back against the cold wood, I break. I cry. Something that I thought would change my life-coming here to write with my G.o.ddam idol-has done nothing but prove to me I will never be anything. I'm useless. I'm worthless. I want to leave. I want out of here and away from his condescending a.s.s. I grab my purse from the nightstand, dig out my cell phone, and pull up Janine's number. I press Call. Nothing. I hold the phone in the air as I walk around the room, pleading for those d.a.m.n bars to light up. I stand on my tiptoes by the window, glaring out at that shed. But no. No service.

I don't want to go back out there and call her in front of him. I don't want him to see how defeated and dejected I am. I'll just stay in this room until he goes to bed if I must. Just as I'm putting my phone back inside my purse, I hear his boots tromping down the hallway. His door slams shut with such force a picture topples off the wall in my room.

I give it a few minutes, grab my phone, and slowly open the door. It's eerily quiet outside with just the soft tick-tock from the grandfather clock in the living room. The floorboards creak under my weight. I briefly freeze before continuing down the hallway, praying he doesn't come out of his room. I just don't want that conversation. At all.

The pens and pencils are still scattered across the living room, the chair knocked on its side. My foot lands on a stray pen, and I lose my footing, crashing into the console table behind the sofa. The sculpture of Atlas topples over, and I panic as I frantically reach to catch it, sighing when it lands in my hand and I'm able to set it back in its rightful place. I take a few deep breaths then hurry to the kitchen.

I'm nearly to the doorway when I hear a thud come from his room. Any moment now, I bet he'll come out yelling. The second I round the corner, I grab the kitchen phone. I quickly dial Janine's number, all the while staring down the hallway at the closed door of Edwin's room. She picks up on the second ring, and she sounds much too sweet to put up with an arrogant a.s.shole like Edwin, but then again, I guess you'd need to be nice to handle him. She tells me it'll be an hour before she gets here.

I hang up, sneak back to my room, and pack my bags. I am not a quitter. I am not worthless. Some things just aren't worth it...

I'm almost to the front door with my suitcase when I stop dead in my tracks. I want one last look at that view, so I go stand in front of the window and wait. I should be taking in the scenery, the trees, the brilliant colors of the changing leaves, but I'm not. My gaze is aimed at that f.u.c.king shed. Why? Because every single time Edwin gets stuck, that's what he does. Stares at that shed as if it's going to give him all the answers. And right now, I'm stuck. Should I really leave?

After several minutes, I manage to pull my gaze from the shed to admire the scenery. And I take in the gorgeous backdrop of the Appalachian Mountains, trying to burn the image into my mind, because at the end of the day, no matter how big of a b.a.s.t.a.r.d Edwin is, it doesn't change how compelling his words are. He's still my idol, and this is what my idol looks at as he writes. And any time I drag up this image, I am, in a sense, looking through his eyes. If nothing else, I have that. I can steal this little piece of him, and he can never take it back, no matter how worthless I may be.

Sighing, I turn from the window and head toward the front of the cabin. I crack the door open, and a black Camaro sits in the drive.

A gust of wind kicks up, scattering dry leaves across the wooden porch as I make my way to the walkway. I can see Janine through the tinted windows, her dark hair piled on top of her head in a messy bun. She's smiling and waving from the driver's side. The trunk pops open, and she hops out then meets me at the side of the car to help me with my luggage.

"Thank you for coming to get me," I say before making my way to the back of the car.

She grabs my bag and places it in the trunk. Janine looks older than she sounds, older than you'd think someone who listens to the teenybopper c.r.a.p on her stereo would be, but maybe the stress from working with him has aged her a bit. Maybe she's younger than she appears. Nonetheless, she's still pretty, her tiny waist accentuated by the tight sweater stretched across her ma.s.sive b.r.e.a.s.t.s.

"No worries. Edwin's..." She grimaces. "He's hard to handle at times."

"Yeah, you could say that."

She laughs and slams the trunk. "He's been hard on you, huh?"

"Hard is one way to put it."

Janine goes to the driver's side then stops. "Hey, I forgot about a conference call I had. Got half of my face on, then had to take the d.a.m.n call, and, well, I can't very well go out in public like this. Would you mind driving? Otherwise, I'll just steer with one hand." She laughs, and I'm left standing with the pa.s.senger door open, staring at her.

I just met her. I don't really want to drive her car on roads I'm unfamiliar with, but I have a bad habit of not speaking up for myself, so I say, "Sure."

I walk around to the driver's side and climb in. We shut our doors at the same time.

Janine hauls her oversized Louis Vuitton bag into her lap and begins rummaging through it, pulling out a palette of eyeshadow and brushes. She glances up, a short snort leaving her nose. "Oh, well, look at Mr. Happy." Smiling, Janine leans down and waves.

I glance over my shoulder to see Edwin with his arms braced in the open doorway as he glares at the car. His face is red, his chest rising in ragged swells. I'm glad I'm in this car and not in that f.u.c.king cabin with him right now.

"He'll get over it, don't worry," she says, still waving as I put the car in drive and pull off.

A thick haze of smoke hangs in the air, and I fan it away from my face as I glare at the man sitting across the bar, a cigarette dangling from his lips while his eyes are glued to a TV mounted on the wall.

"I thought you couldn't smoke inside anymore?" I ask through coughs.

"Yeah." Janine shrugs. "This place still lets you."

She's brought me to some run-down hole-in-the-wall bar. Dollar bills are tacked up all over the walls and ceiling. Half the barstools have tears in the leather seats, and the few tables scattered around the place are covered in that plastic red-and-white checkered tablecloth. An old white-haired man stumbles over to a jukebox in the corner, struggling to put his money in and stand at the same time.

"Ah, Darryl's done gone and got drunk before ten again," some random man shouts from the other end of the bar.

A few men cackle before returning to their conversations. Suddenly, some tw.a.n.gy country song blares over the sound system so loudly I can barely hear myself think. All the men hoot and holler. I just want to get the h.e.l.l out of this s.h.i.thole.

"You want a drink?"

I glance behind the bar and see a short, bald man leaning over the bar, winking at me.

"Uh, two shots of tequila," I say as I glance at Janine. She nods.

He nods and waddles off to pour the drinks.

"I really don't need anything." I shake my head. "I don't normally drink."

"Trust me, I didn't either until EA. He's a moody one."

The bartender places the shots on the counter, and Janine motions for me to take them.

"Drink up, sweetie." She smiles as I take the first shot back. "You gonna quit?"

"I can't handle him." I down the second tequila, coughing at the burn working its way down my throat.

"You have to learn how to handle him, that's the thing. He has mood swings." She shrugs. "Most really intelligent people do. When he gets p.i.s.sed, just walk away. Give him a few minutes and he'll be fine."

"Uh-huh, but..." I arch a brow at her. "He's an a.s.shole."

"Yeah, but he doesn't mean it. And besides, Miranda"-she places her hand on my knee, squeezing gently-"he's EA Mercer. The man could literally take a s.h.i.t on a piece of paper and it would turn to gold. A few months of dealing with an a.s.shole and you have a start to a writing career most people only dream of."

I inhale, thinking about the promise this opportunity could afford. How it could change my life. That could make me worth something. "I guess." I sigh.

"You have talent, honey. Trust me. Do you have any idea how many essays I had to read through? Yours"-she smiles-"was pure genius. You have a way with words, and I'm not just saying that to blow smoke up your a.s.s. He needs that. Edwin needs your voice."

Edwin Mercer needs my voice?

"Look, his last book-a lot of s.h.i.tty reviews. Overall, three stars. That's not good. Have you read some of the reviews?"

Her ramblings about how Edwin doesn't take criticism well fade into the background as I think about what she's saying. It would be stupid to walk away, but to be honest, I don't know if I can handle him. He's volatile, and seeing as how I idolize him, any condescending remark he makes, well, it cuts my already battered and fragile ego to shreds.

A man settles in across the bar from us, leaning over the bar top and snapping to get the bartender's attention. He takes a quick survey of the bar, his eyes momentarily stopping on me. We hold eye contact for just a moment, but it's long enough for me to pick up on something all too familiar to me-sadness, a sense of being lost. In that brief look, we connect, and I know that he wishes he could be anywhere but here-that he's uncomfortable in his own skin.

"Think about him, how he is," Janine continues on, and I try to focus on her. "Do you know how hard those reviews have been for him? The amount of stress that man is under to have his next book receive good ratings? I'm afraid he's going to snap at any moment. Really, he's like a ticking time bomb and..."

My attention veers back to the man now tipping back a beer. His dark gray shirt clings to his arms, his chest. f.u.c.k. His defined jaw is covered in stubble. He must feel me studying him because he nervously glances in my direction as he takes another slow sip from his bottle. I guarantee that man doesn't like attention. I bet it makes him nervous, and I'm almost positive I'm right because attention makes me nervous, so much so that I've debated on how I would actually handle it if I were to ever become a famous author. A pseudonym. Never do interviews. Possibly even try to pa.s.s as a male-male authors tend to be taken more seriously anyway.

The bartender says something to him, and he smiles. And that smile, with those dimples... well, it pulls me from my worrisome thoughts of how I'd handle fame. As if I need to worry about that anyway...

Janine clears her throat, and I glance back at her with my cheeks flaming. Arching her brow, she shakes her head. "He's in rare form lately because of it, I can promise you that. You, unfortunately, are getting the worst side of him I've seen in years. I promise, you just learn how to deal with him, and you will not regret it."

"Yeah... I don't know. I just need to..." My gaze drifts back to the guy at the bar, and I have to consciously force my attention back to Janine.

She turns on the stool to look behind her, shaking her head and laughing before she faces me again. "Just think about it before you make a decision, Miranda." She stands, smoothing out her shirt as she grabs her purse from the back of the chair. "I'm going to go outside and make a call to the publisher. You stay here and..." She nods at the guy in gray. "Get yourself another drink, would you?"

"I really don't-"

"You really do. Unwind some. Take a little while to think it all over. I'll just be outside on the phone arguing for the next half hour anyway. You don't want to listen to that carnage, I promise." She gives the stranger at the end of the bar another fleeting glance, smiles at me, then heads to the door.

f.u.c.king great. I watch her walk off, her hips swaying as she snakes between the men crowded around the bar. One wolf whistles, and she flips him the bird.

This entire ordeal is putting me so far out of my comfort zone it's ridiculous. I hate people. I hate crowds. I order two more shots. The bartender places them front of me, not even bothering to make eye contact before he trots off.

I grab one of the shots, rubbing my thumb over the curve of the gla.s.s. Worthless... I replay the disdain in Edwin's tone when he said that, and I cringe right before I down the shot, then the next one as I watch that stranger eye me from the other end of the bar. For whatever reason, I keep staring at him, pretending I can be that girl-a girl like Janine-a girl like I was when I met Edwin for coffee. I can be that girl who flirts with a guy and f.u.c.ks him, knowing it'll never mean anything. I pretend to be the girl I would write about in my books because deep down inside, I know I'm not going to actually speak to him. Or maybe I will. Few people have ever intrigued me. And he does. That has to mean something...

"Pain is a Gift"-Trade Wind I didn't notice her when I first walked in, but by my sixth beer and second p.i.s.s break, I'm wondering how the f.u.c.k I didn't. She has these big doe eyes that beg to be loved, flowing auburn hair-the kind you feel the insatiable desire to run your fingers through. She takes her shots like she's never taken one before and looks absolutely defeated. For a defeated guy like me, that's a welcome sight.

Not that I wish for everyone to feel as helpless as I do. I can promise you, I don't. It's just... misery loves company. That's a saying, right? I'm the kind of guy who only connects with people who can understand my pain. Even if it's a silent understanding, it's an understanding nonetheless. To be understood in this life, I mean to be truly understood, it's a gift. Not many people get to experience it.

And that understanding is about the only thing that could get me off of this d.a.m.n stool. Everything in me tells me to go say something to her, but everything in me is also fighting the fear of failure, of rejection. I know she's looked at me. She's held my gaze. I'm not an idiot when it comes to understanding when someone may be interested in me. It's just the whole execution part that gets me.

She takes another shot, her face scrunching as it has with every shot before. It's quite endearing.

Before I even realize it, I'm standing, beer in hand, and walking toward her as though my legs are acting on their own free will. Her eyes never stray from mine. They're no longer projecting sadness but now carry an intoxicated twinkle.

I set down my beer and clear my throat. "Hi, I'm Jax. I don't mean to be a bother..." My heart is racing, temples thumping like rhythmic drums. I'm so nervous my palms actually start to sweat. I take a hard swallow and smile, flashing my teeth. Sometimes the smile is real, sometimes it's fake, but it always comes to the rescue when I need it to. It's my audible. "But I was wondering if I could buy you a drink?"

Smooth. Real smooth, big guy.

She coyly glances at the floor, grinning. And that smile is magnificent, the sight of it settling me a little. She puts out a hand and motions to the empty barstool.

"You can sit if you want," she says with a shrug.

I pull out the stool and take a seat, extending a hand to properly greet her. She obliges, placing her hand in mine, and I can't help but appreciate how her delicate hand is the polar opposite of my own-beat to s.h.i.t and weathered from the years.

"I'm Miranda," she says then slips her bottom lip between her teeth.

"Nice to meet you, Miranda." I smile, releasing her hand before quickly taking a swig of my near-empty beer. I motion for the bartender.

"You as well, Jax." She averts her gaze to the floor then looks back at me, the timid smile still there.

There's an awkward moment of silence before the barkeep stops in front of us, and I place a quick order for a beer. As he walks away, I notice Miranda hasn't taken her eyes off me yet. She's got this drunken, glossy gaze. It's goofy but equally endearing.

"Sorry if I was staring too much." She leans her elbow on the bar, her eyes dropping to her lap. "s.h.i.t, what am I saying? But it's not like you didn't notice." She palms her forehead and shakes her head. "I don't know what... don't listen to me... s.h.i.t, I'm drunk."

"If it's any consolation," I say, ignoring her last remark, "I was staring at you too. Hard not to. You're incredibly beautiful." The moment I say it, I wish I would've bit my tongue. Am I coming on too strong?

She looks at me, batting those beautiful eyes, her smile deepening and her cheeks flushing a deep crimson. "Thank you."

The bartender places the beer in front of me.

"I'm not gonna lie"-she lifts her bottle then nods toward the liquor shelf-"without this, I probably wouldn't be talking to you. I'm not a very social person."

"That makes two of us. My plan was three beers and then back to the house for a TV dinner and Sons of Anarchy. I surely didn't expect to meet anyone, but this is quite a nice surprise. It's been a long day."

"Oh, a long day, huh?" She shifts on the stool, tracing her finger over the worn bar top. "What do you do?"

"I'm a homicide detective. Been doing it a while now. It comes with its fair share of bulls.h.i.t." I take a swig of beer and shrug. "But what can you do? Gotta pay the bills, right? What about you? What do you do?"

"Uh, well, I'm in school. Studying creative writing. Nothing too amazing or important." She clears her throat.

"Very nice. I'm quite the avid reader myself. Where do you go? UNC-Asheville? Warren Wilson?"

"Actually, I'm not from here. I am-well, was-only up here for a writing project, but I think that kinda fell through, so..." She takes a breath. "Well, I, uh... I should probably go." She nods as she hops off the stool. "Nice to meet you though."

For a moment, I'm left speechless. What I thought was a decent conversation has just abruptly ended for reasons beyond me. This is exactly why I don't approach women. This is just how s.h.i.t goes for me. In the midst of my self-pity, I'm struck by the undeniable urge to be bold.

I pull a pen from my pocket, and after grabbing a napkin, I quickly jot down my name and number. I quickly stand and hold it out for her. "Well, take this at least. And if you find some time before you leave, call me or something." I stand holding that napkin out for what seems like eons before she takes it.

"Oh, sure," she says, a nervous smile twitching over her red lips. "Sure..." And with that, she turns and leaves.

I throw two fingers in the air and clear my throat. "Two more, Eddie. Jame-o."

"Faces"-The Ratells "You better have a real good G.o.dd.a.m.n explanation, Janine. And real f.u.c.king quick!" I bark into the phone, a blinding migraine sending surges of pain deep within my eye sockets and temples. The intense throbbing makes me wish I could take a f.u.c.king ax to my own neck.

"You said if she needed anything-anything at all-to take care of it. She called me... scared. And she wanted a ride to the city. She didn't feel safe there with your crazy a.s.s. You never said anything about letting you in on our every move," she says with such a sense of calm it actually irritates me.

"Dammit, Janine, what if I'd felt inspired? What if I needed her to write? You know it can hit at any moment. You f.u.c.king know that. This is unacceptable."

"Listen to me... she may not even want to write with you anymore. You scared the s.h.i.t out of her with that nasty temper. Throwing s.h.i.t and belittling her."

She lets that sink in for a second, and to my surprise, it actually does. I actually feel a little guilty.

"You need to record yourself sometime when you get like that. It's frightening to-"

"Okay, okay, I get your point." I'm not one to be lectured. "Just bring her back. Now. I want to write."

"Are you not hearing me? She doesn't know if she wants to come back. She's thinking about going home. And I'll tell you the truth, I don't blame her. I've experienced you like that many times myself and-"