Night Owl (17 page)

No, that wasn't it. I couldn't resist the opportunity to help Hannah get a job.

But I wasn't a businessman. I didn't have dozens of connections in Denver. I had one connection and I used it for Hannah, and now I was losing sleep over it.

Losing sleep? That implied I had sleep to lose, and I didn't sleep a wink last night. I tossed and turned in my net of lies.

"Pick up, pick up," I muttered as I paced through my apartment.

"Morning." Pam sounded harassed. "How's the writing going?"

"It's not. We have to talk."

"You have a therapist. I'll give you five minutes."

"I'm fucking serious Pam. It's about Hannah. You know, that—"

"Yes, I know. She faxed her resume—on the Fourth, no less. I hope she works out."

"What? Are you taking her on?"

"Trying. She's on her way here now. I'll think about thanking you if she doesn't have a breakdown by the end of next week."

"Go easy on her," I snarled. Fuck! I pulled at my hair. Why did I say that?

"Is there a point to this call? I appreciate the secretary. I don't appreciate being told how to run my business. I assume when you recommended Hannah you felt she was capable of—"

"Pam, sorry. Listen. Forget that. She's a friend. That's why I'm calling. This goes almost without saying, but it's imperative that..."

I stopped pacing. I rubbed my neck as I searched for words.

For once in her life, Pam didn't seize my silence as an opportunity to interject. Even that unnerved me. Was she curious about my relation to Hannah? Pam did a good job of disguising any interest in me and my life, but she was also one of the most cunning people I knew. She had probably figured out a lot about me over the years.

God, now I was analyzing Pam. Was Pam analyzing me? Fuck, I just needed to eat. My morning coffee on an empty stomach was giving me the shakes.

"Imperative that she... not know who I am," I stumbled. Awesome phrasing. Way to go bestselling author. "Ah, that is, documents and... things you might have with my name... in connection with..."

Pam let me flounder. I despised her for it.

"Pam, I know you take my privacy as seriously as I do, but in this circumstance I..."

Finally, the steely bitch spoke up. God damn, I was glad to have Pam Wing as a friend and not an enemy.

"There is nothing in this office," she said, "on paper or otherwise, in that connection. It's all at my home office, and even there, the computers have passwords and the file cabinet is locked. I'm surprised you've never asked about this before."

Pam was right. Until now, I never cared to know how Pam safeguarded my identity, I only cared that she did it. She had to be wondering what about Hannah inspired my paranoia. Fuck, fuck. This call was another mistake.

"You say you know I take your privacy seriously," she went on, "but maybe you don't know. Your publishers and I cannot publicize you—more's the pity. All we
can
publicize is your mystery. I trust this makes sense to you. I have a vested interest in your anonymity. Now, rather than insulting me with insinuations that I am careless, why don't you join the working world and do some writing. Your five minutes are up."

Pam hung up.

I sank into my office chair.

Fuck, I felt like puking.

Normally, Pam's zingers delighted me. Not today.

I opened my lists. I'm a list-maker. Mike says I need to break away from the lists; he says that I need to feel comfortable with the conditions of life, which are often out of my control.

I say fuck that.

Just opening the documents made my hands stop shaking.

I could cover all my bases. I wasn't living a double life. I was protecting the integrity of my prose. I could be with Hannah. I could keep her from getting hurt. I could do it all.

I zoned out as I scanned my lists.

First, I had a list of people who knew I was M. Pierce (and their non-disclosure agreements on file): Bethany, one of my exes, my brothers Nate and Seth, my uncle, one friend, Pam and her partner Laura, my psychiatrist Mike, and a select group at Knopf.

I also had lists of important dates. I had lists of precautions to take in protecting my identity. I had to-do lists. Lists of things that frightened me. Lists of unhealthy thought patterns. Lists of ideas for my novels. People to call in emergencies. Reasons to stay sober. Good restaurants. Movies. Songs and artists. Books. Adjectives. Websites. Colors. Critics. Blogs. Bookshops. Streets. Cars. Quotes. Prizewinners. Magazines. Clubs.

It was all there. It was all organized. I lost nothing.

I opened a new document and typed: THINGS I WANT TO DO WITH HANNAH.

I smiled and brooded while the churning in my stomach ceased.

Things I want to do with Hannah: dance, watch a movie, camp, swim, hike, bike, take a trip, build something, have a food fight, write more, do Christmas—

My phone chimed.

It was a text from Hannah.

Working for the shark. Lunch break at 1. Meet me?

My carefully collected calm scattered. Hannah. Working for Pam. Wanting to meet me. In five hours. My hands started to shake again.

I didn't need food in five hours. I needed food now. Too bad anxiety kills my appetite.

I texted Hannah.

In spite of the mini-meltdown I had going, I jumped at the thought of seeing her. I missed her like hell.

Sounds great. I'd say my place but neither of us will get back to work. The med. deli.

I tried to write over the next two hours. No dice. I tried to eat some cereal. It was like chewing on glue. Finally, I tried to sleep.

I must have drowsed, because I woke with a jolt at 12:50. Shit, I had to go. Now.

I was in the parking garage when I realized my attire was definitely not "businessman." Not even "casual Friday businessman." More like "I walk dogs for a living."

Fuck. I dashed back to the elevator.

One o'clock came and went as I scrambled to dress.

At 1:00 p.m. on any Friday in the past, I would be lounging in front of my computer, sipping coffee, and adding sentences to my latest novel. Now I was putting on a Brooks Brothers suit for the purposes of meeting a girl who thought I was a businessman.

Not even removing Bethany's stuff from the apartment had felt this vile.

I was beginning to really hate myself.

At twenty past, with my jacket slung over my shoulder, I jogged up the sidewalk to the Mediterranean deli. I was sweating profusely and I couldn't stop the tremor in my hands.

I spotted Hannah at one of the tables outside. She beamed when she saw me. When I got closer, her smile faltered.

"Hey," she said uncertainly.

"Hey bird. Looking sharp."

We hugged and she held onto me. I'll admit, the sight of Hannah in an ass-hugging pencil skirt went a long way toward distracting me, but I couldn't suppress my panic. I felt so damn sleazy, and seeing Hannah tore at my heart.

"Matt, you're shaking."

I pulled away from her.

"Yeah. Yeah, I—" I collapsed into the chair across from Hannah. No way could I eat right now. I held my head in my hands. I knew how I looked: glassy eyed and ashen, with dark sleepless bags. "I'm hot as hell, too." Better to point that out before Hannah noticed the sweat beading on my brow. Too bad it was another lie. I was in a cold sweat; my skin felt clammy. I draped my jacket around my shoulders.

"Matt..."

I glanced up. I met Hannah's big brown eyes, full of concern.

"Work is stressful," I mumbled. "Really stressful. It's a rough day. I'm fine. I couldn't park for shit, I..."

At least I was saying a few true things.

Hannah reached for my hand and squeezed it. Such unconditional affection came across from her. And I was trash. I was filthier than trash.

I slid my hand out of hers.

"Hey," she said, "let's get something to eat, yeah?"

"I'm not hungry." I pulled a fifty from my wallet and tossed it across the table. "Get whatever you want."

"Matt, I am not taking—"

"Just take it!" I slammed the table. The umbrella shook above us.

Hannah clutched the bill and shrank in her chair. A few people paused to look at us. God, I was losing it.

"Sorry. Hannah, sorry. It's work." I gestured vaguely. "How's... how's work for you, by the way? Pam being a monster?"

"No." Hannah gazed at her lap. "Um... she's fine. Impressed, I think."

"Has she asked about me?" I leaned forward. Trying to appear offhanded was never going to work right now. "How we know one another or anything?"

"No, Matt. And don't worry, I didn't ask her about you either. I'm—" Hannah stood. "I'm going to get my lunch. I'll be right back."

I watched her walk into the deli.

When I saw her ordering, I gathered my jacket and bolted.

I couldn't do this anymore.

I had to make it right.

I had to call Bethany.

And maybe I wouldn't tell Bethany the whole truth, and maybe I wouldn't tell Hannah the whole truth, but I had to tell one it was over, and I had to tell the other it was starting.

When I got to my car, I texted Hannah.

I'm so sorry. I got called away. I'm sorry I yelled at you. I'll be better tomorrow. I have an obligation tonight. I'd rather be with you but I have to do this. Let me take you camping this weekend. Tomorrow. We'll go into the mountains. Say yes.

CHAPTER 18

Hannah

_____

"You're home early..."

Chrissy raised her eyebrows and watched me expectantly.

Chrissy just happened to be in the kitchen when I got home from work. Mom too. Maybe it was a coincidence, but it felt like they were lurking, waiting to see whether I came home after work or went to Matt's place.

At least mom didn't beat around the bush.

"You haven't already lost that sweet boy, have you?"

"He's twenty-eight. Not exactly a boy." I rummaged through the pantry, hiding from mom's prying eyes and looking for comfort food. "Also, he's not that sweet. He's kind of a douchebag sometimes."

Chrissy clicked her tongue.

Mom made one of her know-it-ally
mhmm
sounds.

I emerged with a bag of cheese puffs and found them nodding at one another.

"Yup, they had a fight," Chrissy said as if I weren't standing right there. "Which works out for me. Can you drive me to work Hannah?"

"Drive your own ass to work."

I slammed the pantry door and stormed down to the basement.

I couldn't think straight. Was my fairytale romance crumbling? Was Matt wonderful up until the parental introductions, after which he turned into a snarly strung-out ogre?

He seriously looked like he was on drugs today, and he acted like it too. I followed that unsettling line of thought.

He said he quit drinking five years ago. What about drugs?

He had the crazy mood swings. He had the appetite of a bird. Today he was late (he was
never
late) and sweating and shivering in 90-degree heat. Oh, and then there was the suspicious apartment deep clean before having me over. Fuck.

I unpacked like a hurricane to distract myself.

For the first time since I met Matt, I was starting to feel like he might be too good to be true. Too perfect, too right for me, too interested in me. There had to be a catch.

I was sweating by the time I finished emptying all the boxes in my room. The physical labor felt good. My arms burned and my knees ached.

Never mind the fact that I checked my phone every ten minutes.

I put all my books on the shelves and my one stuffed animal on the bed. I remembered Matt sitting on my bed, smiling at me.

He wanted to go camping tomorrow. Overnight, I assumed. I hadn't given him an answer yet. Yes, I wanted to go camping with the guy who came over on the Fourth of July. No, I didn't want to go camping with the guy I met for lunch today.

Beautiful Matt. Scary Matt.

But in spite of scary Matt's pasty skin and irrational rage, I felt this weird urge to protect him. Maybe he
was
on drugs. Or maybe he was telling the truth. He had money; he could have the high-stress job to go with it.

Whatever Matt's problem was, I wanted to wrap my arms around him and snarl at the world until everything left him alone.

Everything but me.

I put my clothes on hangers and organized the closet. A wardrobe update was in order as soon as I got paid. I needed more work clothes. I needed more thongs. I also needed more clothes that made me feel like I belonged next to Matt.

I frowned as I hung up the blouse and skirt I wore to work.

I wanted to watch Matt trip over himself when he saw me in that skirt. Before I met him for lunch, I undid the top three buttons of my blouse. My platform pumps accentuated my shapely calves. I was even wearing makeup.

Matt's jaw should have hit the sidewalk.

Instead?

Looking sharp
. That was all I got.

Meanwhile, albeit sweating and stammering, Matt looked like a male model in an elegant slate gray suit and white shirt.

I strung Christmas lights around the top edges of my room. I hung my posters, calendar, and art. I arranged the knickknacks on my desk and bedside table.

After piling the empty boxes in the garage, I threw myself onto my bed and fiddled with my phone.

Camping. I hadn't been camping in years.

Mick's idea of camping was getting rowdy at an overcrowded campsite.

Matt's idea of camping probably involved little-known uses for stakes and rope.

I smirked and sighed. Why was I pretending I had a choice? The moment Matt asked, I knew my answer. I craved his company. I couldn't wait to be alone with him.

I texted Matt around seven.

At least I kept him waiting for my answer.

Camping sounds good. No problem about lunch, you were stressed. I was pretty worried. I still am. How's the "obligation" going?