Well Written

2. Chapter Two

Chapter Two

Marcus

M y hand wraps around a white t-shirt, tossing it across the room at the half-naked man whose name I've already forgotten.

"Thanks," he grins, pulling it over his head. He tugs it down over his torso, each rib in his body prominently peeking from beneath the skin. I nod.

"Sure."

I look down at my pants as I button them. Why do I feel like the buttons on slacks are always too big for the hole? Fumbling around with it, it feels as if a pair of eyes are burning through the top of my skull. My gaze flicks back to the man.

"What?" I ask, my brow lifted slightly. The man stares back at me, his emerald green eyes scanning mine like I hold the answer to my own question. He clears his throat.

"I was just wondering if you wanted to get some lunch," he says, sliding a pair of aviators onto the v-necked collar of his shirt.

Look, this guy was fun, I'll admit that. But that's exactly the point. The fun stops the second things go further than casual sex in a mediocre coastal hotel room. I look down at my sleeves, folding the cuffs backward messily.

"I can't," I say, and it feels good to know that it isn't a lie. This time . "I have a meeting."

The man nods, and I sense a slight disappointment in the movement, but he simply shrugs.

"Cool," he says, reaching for his jacket hanging over the chair. "See you around, then."

My forehead tightens when I lift my brows, and I watch as he walks out of the room swiftly, the door closing behind him. I let out a breath.

Something about kicking out hookups is particularly stressful, which is why I'm always straightforward with people in the beginning. I don't want them to think there's any part of me that's looking for more. Still, sometimes, they try anyway. I guess "visiting my hometown for a weekend while on a tour for my new book" could also be perceived as "convince me to stay." Or at least that guy seemed to think so.

Walking into the lowly-lit bathroom, I glance into the mirror, my grey hair a messy display of the activity that just transpired. I dig through my toiletry bag, grabbing a comb and slicking it back tediously. Then, my thumb tucks in between the soft layers of my shirt, popping the top button open. If I remember anything about Coral Beach, it's that it isn't a "fully buttoned" kind of town. Tucked away on the Oregon Coast, its a quaint, but popular city. And though I moved on nearly twenty years ago, I can't say that I hate being back.

Some things are still the same. The salty ocean breeze, the sudden weather fluctuation, The Seahorse Inn, apparently. But not everything can remain untouched.

The roads are new. Dark, leveled asphalt superseding the previous ashy, jagged gravel. With the extinction of the dusty clouds the tires' friction once created, the view to my childhood home was clear as we drove to the hotel yesterday. Like the renewed streets, that too, has changed. The once tiny beach bungalow now stands two stories tall, a balcony fit for kings enveloping its entirety.

I wondered briefly who lives there. If the ghosts of my younger years haunt the walls the way they used to haunt me. But the pristine slotted shutters were enough to confirm that those ghosts are long forgotten. I guess as far as changes go, that one is definitely for the better.

Well Written Books, on the other hand, I cannot attest. The idea that anyone could love that place the way Old Man Duke did proves to be unfathomable. Still, with his passing in recent years, it's only fair that I pay tribute to the place that created me. And what better way to pay tribute, than to have Well Written Books host the launch party for my newest release, The Thread Untied?

In college, the bookstore was practically my haven. It didn't pay well, but I didn't care. The wealth to me lied in the pages on the shelves, and with the people I met inside. In fact, I met my first lover while working at Well Written Books. Actually, my only lover.

An incessant rapping erupts from my hotel door, a recognizable, and rather annoyed voice heightening behind it.

"Marcus?" Janelle announces, loud enough for the entire hall to hear. "Your driver is supposed to be here in two minutes!"

I check the time on my phone, a bright 1:38 shining up at me through the screen.

"Shit!"

I rush out of the bathroom, looking around until I locate my jacket. Peeking at my hair in the mirror one last time, I shake it around to make it just less than perfect, before quickly opening the door to greet Janelle.

"Sorry," I say, sliding my arms through the sleeves of my sweatshirt. Nellie glances at the unmade bed behind me, cocking a sculpted dark brow as her eyes meet mine. I let an awkward, apologetic smile creep across my face.

"Really?" she huffs. I shrug.

"I had some time to kill."

"You always 'have time to kill', even when you actually don't. "

Nellie is rather bossy for an assistant, but that's exactly why I hired her. I need someone direct enough to keep track of me, to make sure I'm meeting my deadlines and showing up on time. She's intolerant to tardiness, and made that clear in the beginning when I was three minutes late to her interview.

"I should have left," she said shortly, impatiently tapping the tip of her pen against the table. "Tell me why I didn't."

While I was shocked that she would start her interview like that, it impressed me. Janelle knew her worth, and I needed an assistant who understood mine as well.

"Sorry," I said breathily, sitting in the seat across from her. "Traffic."

That was a total lie, and Janelle knew it. Still, she didn't budge.

"Tell me why I didn't leave," she says again, straightening her posture. My brows furrowed, and I tilted my head.

"You're…serious?"

Janelle's arms crossed over her chest. "I'm still sitting here, aren't I?"

Humored by her demands, I decided to indulge. My gaze traveled down her body, settling onto her hands. A lustrous grey residue painted along the side of her left-hand pointer finger and thumb.

"You're left-handed," I stated curiously, letting my eyes wander further. Something reflective caught my attention, and my eyes narrowed onto the object. A small, enamel pin lived on the handle of her tote bag, the design inside immediately familiar. Rather than point it out, however, I continued my motionless journey. When my gaze fell onto the iced coffee rested on the table beside her, I knew that I won.

I also knew she wouldn't be happy about it.

"You're a writer," I said evenly, holding back the triumph in my voice. Janelle's perfect brows weaved together, and she slumped back in her chair, though I don't think she realized it.

"So your attention to detail goes further than your books," she stated, in a rather surprised tone. "I have to say, as a fan, I'm relieved. But it doesn't apply to your timeliness?"

"That's what I need you for," I answered. "My timeliness."

Publishing is an intense industry, and keeping up with it began to feel unachievable. Every year, I'm demanded a new project, one I don't even get full autonomy over, with a deadline that's nearly impossible to meet. Then I have to follow it up with interviews, and spin-offs, and tours. It was fun, at first. I liked the distraction that was publicity, and it felt good to be known for the person I am instead of the person I was. But as due dates got tighter, I began to find it more and more difficult to do my stories, my characters, the justice they deserved. The hope was that if my time was better managed, my passion would thrive.

Janelle looked me up and down shamelessly, tapping her acrylic nails against the table as if deep in thought. I was supposed to be the one interviewing her, yet at that moment, I felt like I was being fired.

"Columbia is impressive!" I exclaimed somewhat frantically, pointing to the pin shining on her bag. Janelle glanced at it, then looked back up at me, like I was some poor, lost puppy.

Then, she let out an embarrassingly long sigh. "You're going to help me become a published author," she stated firmly. A wave of relief washed over me, and for some reason, it felt like I had just won the lottery. She stood quickly, slinging her bag over her shoulder, and scooping up her half-melted coffee. "And I always get Mondays off."

We've been inseparable ever since.

"Are you sure you don't want me to come with you?" Nellie asks, her trusty planner gripped in her hands like a precious jewel. We stand beneath the overhang, heavy rainfall thundering against the ridged concrete. This is something I did not miss about Coral Springs. A black SUV pulls up against the sidewalk, and I look at Janelle before stepping forward.

"I'm sure," I answer. It's been twenty years since I've stepped foot into Well Written Books. It only feels natural to return the way I left.

Alone.

The tinted passenger window rolls down, the driver inside the car leaning toward it.

"Marcus?" he calls out, his voice nearly consumed by the rain. I nod, then make a break for it, quickly sprinting through the falling droplets into the back seat. "It's really coming down, isn't it?"

I smile.

"Yup. Not quite like Phoenix," I say back. The driver raises a brow, his eyes catching mine through the rear view mirror.

"Phoenix?" he grunts. "Escaping the heat or somethin'?"

I adjust the cuff of my sleeve again as I maintain eye contact. His irises are reminiscent to the ones I inherited from my mother, a dusty shade of blue that forces me to look away.

"A book tour," I answer. "And this is my hometown."

The driver nods, satisfied with my response, then pulls away from the curb, beginning the short drive to Well Written Books. Like most people I meet, he asks about my writing, and my new release, and my plans for the next one, and when we arrive at the bookstore, I hand him a business card with my information on it before hopping out.

"Thanks Mr…" He looks down at the business card, then back up at me. " Lovett . I'll definitely be there tomorrow."

I give him a polite wave as he pulls away, then hastily make my way inside.

There's no telling how much the rain has tousled my hair, but the best thing about Coral Beach is that you're supposed to be a little messy. If you aren't, then you're not living right.

As my body adjusts to the warm comforts of the ancient bookstore, my brain does quite the opposite.

Like the town it lives in, Well Written Books looks just as it did when I left it, yet also, somehow, entirely different. The stained glass window on the wall by the street is as colorful and mesmerizing. Even though the sun is trapped behind thick, dark clouds, the bright gradients make the room glow. Though that could be in part due to the upgraded lighting fixtures, an array of vintage chandeliers dangling from the high ceilings above me. Half of the shelves are new too, deeply stained walnut that brings a strangely classy darkness to the store. I almost love it as much as I once did.

My fingers drag along the books in the romance section, the tips of them dancing over the corner of my debut novel Harrison's Affair. It's a well-loved copy, sitting on its own display. The hardcover is worn but clearly cared for. Not a speck of dust lies between the pages, and I flip through it, admiring the admiration. Little handwritten notes are scrawled in the margins in writing so messily passionate that I can't quite make out the words. I tilt my head, adjusting my glasses to get a closer look.

A smile tugs at the corners of my lips as I read:

You still love him, idiot!

I chuckle, continuing to study the penciled annotations.

What a prick.

Been there.

Just move on Harry!

As I try to make out an inarticulate scribble, behind me, someone loudly clears their throat.

"That's actually-" a voice says, the soft waver in it causing all the hairs on the back of my neck to stand. I can't say definitively that it's a voice I've heard before, yet simultaneously, something about it begs to be recognized. "A store copy. You see?"

A thick, taupe finger points to the sign beneath the display, which reads:

DISPLAY COPY ONLY – DO NOT TOUCH

"Sorry," I chuckle, setting the book back onto the acrylic stand. I've been caught before, secretly signing copies I find in airports and bookstores and grocery marts, though I don't think I've ever held one so corrodingly cherished. Regardless, once I inform the employees of my identity, they practically beg me to personalize one for them. I plaster on a cheeky smile just before turning around. "Do you want me to sign it?"

My eyes fall down onto a head of fluffy, brown hair. It's greasy, and messy, but that isn't what causes my stomach to sink into the Earth's core. A cowlick sits on the back-left side of his skull, causing the short tufts of hair to sprout in every possible direction. It's adorable, and familiar, and everything in my body pleads for it to belong to someone I haven't yet met.

But over deep brown eyes I've spent my entire adulthood trying to forget, bushy brows shoot up, grazing the hairline of a face I know too well. A face I knew too well. A face I've loved.

Just like the first time I met Kane, the air in my lungs freezes. It doesn't flow out, yet I can't breathe in more either. It's like I'm suffocating from my own bodily malfunction.

"Marcus?" Kane asks wearily, blood rushing from his bronzed cheeks. I stay still, my stomach twisting into an immoveable mass.

I should say something. Every alarm bell in my head is pleading desperately for me to do the right thing and speak. But twenty years of silence feels impossible to break. I know I need to say something, but what the fuck is there to say?

How are you?

You remember me?

I'm sorry?

Instead, I repeat myself, like a Russian nesting doll, my voice growing smaller the second time around.

"Do you want me to sign it?" I manage to get out. God, why am I such an idiot?

Kane's richly dark eyes fill briefly with reluctant acceptance, before bewilderment conquers his entire being. His short, broad body stiffens, and the whites of his eyes round out, the color nearly matching that of his cheeks. What could almost be described as a shocked scoff slips from his lips, and he tumbles back into the shelves behind him.

"You're…" He shakes his head, his voice trembling. " You're Carsen V. Lovett?"