After Dark
Page 36
I pulled on my T-shirt and stretched.
Hannah ventured a smile. Cute … how shy she’d turned.
“You look mighty pleased with yourself,” I said.
She shrugged and busied herself with repacking our picnic.
I leaned over and kissed her shoulder. Mm, the taste of her skin …
“You know I plan to pay you back for this.”
She glanced at me through her lashes. A familiar glow spread over her cheeks.
“I know,” she said. “I was hoping you would.”
Chapter 17
HANNAH
On Monday morning, I strolled into work feeling like a goddess.
I could hardly believe what I’d done to Matt—what he’d let me do!—and every time I remembered the stormy anger in his eyes, I got a shiver of triumph.
I plan to pay you back for this …
Please do, Mr. Sky; I have just the thing for it.
No sooner had I settled behind my desk than I heard a knock.
“Come in,” I called as Pam entered.
I shrank when I saw the look on her face: eyebrows in a severe V, lips tight.
Pamela Wing would always be my boss, even now when we were partners at the agency. Maybe that was a good thing. A little authority goes a long way.
Unbidden, the image of Matt with a whip flashed through my brain.
Gah! Not now.
“Hi, Pam.” I squirmed.
“Hannah.” She nodded and plopped a manuscript on my desk.
I scanned the title page. LAST LIGHT by Matthew R. Sky Jr. writing as M. Pierce.
My good mood deflated. Oh …
So Matt had finished his second novel about us. And sent it to his agent. And said nothing to me.
“Great,” I mumbled.
“I wouldn’t go that far,” Pam said dryly, “but it is what it is. I think it gives him some secret pleasure, being a byword among the critics who adored him. Any idea when this phenomenon will run its course?”
A byword? Phenomenon? I tightened my hands under the desk. I knew Pam wanted Matt to get back to his literary roots—she’d hinted at it more than once—but she didn’t have to be so rude. This book, after all, was about us. About me.
A terrible thought jabbed at me. Did Pam blame me for Matt’s career shift? And was I to blame? Her bestselling author of acclaimed literary fiction—the brightest feather in her cap—had morphed into a bestselling author of erotica.
His style and his voice had changed. His themes. His audience.
The only common denominator between Matt’s career prior to me and after me was his unchecked popularity.
“I don’t control what he writes,” I said, willing strength into my voice. “I never know what he plans to write. We don’t talk about it. In fact, I didn’t even know he’d finished this.” I glared at Last Light. “But I’ll stand by any decision he makes with his writing.”
I met Pam’s stare—maybe a little defiantly. What I wanted to say was, You should stand by his decisions, too.
Pam cocked her head and smiled frigidly. “So you stand by his decision to tell the world what really happened when he ‘died’ last year?”
“We already told everyone what happened.”
“This tells a different story.” She pointed at the manuscript. “No less romantic, though. The two of you plotting his disappearance. You, sneaking out to the cabin to see him. I suppose you’re right. It does make for a … great story.”
I froze in my chair.
Oh … shit. How had I never considered this? I knew Matt was writing Last Light, I knew he planned to publish it, and I knew what it was about. I’d even read a chunk of it in April when I ambushed him at the condo.
Last Light, quite simply, told the truth behind Matt’s faked death and my part in it, and Nate’s part in it, and … oh God, all the stuff that happened with Seth …
The drugs. The hookup.
My office teetered. I held on to the desk.
Matt had already fed a standard lie to major magazines and papers, not to mention anyone who saw us on the Denver Buzz. Our story was that he orchestrated his faked death alone. No one knew. I believed it was true and mourned him, just like the poor, exploited public.
And in our story, I emerged victorious. I was the girlfriend who loved her neurotic artist so much that she forgave him for doing the unthinkable. Angelic Hannah—love’s saint.
Nate looked equally heroic. After Matt reappeared, shocking and disgusting the public, Nate had made several statements in support of his youngest brother. Of course I forgive him. The loss of him, the grief, was horrible. That he’s alive is nothing but miraculous.
But if Last Light got published …
It would shine a spotlight on all our scheming and deceit. Matt’s aunt and uncle would know I’d lied to their faces. My parents would know. Everyone would know. And whatever public support we’d rallied with our “epic love story” would vanish into the ether.
Matt, did you consider this?
“Hannah?” said Pam.
I gazed up at Matt’s agent, another person we’d deceived. She’d comforted me during Matt’s memorial, and she’d arranged all the interviews and appearances through which we disseminated our lie.
Now she knew the truth—obviously—and I saw hurt under her stony exterior.
“It’s … fiction,” I managed.
Pam laughed, her lips curling. “I’m sure. Whatever it is, it will be a sensation.”
We stared at one another in a deadlock. Oh, Pam. This woman had been so good to me, so loyal to Matt. She deserved the truth.
Hannah ventured a smile. Cute … how shy she’d turned.
“You look mighty pleased with yourself,” I said.
She shrugged and busied herself with repacking our picnic.
I leaned over and kissed her shoulder. Mm, the taste of her skin …
“You know I plan to pay you back for this.”
She glanced at me through her lashes. A familiar glow spread over her cheeks.
“I know,” she said. “I was hoping you would.”
Chapter 17
HANNAH
On Monday morning, I strolled into work feeling like a goddess.
I could hardly believe what I’d done to Matt—what he’d let me do!—and every time I remembered the stormy anger in his eyes, I got a shiver of triumph.
I plan to pay you back for this …
Please do, Mr. Sky; I have just the thing for it.
No sooner had I settled behind my desk than I heard a knock.
“Come in,” I called as Pam entered.
I shrank when I saw the look on her face: eyebrows in a severe V, lips tight.
Pamela Wing would always be my boss, even now when we were partners at the agency. Maybe that was a good thing. A little authority goes a long way.
Unbidden, the image of Matt with a whip flashed through my brain.
Gah! Not now.
“Hi, Pam.” I squirmed.
“Hannah.” She nodded and plopped a manuscript on my desk.
I scanned the title page. LAST LIGHT by Matthew R. Sky Jr. writing as M. Pierce.
My good mood deflated. Oh …
So Matt had finished his second novel about us. And sent it to his agent. And said nothing to me.
“Great,” I mumbled.
“I wouldn’t go that far,” Pam said dryly, “but it is what it is. I think it gives him some secret pleasure, being a byword among the critics who adored him. Any idea when this phenomenon will run its course?”
A byword? Phenomenon? I tightened my hands under the desk. I knew Pam wanted Matt to get back to his literary roots—she’d hinted at it more than once—but she didn’t have to be so rude. This book, after all, was about us. About me.
A terrible thought jabbed at me. Did Pam blame me for Matt’s career shift? And was I to blame? Her bestselling author of acclaimed literary fiction—the brightest feather in her cap—had morphed into a bestselling author of erotica.
His style and his voice had changed. His themes. His audience.
The only common denominator between Matt’s career prior to me and after me was his unchecked popularity.
“I don’t control what he writes,” I said, willing strength into my voice. “I never know what he plans to write. We don’t talk about it. In fact, I didn’t even know he’d finished this.” I glared at Last Light. “But I’ll stand by any decision he makes with his writing.”
I met Pam’s stare—maybe a little defiantly. What I wanted to say was, You should stand by his decisions, too.
Pam cocked her head and smiled frigidly. “So you stand by his decision to tell the world what really happened when he ‘died’ last year?”
“We already told everyone what happened.”
“This tells a different story.” She pointed at the manuscript. “No less romantic, though. The two of you plotting his disappearance. You, sneaking out to the cabin to see him. I suppose you’re right. It does make for a … great story.”
I froze in my chair.
Oh … shit. How had I never considered this? I knew Matt was writing Last Light, I knew he planned to publish it, and I knew what it was about. I’d even read a chunk of it in April when I ambushed him at the condo.
Last Light, quite simply, told the truth behind Matt’s faked death and my part in it, and Nate’s part in it, and … oh God, all the stuff that happened with Seth …
The drugs. The hookup.
My office teetered. I held on to the desk.
Matt had already fed a standard lie to major magazines and papers, not to mention anyone who saw us on the Denver Buzz. Our story was that he orchestrated his faked death alone. No one knew. I believed it was true and mourned him, just like the poor, exploited public.
And in our story, I emerged victorious. I was the girlfriend who loved her neurotic artist so much that she forgave him for doing the unthinkable. Angelic Hannah—love’s saint.
Nate looked equally heroic. After Matt reappeared, shocking and disgusting the public, Nate had made several statements in support of his youngest brother. Of course I forgive him. The loss of him, the grief, was horrible. That he’s alive is nothing but miraculous.
But if Last Light got published …
It would shine a spotlight on all our scheming and deceit. Matt’s aunt and uncle would know I’d lied to their faces. My parents would know. Everyone would know. And whatever public support we’d rallied with our “epic love story” would vanish into the ether.
Matt, did you consider this?
“Hannah?” said Pam.
I gazed up at Matt’s agent, another person we’d deceived. She’d comforted me during Matt’s memorial, and she’d arranged all the interviews and appearances through which we disseminated our lie.
Now she knew the truth—obviously—and I saw hurt under her stony exterior.
“It’s … fiction,” I managed.
Pam laughed, her lips curling. “I’m sure. Whatever it is, it will be a sensation.”
We stared at one another in a deadlock. Oh, Pam. This woman had been so good to me, so loyal to Matt. She deserved the truth.
