Envy(137)

Actually, her death was very convenient.

She’d read that line a dozen or more times. It was a key piece of dialogue, so she had dwelled on it. She had played with ideas on how the statement could be improved or enhanced, but after trying several changes she had concluded that it didn’t need improving or enhancing. It was perfect as it was. Its cold candor was deliberate. It made the statement all the more shocking. Parker had used that simple sentence to provide a revealing sneak peek into the dark soul of the character. Realization slammed into her.

“You’re Todd.”

Noah’s chin went back. “What? Who?”

Thoughts were snapping and popping in her mind like a sail in a high wind, but one thought isolated itself and became jarringly clear: This could not be a coincidence.

With more ferocity than she believed herself capable of, she said, “For the last time, Noah, let go of me.”

“Of course, darling.” He uncoiled her hair from around his finger. “You’re free to go. Now that we understand one another.”

She slid into the driver’s seat and started the motor. Before pulling the door closed, she said, “You have no idea how well I understand you.”



“Envy” Ch. 22

Key West, Florida, 1988

It was one of those days when the words simply would not come.

Roark pressed his skull between his hands, squeezing it like a melon, trying to force the words out through his pores. To no avail. He came up dry. So far today, he had contributed exactly two and one-half sentences to his manuscript. Nineteen words total. For the past three hours, his cursor had been stuck in the same spot, winking at him.

“Mocking little bastard,” he whispered to it now. Deliberately he typed, The grass is green. The sky is blue. “See, you son of a bitch? I can write a sentence when I want to.”

It made little difference that yesterday, his day off from the club, had been a productive one. He had put in sixteen hard hours of writing, going without food or drink and taking bathroom breaks only when absolutely forced. He had over twenty pages to show for his labors. But the euphoria had lasted only until he awakened this morning to discover that evil spirits had sneaked in during the night while he slept and robbed him of yesterday’s talent. What other explanation could there be for its overnight disappearance?

His frustration was such that he considered shutting down for the day, taking in a movie, or going to the beach, or getting in some fishing. But that kind of retreat was easily habit-forming. It was too convenient to surrender to a momentary block. It might become a permanent block, and that was the dreadful possibility that kept him shackled to his chair, staring into a blank screen while being taunted by a blinking cursor that didn’t go any-goddamn-where.

“Roark!”

The door slammed three floors below and Todd’s running footsteps echoed in the stairwell. Lately, he had been working through the restaurant’s lunch hours to earn extra money. Roark welcomed the time Todd was out, when he was left alone in the apartment to write without the distraction that even having another warm body nearby could create.

He turned around in time to see Todd barge through their door. “What’s up? Is the building on fire? I wish.”

“I sold it.”

“Your car?” That was the first thing that popped into Roark’s head. Todd was constantly bitching about his car.

“My book! I sold my book!” His cheeks were flushed, his eyes were feverishly bright, his smile was toothpaste-commercial caliber.

Roark just looked at him, dumbfounded.

“Did you hear what I said?” Todd’s voice scaled upward to an abnormally shrill pitch. “I sold my manuscript.”

Unsteadily Roark came to his feet. “I… th-that’s great. I didn’t even know you… When did you submit it?”

Todd somehow managed to look abashed while maintaining his wide grin. “I didn’t tell you. I sent it on a whim about two months ago. I didn’t want to make a big deal of it because I was afraid—Jesus, I was positive—I’d get another rejection letter. Then today, just now, less than an hour ago, I got this call at work.”

“The publisher had your work number?”

“Well, yeah. In my cover letter, I listed every conceivable way they could contact me. Just in case, you know? Anyway, the manager of the club, that fag we hate, prances over and tells me someone wants me on the phone in his office. He says that personal calls aren’t allowed and to please limit the conversation to three minutes. Like we were busy,” he snorted.

“I hadn’t parked a car in half an hour. I figured it was you or one of the babes calling.” To Todd, their neighbors had collectively become “the babes.” “Overflowing toilet or something, you know? But instead, instead, this guy identifies himself as an editor, says he’s read my manuscript, says it blew him away. Those words. ‘It blew me away.’ Says he wants to publish it. I nearly shit right there, man.

“Then, for a heartbeat or two, I thought you or somebody, maybe the fag we hate, was jacking with me, you know, playing a trick. But no, this editor goes on and on about my story, calls the characters by name. Says he’s willing to offer in the neighborhood of high five figures, but I’m sure that was only his starting point. As much as he raved over the book, there’s got to be wiggle room to up the ante.”