Night Owl(54)

"...some spending money," Nate was saying, "travel expenses, anything you need above and beyond the car and the ticket. All my contact information is here. I insist you keep the change as I know this is something of an inconvenience."

I turned my deer-in-headlights look on the envelope Nate was pressing into my hands. Thoughtlessly, I rifled through the bills. Brand new Benjamin Franklins. Okay, I was counting. One thousand, two thousand, three thousand—

"Five," Nate murmured.

My head shot up.

My god, this wasn't for travel expenses. This was a bribe.

Nate moved toward the doorway, leaving the money in my hands and the travel information on my desk. I was paralyzed with anger. That was fortunate for Nate, because otherwise I would have brained him with my stapler.

"I'll be in touch," Nate said. "I'm staying in the city for a few days. Call me if you have any questions. Hannah, I knew you would help. The way Matt spoke about you..."

There it was again, that guileless vulnerability. This * loved his brother, at least, who also happened to be an *.

Briefly, I envisioned Matt and Nate sitting together and discussing me. Conspiring? Was this a ploy to send me running back to Matt's arms?

No, no way. Matt was drinking. Matt was in trouble. I needed to think.

"You're both the same," I fumed.

Nate glanced over his shoulder.

"Of course we are." He smiled and shrugged. "We're brothers."

CHAPTER 23

Matt

THE FINGER LAKES are wine country.

Fuck, they even have this thing called the Seneca Wine Trail. You go around the whole goddamn lake hitting up wineries until you pass out. It's like a hall crawl for cultured adults.

Granted, I wasn't about to hit the trail. I did hit up a few wineries, though. I'd borrowed my brother's bike, a silver Icon Sheene, and I tore all over Geneva like a maniac.

Not caring is really damn liberating.

I kept the cabin stocked with wine, bourbon, and Dunhills. Nate stopped pestering me around the middle of September—thank god. He'd had a damn good idea, me getting some time alone in nature or whatever, but I didn't need him to mother hen me the whole time.

So I was drinking again. So what? I forgot how much I loved it.

And f*ck, I wrote Ten Thousand Nights drunk off my ass. It's still my most popular novel. I could write The Surrogate wasted, no problem.

I wrapped myself in an afghan and sat out on the porch. I made my weekly call to Pam.

"Matthew," she sighed.

God, that bitch. What did she always have to be such a bitch? I was starting to expect her oh-no-it's-Matt-again tone, like damn, too bad I have to talk to my most famous author.

"Yeah, sorry to rain on your goddamn parade," I slurred.

Silence.

"I mean f*ck, Pam, it's not like I'm f*cking nobody. Last time I checked—"

"It's the time, Matthew." Her voice was quiet and faraway. I looked at my phone. It was four in the morning.

"You're two f*cking hours behind me! God Pam, also, f*ck, work on my schedule. I'm the next f*cking Balzac. What about Proust? He used to—"


"Matthew, what do you want."

There was no question at the end of Pam's sentence. That bitch. She knew she had me by the balls because she had Hannah.

I spit a mouthful of Riesling over the rail. I needed a bottle of beer. Better yet, I needed a bottle of Woodford Reserve.

"You know what I want. What does she think? I'm writing like you always ask but you're never f*cking h—"

"She loves it." Pam stifled a yawn.

Okay, Pam had probably been asleep—like I f*cking cared. She deserved this. She ratted me out to the reporters. Her and Bethany, maybe even Nate. I'd had time to think and I finally figured they were all in on it. They knew about me and Hannah. They tore us down on purpose.

Why, I didn't know, and it didn't matter. You can't trust anyone.

"I swear," I growled. "Tell me more."

"She... she really empathizes with the narrator, the surrogate."

"Why?"

"I don't know, Matthew. We work together, we don't do psychoanalysis."

"Oh, f*ck you Pam."

I ended the call. Fuck her. I drained my bottle and dropped it, watching it roll across the porch. What a gorgeous f*cking night. Cool and dark, windy and quiet. All I needed was a cigarette. Or that bottle of beer. My Ambien was kicking in, though. God, I loved that feeling... like a balloon rising and expanding in my head.

I woke up drunk.

Jesus, why did I sleep on the porch? I was f*cking freezing, wearing only a pair of boxers, and sore as f*ck, slumped over in a wicker chair.

I flicked through my phone. Huh, I'd talked to Pam. God, she probably called me in the middle of the f*cking night. She was always calling, always harassing me.

I shuffled into the cabin and took two shots of bourbon. I gulped down three glasses of water. Damn, that did me exactly right. Headache gone, stomach settled, hands steady.

I refreshed Laurence's water and topped off his food dish.

"Perfect morning," I told him. I hummed as I dressed. Mm, it felt good to drink. I'm an all-day all-night drinker when I drink. I do nothing by halves.

My mind whirred along as I brushed my teeth, popped a Xanax and a Lexapro, and collected my latest pages from the kitchen table. I was writing everything by hand. Only f*cking way to write. Why did I ever use a computer? Pen in hand, hand to the page, it's godly.