Tate

There were many things I felt I should be doing, but none of them held the importance of finishing the book I was working on. It would stand to reason that after being confined to a jail cell for 23 hours a day, I’d rather be riding my bike or walking along the beach than be restricted to my spare bedroom pecking away on my laptop.

But there I was, doing just that. I’d been locked in the room 14 hours a day for two weeks straight, honing the manuscript into what I hoped would be a masterpiece. My stories typically had no outline, nor did they have a preconceived storyline that I followed. I simply developed characters, allowed them to meet, and let what happened in their lives come to life in the pages of my book.

As far as I was concerned, what happened in my books was as real as life itself. In writing more than three-dozen manuscripts, I’d befriended an eccentric millionaire, a boxer, street fighter, detective, mafia boss, CIA agent, countless military heroes, a murdering psychopath, a few tattoo artists, and several bikers.

Until now, however, I’d never befriended a convict.

My current hero was a biker and a felon. He’d been convicted of a crime that he didn’t commit – simply because he fit the profile. Through the course of his incarceration, he became close with the guard who worked at the waiting room of the prison’s infirmary.

She was the only person in the penitentiary who didn’t judge him. Through her eyes, she saw a man who needed medical care. A man, who while imprisoned, had been diagnosed with cancer. A man who she was sure wouldn’t get the care he deserved – or needed – behind the walls of the institution.

During his once a month visits, she gave him what little she could offer. Initially, a smile and a nod when the guard dropped him off. As time passed, she offered him a kind ear. She gave suggestions of inspirational books that may help him cope with the fear associated with what she expected would be terminal cancer.

As his condition worsened, his trips to the prison’s hospital increased in frequency. Despite seeing her more often, he felt empty and alone. He needed more, but feared asking. Without provocation, she provided it.

He spoke not of his sickness, but of his love of riding. Of being free. The smell of the ocean. The sound of the wind as it rushed past him. With each tale he told, she was drawn a little closer to him and to his love of living life.

In time, the topics of their conversations became more personal. As he sat in his cell, he yearned to hear her voice. She learned to laugh again, and looked forward to hearing of his life’s experiences. As he slowly withered, inching closer to death, their relationship blossomed.

In her spare time, she researched his legal case. After learning that his attorney had provided an inadequate defense, she secretly prepared an appeal of his conviction. While she spent nights collecting shreds of evidence, his cancer spread.

Driven by the thought of having his conviction overturned, she slept very little. In her waking hours, she imagined a life with him in it. In his current medical state, he could barely stay awake. As he slept, he dreamed not of freedom, but of the relationship he’d developed with her.

Unbeknownst to him, she filed an appeal with the appellate court. Unbeknownst to her, he mentally prepared to die. Then, on one Thursday, she received the word. A second trial was granted. Certain that no court would convict him after considering the new evidence, she stood proudly on the following Friday, waiting for him to come to his visit.

Each time the hallway door opened, she craned her neck, hoping it was him.

But.

He never came.

I stared at the manuscript. It wasn’t unfolding the way I wanted it to, and certainly didn’t follow the recipe for a typical romance. I wondered if my readers were going to throw a fit. There was only one way to know for sure.

I called my agent. After three rings, she answered. “I was just thinking about you.”

“I’ve got a question,” I said.

“So do I.”

“Okay. Yours first.”

“When are you going to write me a stand-alone romance novel?” she asked. “I was just talking to an editor at Random House, and she sure could use something about right now.”

The thought of writing another book for a publisher made me cringe. I’d done it before, and the entire process went against the grain of my very existence. “As soon as I’m done with the one I’m working on,” I said, knowing good and well that I wouldn’t.

“You always say that. Okay, what brings you to call on this beautiful Wednesday?”

“I’m writing the last biker book in my series. The heroes dying of cancer. Can he die?”

“No!” she screeched. “Not in a romance. In women’s fiction? Sure. In romance? No. It has to have an HEA or an HFN, Tate. We’ve been over this. Let the man live.”

“He’s knocking on death’s door right now.”

“Give me the elevator pitch.”

I hated summarizing my books into a three-sentence sales pitch. I sighed heavily into the phone. After a moment, I responded to her request.

“Biker falls for prison guard in this heartwarming tale of sacrifice and--”

“Stop,” she blurted. “Tell me this guy’s a prisoner.”

“He is.”

“Oh, my God. This is going to be gold.”

“Even if he dies?”

“Why does he have to die? Give me the details.”

“He meets the woman who stands guard at the hospital entrance. He’s being given second-rate healthcare for colon cancer. They develop a friendship. She learns that his legal case is a crock of shit, and she appeals it without him knowing. Meanwhile, he’s dying of cancer, and he knows it. She knows he’s being treated, but has no idea of the extent of it. At the same time they accept her appeal for his new trial, he dies.”

“What the fuck?” she gasped. “Let him live. You’re a big boy. Figure it out, and write it. If it wasn’t the last book of that series you’re writing, I’d take it to Random House. Send me a copy when you’re done.”

“Okay.”

“That wasn’t very convincing,” she said. “It all comes from state of mind, Tate. You need an attitude adjustment. Get on your bike, ride along the beach, and pay attention to everything around you. When you get home, maybe you’ll see things differently.”

“I might do that.”

“Is there anything else?”

“No. Not that I can think of.”

“Write me that manuscript,” she said. “The dystopian.”

“I will.”

“Promises, promises.”

“Talk to you soon, Michelle.”

“Bye.”

I hung up the phone and stared blankly at the computer’s screen. I’d become attached to the characters and loved the story. But. Michelle was right. I couldn’t let the hero die. If I continued to write, however, I feared that’s where things were headed. I needed to take a break and see if there was any way for me to redirect the course of my character’s lives.

There was only one place that I could find true serenity. The ocean. I went there each time I needed to think, clear my mind of clutter, or make a difficult decision. It was where I spent all my time as a kid, and where I believed heaven to be.

In my mind, it was where my parent’s souls remained.

I walked along the beach that afternoon until the sun folded behind a layer of low lying clouds. Upon realizing the day had escaped me, I sat cross-legged in the sand and watched the sunset.

In doing so, my mind cleared, and all the pieces fell into place. As if someone had flipped a switch, everything in the story made sense.

I gazed at the darkening horizon and grinned.

The book was about me.