Chapter Twenty
What was that famous quote about deadlines? About loving the sound of them whooshing by. Who said that?
Thomas picked up his phone, opened Google, and typed in quote about deadlines.
And then shut it off, put it aside, and turned back to his computer.
The cursor flashed repeatedly at him.
Flashing. Over and over.
He hated that cursor.
Were there any famous quotes about cursors?
He reached for his phone.
“Fuck.” Shoving himself to his feet, he dragged his hands through his hair and glared out the window at the pitch-black night beyond. “Fuck.”
Not a word written in five days.
No, that wasn’t true. He’d typed a text message to Mila twice. One that said he wanted to talk to her about what had happened. Deleted it each time. No matter how much he ached for her, longed to see her again—and oh boy, did he fucking long to see her—she’d betrayed his trust. All their conversations, all the times he opened up about not letting people get to see the real him because of that damn Times article, and she’d been the author of it. That in itself was bad enough, but to never tell him? To never come clean?
And yet he ached like a part of him, a vital part, had been gouged out.
He wanted to talk to her about it all, but he couldn’t. Anger? Pride? Trust? Who the hell knew why he couldn’t, but he couldn’t.
Which pissed him off and crippled his creativity.
So when Toni Peak sent him a text letting him know she was in New York and wondering if he wanted to catch up, he replied immediately. At least it was some words written. Better than none at all.
He wished to fuck he could delete those words the second he hit send.
He and Toni had been circling each other for months, flirting whenever they were at the same parties or events. He’d known the invitation to the gallery opening hadn’t really been an invitation to a gallery opening, but he’d said yes anyway. He’d deluded himself that maybe he could booty-call Mila out of his system.
Deluded was the correct word. The second Toni’s lips touched his face, he’d known meeting with her was a mistake.
The second her fingers slid over his chest… He’d had a hard time not shuddering.
And swearing.
It seemed Mila Elderkin had fucked him over a second time in his life. This time by making him want her so much, love her so fucking much, the mere touch of another woman’s fingers on his skin made him recoil.
He and Toni parted ways a few minutes after being accosted by a paparazzo on the street outside the gallery. Toni caught a taxi to a party at some singer’s house, and he’d caught one home, guilt and regret and confusion his silent traveling companions.
Home. A place that felt empty without Mila in it.
Fuck. Again.
So the life of a monk lay ahead of him.
A monk incapable of writing.
Oh joy.
“I wonder how many famous monks there are?” he muttered, turning back to his desk. Google was fast becoming his best friend. Four days without being able to write, and he’d discovered all sorts of things.
He picked up his phone.
And for some stupid reason he opened his messaging app instead of Google. For some stupid reason, he opened his conversation with Mila instead of typing famous monks in the search engine.
For some stupid reason, he read her last text message to him, sent over five days ago, instead of discovering all he could about famous clergy.
I’m sorry, St. Clair. I wanted to tell you. From the very first night. I tried. More than once. I just got caught up in everything and it robbed the words from me. Please forgive me. I hope you are writing. I hope you will one day forgive me. M.
How many times had he read it? How many times had his gut clenched at the words? How many times had he wanted to throw his phone across the room? How many times had he wanted to call her?
Call her, hear her voice, see her…
Too many times.
I just got caught up in everything.
He swallowed. Was that Mila’s way of saying she’d fallen in love with him, too? Or was he deluding himself again? Or was he a moron for even hoping she had? She’d lied to him, after all. Destroyed him the first time they’d had any interaction, and then betrayed him this time.
I hope you are writing.
He wasn’t. He couldn’t. Not without her. How goddamn irritating was that little fact? He missed her, ached for her, was angry with her, and questioned whether he could trust her. And yet…
“I still love her.” How pathetic and woeful was that?
“So what now?” He pressed his phone to his forehead, eyes scrunched tight. “The life of a monk who can’t write and doesn’t want to have sex?”
You’re being ridiculous.
It was her voice, her no-nonsense, are-you-serious voice in his head, chastising him as only Mila could.
Sit down and write. No excuses. Write.
“Easy for you to say,” he grumbled at her. “You’re not here.”
Where was she? At her house? Shelby had sent him a file with every piece of discoverable information about her, including where she lived, her results at university, and for some reason, the name of her pet rabbit she had when she was eight.
Jonsey.
Was she a fan of the movie Alien? Had she named her rabbit after the cat in that?
Of course not, you idiot. She was eight. What kind of parents let their eight-year-old kid watch Alien?
“I’d watched Jaws by the time I was seven,” he muttered. “And Silence of the Lambs by the time I was nine.”
Might explain a lot, actually. That and the fact his parents were probably already unravelling their marriage and any future happiness as a family unit. Hell, had they even known what he was watching and reading half the time?
Jesus, it was no wonder he was a screwed-up mess.
A screwed-up mess with a long overdue deadline.
He had a fallen angel and a mysterious child to write about.
“So do it.”
He retrieved his desk chair from where it had slid across his office, returned it to his desk, and sat and stared at his computer and the flashing cursor.
What would happen if he sent Mila a text? Now? At two thirty-seven a.m.?
A dry snort scratched at the back of his throat. “The Mila I first met would tell me to go away.”
His thumb hovered over the message app.
He sighed. “Write. Write. Write.”
He put his phone aside, placed his fingers on the keyboard and waited.
Waited.
Twenty-thousand words, St. Clair. Then you can text me.
Mila’s stern voice played with his sanity. He saw her leaning against the doorframe of his office, arms folded, her grey eyes serious and yet dancing with a deep wit he admired so much, that eyebrow of hers arched…
A smile curled at his lips and he began to write.
And didn’t stop.
Not to eat. Not to sleep. He emptied every water bottle in the bar fridge in his office. Once, possibly, he dozed on the sofa with Reaper on his chest. Maybe? It was a foggy blur of words and feverish intensity.
And then—an unknown number of days later—he typed the last two words.
“The end.”
He cracked his back, grinning.
The end.
Turning to Reaper—fast asleep in his normal spot on the sofa—he grinned wider. “The end, Reap.”
Reaper cocked his ears and thumped his tail once, but otherwise stayed the same.
Heart beating fast, Thomas saved the file, initiated a backup, emailed the file to himself, and cc’d Sebastian Hart, adding a short message. It’s done. Unedited. Haven’t read it myself, but done. Tell me what you think.
Digging his knuckles into his lower back, he straightened from his chair. His knees protested. Hell, how long had he been writing for?
By the stubble on his jaw, at least two days. Two days without real sleep, food… He lifted his right arm and sniffed. Goddamn, he needed a shower.
“But first…” He picked up his phone.
Fuck, the battery was dead.
Damn it. Way to go, idiot. Putting it on charge might have been a smart move. How are you going to text her now?
Grinding his teeth, he plugged in the power cord and then strode from the room.
Shower first, then.
Bright sunlight streamed through the window as he entered his bedroom. He frowned. What time was it? What day? Morning by the stretching shadows thrown across the floor. Was it Monday? Friday?
Shower first, a thorough cleaning of the teeth, then he’d ascertain the time and date situation, and send Mila a text.
A cold shower later, teeth and mouth minty fresh, and a finger-comb through his wet hair, he checked the time and date on his watch.
“Damn.” Three solid days and nights of writing, four days if he counted today, given it was almost noon. It had been a while since he pulled a session like that.
Almost noon. Mila would be awake.
Heart beating fast, throat tight, he yanked on a pair of jeans and hurried back to his office. He picked up his phone, grinning at the eight-percent battery charge.
“Okay.” He swiped a shaky hand over his mouth. “Okay.”
Mila. I’ve just finished. Please call me. I need to celebrate, and there’s no one else I want to do it with but you.
He hit send.
True, he probably should have put something in there about talking over what had occurred between them, but at the moment, the only thing he wanted was to see her. They’d figure out what happened next after that.
Five hours later, after taking Reaper for a walk, getting himself some lunch, and checking his phone every few minutes for a reply, he called Shelby.
“Have you finished?”
For some reason, the excitement in her voice put him on edge. “I want you to get me Josie Elderkin’s phone number.”
“I’m sorry, you what?”
He raked his hand through his hair. “Josie Elderkin’s phone number. I need it.”
“Who the hell is Josie Elderkin? Have you finished Blood Angel?”
“Josie is Mila’s sister. She’s an actress. Stage. Off Broadway plays. I want her number.”
“What? You’ve moved on to her sister now?” Shock cut Shelby’s voice. “Tommy, I’m beginning to get—”
He ended the call.
Five hours and Mila hadn’t replied. Was she okay? Had something happened?
Worry ate at him. And agitation.
He wanted to celebrate. How could he celebrate without her?
His phone vibrated in his hand with an incoming message. His heart smashed hard in his chest.
Just finished reading Blood Angel. It’s good, you talented bastard. One of your best. Haunting, terrifying, poignant and stirring. I’m turning it into a film and won’t take no for an answer. Hart.
“Fuck.” Not the message he wanted.
Sure. The film rights are yours for a buck, he texted back.
Another message popped up, this one from Shelby with a phone number and a request for an explanation.
Ignoring Sebastian’s reply and Shelby’s insistence, he called Josie.
She answered on the fourth ring.
“Josie?” Goddamn it, his voice was a scratchy croak. “This is Thomas St. Clair. I’ve been trying to get in contact with your sister and she hasn’t answered. I’m worried. Is everything okay?”
“You’re worried?”
He blinked at the scorn in Josie’s voice, even as his gut clenched at how much she sounded like Mila. “Yes. I’m worried. Is there a problem with that?”
A dry, sarcastic laugh came through the connection. “I tell you what, I’m going to send you the link I sent Mila a few days ago. You have a look at the site it takes you to and then call me back, okay?”
She disconnected the call before he could answer. A second later, he received a message from her containing only a web address link.
Mouth dry, he clicked on it.
“Fuck.”
A paparazzi image with Toni. Taken when he was furious with himself for being there, furious with the paparazzi, furious with Shelby for messing everything up, and furious with Mila for ripping out his heart.
And what did Thomas St. Clair do when he was hiding his true emotions? He behaved like a jackass.
He didn’t need to read the words beneath the image. He’d spoken them. He owned them.
“A muse is a muse.”
What kind of prick was he?
The kind that professed his love to a woman one day and dismissed her on a public medium a few short days later.
“Goddamn—”
His phone vibrated.
So? Josie’s text mocked him.
Dialing her number, he rubbed at the back of his neck.
“I think you should probably leave my sister alone, St. Clair.” Damn, could her voice get any colder? “It’s that, or do some serious groveling, and you don’t seem like the kind.”
He let out a shaky laugh. “Yeah, I’d agree with you if it wasn’t Mila we’re talking about. I love her. I’m in love with her. I told her that, but all I’m getting from her is crickets.”
There was silence for a moment, “Do you know what you did to her way back when, St. Clair?”
A hot lump settled in his gut. “Do you mean when she was trying to write the article for the Times? Yeah. I was a dick. I brushed her off, didn’t turn up for any interviews, basically behaved like a self-absorbed asshole. I can see why she wrote what she wrote. I actually told her that as well, before I knew I was actually talking about her and not some strange journalist she didn’t know. I was barely twenty with more money and fame than I knew what to do with and—”
“That’s not what I’m talking about.” Anger cut her voice. Anger and contempt. “I’m talking about after the article was published. Do you know what you did to her then?”
He frowned. “I didn’t do anything to her. I started work on my next book. I moved on.”
“No. You got her fired. You threatened to sue her and the Times.”
An icy prickle crawled up the back of his neck. “I what?”
“She was just an intern when she was given that assignment. That article, the story about the meteoric rise of over-night-sensation Thomas St. Clair, a man only a few years older than her and already on the top of his game, was her final test, as it were. Write an amazing article about Thomas St. Clair and land a staff position.”
The cold itch crept up over his scalp. His throat thickened. His gut rolled.
“All Mila ever wanted was to be a New York Times journalist,” Josie said, the contempt gone, but the anger was still there. “From the age of ten that’s all she wanted. Hell, probably earlier since she plans every minute of her life—well, she did, until you came along. Landing the job at the Times? That was her dream. And you…” She stopped, her sigh ragged.
Thomas swallowed. It was too easy to picture Mila bustling about a busy office, being productive, serious, professional.
“She did everything she could to get you to talk to her back then.” Josie sighed again. “I’d never seen her so stressed as I did every time you brushed her off or left an email unanswered. She learned what she could about you so her questions would be significant. Because that’s the kind of person she is, no cutting corners, one hundred percent effort, one hundred percent of the time. She knew that your childhood wasn’t easy. So she gave you time. And time. And time. Professional courtesy, she called it.”
She sighed again, this one threaded through with a laugh far from warm.
“Josie.” Talking down a protective sister wasn’t part of his skillset. But neither was falling in love with a woman who’d betrayed him. “I—”
“She wanted you to respect the interview,” Josie said, cutting him off. “Not just because she was trying to impress her bosses, not just because she loved being a journalist, but because she’d read Night of Whispers and thought it was the best book she’d ever read. But you never showed her an inch of professional decorum, and knowing her dream of getting the job was a lost cause, she wrote the best article she could without you. Frankly, I thought she held back.”
Thomas swiped at his mouth, his gut churning.
“And you had her fired. Threatened to sue. Her life goal, gone, just like that. Destroyed by a man-child who didn’t have the decency to answer one single question from her.”
“I never…” He trailed off. Sick. He felt sick. Shelby… Even now, he remembered how furious Shelby had been at the article. How she’d sworn to make M.E. Elderkin regret every word written. Shelby’s godfather was on the board of the New York Times. Fuck, had she asked him to have Mila fired?
“You never what?”
“I never threatened to sue, or demand that she be fired. My agent said she’d deal with it, and I let her. I started work on my next book. I didn’t…I didn’t know.”
Silence stretched over the connection. Suffocating him. Crushing him.
“You know what, St. Clair?” Could she have sounded any more like Mila? “I think that makes it all even worse. Please, whatever you think you have with my sister, stay away. She doesn’t deserve someone as selfish and self-absorbed as you.”
The connection ended. Leaving Thomas with nothing but the dead noise of a terminated conversation.
Fuck.