Prologue
When the rubber meets the road. . .
It’s a metaphor, of course, an expression that describes when theory and practice intersect, but in my case it’s literal. For me, the rubber of my Jeep hit the road two days ago. I had nothing but a few outfits, my computer, and an unexpected passenger. It’s nighttime now, and the gorgeous woman in my passenger seat is lying back in an awkward recline, a hoodie folded haphazardly behind her head as a pillow. Even though she’s in a terrible position she looks peaceful, and whenever it’s safe to look away from the road for a minute, I turn my tired neck to gaze at her sleeping next to me. I’ve imagined her sleeping next to me a thousand times since we met, but I never thought this would be how it happened for the first time. I pictured our naked bodies under the sheets of my bed—sweaty and blissful from a night of pure passion. But life is funny sometimes. . .
There’s almost no light on the road at this time of night, save for my high beams and whatever other cars may pass me by. It’s peaceful. I’ve been a traveler my whole life, but it’s always been a solitary pursuit. Before I went to school full time I’d up and hit the road in my parent’s car—destination anywhere—with no care as to where I ended up. California, Canada, Europe, it didn’t matter.This doesn’t feel like traveling in the same way that I used to travel. It feels like I’m escaping, only now I have an escape partner by my side. Who knows what she’s running from.
Rowan.
It’s hard to keep my eyes on the road with someone so beautiful lying angelically next to me, but I do my best. In a previous life, my thoughts were usually enough to keep me occupied while I was driving, but now those thoughts aren’t so soothing. That’s the reason I made such an impulsive choice to leave everything behind for a while. In hindsight I’m not sure it was the best move—at least not how I did it—but I felt like I had to. My career as an author hasn’t been going the way that I thought it would. That’s an understatement.
I’m a Wordsmith—at least that’s what me, Colton, and Mike have been calling ourselves these last few months. What started as a college experiment quickly became our full time gigs, and at first the idea of being struggling artists was fun, and we all did it at the same time, supporting each other along the way. But then I started to have some success. If careers were a competition, mine would have taken an early lead in the race between all of us. I was always the most organized, the most professional, the most forward thinking in terms of building a following and having a strong social media presence. But what happened to me is what happens to all early leads in races—they fall behind eventually as other pass them by.
For whatever reason my last few books just haven’t connected with my readers, and I’m struggling to be okay with that. Romance writers are prolific, and I’ve written a lot of books, but hitting a skid of bad releases has been disheartening. It’s robbed me of my enthusiasm and confidence. I’d put a lot into my last book, Her Story. I finished it just as the Wordsmiths were becoming what we are now, and finishing it felt like a triumph. I did it under the radar, in the shadow of Colton’s legal drama, and I can still remember how it felt to write that last word and email the file to my editor. It was like I’d just won a battle I didn’t realize I was fighting. It felt like winning.
I also remember the feeling in the parking lot of the Blue Bay Diner, when Roland Rays made that snide comment about my book rank. When I finally saw what he was talking about something inside me just snapped, and here I am, driving across the country because I’m too chicken shit to face reality, because reality might mean that this writing thing isn’t for me. I’m not in a good place right now. But seeing how Rowan just decided to come with me, without any hesitation to what she was leaving behind, made me feel like maybe what I’m doing isn’t so wrong after all. It touched my heart that she was willing to do that for me.
But even though she’s here with me, I’ve never felt so lost or so alone. Even though I have an exact destination, I don’t really know where I’m headed. I guess I’ll find out soon enough. This is my exit.
Chapter 1
Grayson
“Wait, what’s epilepsy porn?”
Rowan woke up early. Probably a combination of sleeping in such a terrible position all night, coupled with all the damn potholes that lined the road this morning. The car felt like a rollercoaster. When she woke up she asked me what I’d been up to while she was asleep, and I told her that I was busy checking out ‘epilepsy porn’ just to get a reaction out of her. She looks at me like I’m nuts, which was kind of what I was going for, so I explain just to keep the shock going a little longer.
“That’s my own term. Sometimes I call it headache porn. I switch back and forth between the two, depending on my mood.”
“I’m less interested in what epilepsy porn is than I am in the fact that you were driving and watching porn. I’m a little worried about that. I’m guess I’m lucky you didn’t kill us both.”
“I’m just joking,” I tell her. “Although I am a good multi-tasker. But I’m not that much of a porn guy.”
“Well that’s a relief, on both counts. But you still have to tell me what the hell epilepsy porn is. Please tell me you’re not watching some naked chick pretend to have a seizure or something twisted. I might need you to drop me off somewhere if that’s the case.”
“God, no,” I say, laughing at the thought of some degenerate whacking off to that. “But I’m sure that kind of sick shit exists out there in Internet Porn Land. But, no, that’s not what I mean by the expression.”
“Then what?” She asks, looking genuinely curious.
“It’s my expression for POV porn.”
“I’m sorry, you’re talking to a conservative Irish Catholic girl here,” she jokes. “If you’re going to use porn vernacular, then you’re going to have to educate me a little on some of the terms.”
“Right, sorry. POV stands for ‘Point of View’.”
“So that’s where. . .”
“Like a guy holding his phone while he. . .”
“I got it,” she interrupts. “But why do you call it headache porn, or whatever?”
“Cause it’s usually so shaky that I feel like I’m having a seizure when I watch it. Half the time you can’t even tell what you’re looking at. I think I jerked off to an elbow one time when I was like eighteen thinking it was a boob.” That gets a loud laugh out of her. I wonder if it’s because she thinks I’m joking just to make her smile. That shit really happened, but it’s probably better that she thinks I made it up.
“I got it,” she says. “Thank you for being my porn professor.”
“You’re very welcome, happy to educate. And I think you just named my next book!”
“What?”
“The Porn Professor. Come on, we’ll make millions!”
“You’re an idiot!”
I can’t believe I just brought up my writing. It’s the last thing I want to discuss, even in a joking manner. I remember reading about this condition once in one of my psychology classes in college. It was called a ‘dissociative fugue state.’ It’s weird to remember these things years later, when most of what I learned in college went right out of my brain the second they handed me that diploma. But I always remembered that condition. It’s a state where people disassociate from who they are, and they travel without knowing where they’re going. One guy who had it had a missing person’s report filed for him by his wife, who found him six months later living in a different state. It’s fucked up that I wish I had that condition right now. Unfortunately I remember exactly where I’m coming from, even if I don’t really know where I’m going. One thing I do know is that we’re not going far with that smoke bellowing from under the trunk.
“That doesn’t look good.” Rowan says, seeing the grey smoke clouds sliding out from under the hood and filling the air around the car.
“It’s a shame you never became a mechanic.”
“Shut up.”
“But, seriously, I need to find a shop.”
“I fully support that idea.”
This car is a piece of shit—something my dad would have called a lemon, but it was the most I could afford on what I make. And, honestly, I get around Queens and the city as much by walking and public transportation as I do in my car. The geography out here is a little different. We used to come to Arizona to see my uncle during the summer for vacations when I was a kid. We came pretty much through middle school, so I’m familiar with the area, but it’s been years since I’ve been around here.
Driving though this terrain reminds me that I’m a city boy, through and through. I hated coming here as a kid. The heat, the lack of things to do, and all in a pre-internet world. But I do have some great memories of just spending time with my family. It’s weird being back here, but I’m welcoming how different this all is from how I usually live my life. We just crossed into Gobi, a little rural town about fifteen miles outside of Phoenix, and Rowan is looking around like we just crossed squarely into Narnia. “This is different.”
“It is different,” I agree. “Is that a good or a bad thing?”
“To be determined.”
Shep’s Auto Body Shop is only a few blocks away. My dad used to bring our family car there in the summers whenever we’d get a flat—which was at least once per trip, if I remember correctly. Even with the smoke I think we’ll make it. The place looks exactly the same. But I guess not a whole lot changes in a town like this. “We’re going to that place over there. Shep can fix anything.”
“I’m just fascinated that you know someone named Shep. That’s very impressive.”
“Well, in about two minutes you’re going to know someone named Shep, too. It’ll seem like less of a big deal then.”
“Nah, I’ll still be excited.”
The smoke is getting pretty bad, but Shep’s is down the block. I park on the street to no small amount of stares from people wondering if the car is on fire. We get out and I take my first deep breath of Arizona air—then I start gagging on all the fumes.
“Everything alright?” A woman walking her baby past asks me. I forget that outside of New York people are actually friendly to strangers.
“No, we’re alright, thank you! I’m sure Shep will fix it right up.”
“Doubt that.” I hear from behind me. I turn around to a guy about my age who looks vaguely familiar, and who’s covered almost head to toe in grease.
“Who are you?” I ask.
“Thomas,” he says. “I’m Shep’s son.”
“Thomas? Jesus, you grew up?”
“Do we know each other?”
“Not really,” I say. “Sort of. I used to come here when I was a kid. My dad was in the shop a lot. I knew your dad. Where is he?”
“He died,” Thomas says matter of factly. “About three years ago. The place is mine now, I just kept the name to remind me of him.”
“Oh, shit, I’m sorry Thomas. I loved your dad, he was a great guy. He always gave me lollipops when I’d come in with my dad.”
“Yeah, dad was great.” He sounds like he’s heard this more than a few times. He’s got those rehearsed, thank you for your condolences phrases memorized. But his dad really was a great guy. “But I can help you. Looks like you need it.”
“What gave you that idea?” Rowan asks, looking at the bellowing smoke. I shoot her a look that says tone down the sarcasm, we’re not in New York anymore, then go back to my conversation with Thomas.
“The car’s a total piece of shit, but it’s never started smoking like this before. We drove here all the way from New York.”
“New York!” Thomas shouts. “Damn, I’ve always wanted to go there.”
“I guess the grass is always greener for both of us. I’m sure you’ll get there one day, but about the car?”
“Oh, no problem, don’t worry about that, I’ll take care of it.”
“Does it look. . .expensive?” I hate asking that, it makes me feel like a deadbeat, but I hadn’t planned on having the expense of auto repairs to deal with. Then again, I hadn’t really planned anything at all. The last thing I need is thousands of dollars of bills right now on top of everything else.
“For an old friend,” Thomas says, resting his dirty hand on my shoulder. “Don’t worry about it. You look like you’ve seen better times. Don’t need this shit to make it worse, right?”
The kid’s perceptive. I must look the way I feel. I haven’t shaved in two days, and the stubble is frisky enough that I can feel it itching on my neck. I also haven’t slept or eaten very much since leaving New York. Rowan’s too nice to tell me that I look like total shit, but Thomas picks up on it right away.
“Thanks, man, it’s much appreciated right now.”
“You got it. Get your stuff out of the car and I’ll have one of my guys drive you to wherever you’re going. You staying in town?”
“At my uncle’s old place. The one we used to stay at when I was a kid.”
“How long are you gonna be in town?”
It’s a great question, and one that I’d have an immediate answer for if I had planned on coming, but these are strange circumstances. When he asks me that it makes the whole situation come into focus suddenly. What the hell am I doing here? How am I going to get by? How long am I staying? And then the most important question hits me as I look to my right—why did Rowan follow me on this journey of the damned?
“Umm. . .I’m not sure. At least a week. We’ll see from there, I guess.”
“That’s about how long I’m gonna need this car, maybe longer.”
“Well I’m not going anywhere without it, so keep it as long as you need.”
“No problem. In the meantime I’ll have Fernando drive you to your uncle’s place. Cool?”
“I can’t thank you enough for all this,” I tell him. “I forgot how nice people in this town can be.”
“Some of us,” he jokes. “But hey, now that you mention it I’ve always wondered, is it true that everyone in New York is really rude?”
That is a stereotype we get, but it’s not true at all. “Nah. Some people are for sure, but it really depends. Mostly people are just moving faster and don’t have time to say good morning to everyone who passes. It’s just a different type of lifestyle.”
“I hope to get there one day. I’ve been saying it to my wife for years.”
“Whenever you want to go just tell me. I’ll give you some recommendations.”
“Thanks,” he says, signaling to his guys to come take the car. “And I hope it isn’t awkward to ask since we’ve been talking for a few, but what’s your name again?”
“Oh shit, I’m sorry. It’s Grayson, but everyone just calls me Gray.”
“Pleased to meet your, Grayson. At least as adults, anyhow. We’ll take care of the car.”
Rowan’s been sitting on the curb on her phone while I spoke to Thomas. I call her over and we grab our meager amount of things from the car. The smoke is still coming but not as intensely. “So what’s going on?” She asks.
“He’s going to have one of his guys drive us to my uncle’s place. It’s not far, we could walk, but I don’t think either of us want to do that right now.”
“That’s for sure.” It may be my own guilt in letting her come with me, but I feel like she has a look of regret on her face. Like she never should have come with me. Maybe I’m just projecting my own feelings onto her.
Fernando pulls a car around, grabs our stuff, and drops it in the trunk. Five minutes later we’re at the house. I thank Fernando for giving us a ride and try to offer him a few bucks that I have in my pocket as a tip, but he refuses outright. People here really are so damn nice. As we stand looking at the house I feel like I’m in a movie. A horror movie. A haunted house horror movie.
“Well,” Rowan says. “This place is interesting.”