It’s pretty incredible just how different islands can be from one another.

Of course, I don’t live in Manhattan, but I’ve spent enough time across the bridge to know what it’s like in that madhouse of a city. Cars honking, people screaming at one another in anger and frustration, music blasting from a nearby boom box; these are the sounds that I’ve grown to know like the back of my hand. I know them so well, in fact, that I don’t even seem to notice anymore, the cacophony blending together and creating a warm blanket that’s always wrapped tightly around me.

Now, all that I hear is the soft hum of a massive ferryboat that rumbles below my feet, along with the distant call of seagulls echoing across the water.

The breathtaking vista that spreads out before me is unlike anything I have ever seen, a natural beauty that has remained remarkably untouched by human kind over the years. The water is flat and calm, a strange bluish gray hue to the waves that can only be attained when the morning fog is hovering low over the surface. Scattered throughout my field of vision are a variety of tree-covered islands, lush and dark green with rocky beaches that show no trace of footprints or campfires. One of them appears to have an old wooden dock that juts out into the water, but the thing is falling apart and looks like it was abandoned years ago. Now the only ones using this skeletal collection of wooden pilings are the barnacles and starfish that hang from the sides near the water line.

I’m sure there are plenty of times during the year that this ferry is crowded with people, vacationers excited to be spending their warm summer days fishing or hiking through the woods, but the off season is even more empty than I expected.

I begin to walk again, making my way along the outer deck of the ferry. I’m one of the only passengers aboard this massive vessel, and I’ve got the circular landing completely to myself. This deck stretches all the way around the perimeter of the ship, allowing a complete scenic view of the passing islands from every angle. It’s an incredible experience, as long as you’re bundled up tight enough for the cold Pacific Northwest air.

My long coat flowing around me, I finally arrive at the front of the ship, gazing out across the water towards our eventual destination. I can see the ferry dock edging its way closer and closer in the distance, a small village surrounding the structure and a long road behind that winds up farther into the thick forest.

This is Orcas Island, much bigger than the others and home to several thousand residents who come and go throughout the year. Soon enough, it’s going to be the birthplace of my next hit novel.

Realizing now that our arrival is drawing near, I decide to head back to my car, parked and waiting on the lower deck. My rental is one of the only vehicles on board, and so far the other passengers remain elusive.

I head back inside the ship and immediately spot two of these tough-to-find fellow riders, chuckling to myself at just how much they stick out like a sore thumb.               This section of the ship serves as both a dining hall and a place for people to lounge, rows and rows of soft green benches lining the sides and facing one another with a table in between. At one of the tables sits two young women, gossiping loudly and laughing at some joke that’s, apparently, absolutely hilarious because they are nearly choking on the giggles as they bubble up inside of them.

The ladies are clad in flashy designer clothes, a bright red coat hanging off of one of them while the other boasts a puffy, white and gold jacket.

I continue walking, but as I pass the women their giggles quite down into whispers, clearly taking note of my presence.

“Hey!” one of the women calls over to me, long blonde hair framing her face in perfect waves. “What’s your name?”

I stop and turn back to her. “Riley.”

“Nice shoes,” she says with a smile that’s just the slightest bit too wide to be sincere. I pick up on her hostility almost immediately, but she’s so good at selling her well-meaning expression that it actually gives me pause.

“Oh, thank you,” I reply, glancing down to remind myself of the pair that I picked out this morning.

I realize almost immediately that this woman is clearly messing with me. Knowing that I’d be traveling a lot today, I picked out a comfortable pair of ratty old sneakers, slipping them on so that I could easily remove them on the plane early this morning while I caught a few extra hours of sleep.

The blonde woman exchanges glances with her shorter, redheaded friend, but neither of them say anything more, just sharing a private joke between one another at my expense.

I turn and continue walking but stop suddenly, my inner New Yorker finally catching up with me. I’m not an aggressive woman, in general, but I’m also not afraid of a fight if someone’s looking for one.

“You don’t seem like you’re from around here,” I finally say, turning to face them once more.

The bleach blonde woman in the red coat shakes her head. “Nope. Los Angeles.”

“What’s your name?” I question. “I told you mine, you didn’t tell me yours.”

The woman realizes her mistake with such sincerity that I’m suddenly pushed back in the opposite direction, believing that she might’ve actually been genuine with her initial compliment. “I’m so sorry,” she gushes. “I’m Jessica and this is Amber.”

Amber smiles from behind dark rimmed glasses, set high on the bridge of her freckly, up turned nose. Her perfectly symmetrical face is framed by a fashionably short red bob, while Jessica’s long blonde hair cascades down around her shoulders in long, perfectly groomed waves.

“It’s nice to meet you Jessica and Amber,” I tell them, still trying to get a read.

“Nice to meet you, Riley,” Amber continues. “I really do love your outfit.”

“Thanks,” I reply.

“You look so… comfortable,” Jessica chimes in.

I take a deep breath, still struggling to maintain my composure. I’m here to work on a novel, not get into a fight with two bitches on the ferry. Regardless, I came into this trip fully prepared to deescalate one or two confrontations. Being from the big city, I tend to assume folks are being less than genuine, and that’s caused a few misunderstandings in the past.

The thing is, these ladies are from the big city, too.

“What brings you to the island?” I question, attempting to push the conversation elsewhere.

“Oh, we’re just visiting a friend,” Jessica explains.

I nod, then fall into silence again, not quite sure where to take this conversation. Finally, I give up.

“Well, I gotta get back to my car,” I tell her.

“Okay,” Amber says with a tight-lipped smile and a halfhearted wave, once again lying right on the border between bitchy and genuine.

I start to walk away, getting no more than ten feet before I hear the ladies burst out into another fit of giggles. I stop, briefly considering turning around and launching in on them with a full, Brooklyn-style diatribe, but I somehow manage to restrain myself.

I don’t have time for this shit, my clear-headed internal voice reminds the rest of my brain. The sooner I send Taylor my first few chapters, the sooner I can rest easy, knowing that my publishing deal is safe and secure.

After a deep breath, I collect myself to keep walking.

It’s not long before I’m back in the driver’s seat of my rental car, staring out at the massive Orcas Island ferry dock as our ship continues to close in on it. There are two men in bright orange vests preparing the ferry for landing, carefully watching over the ship as they go about their docking preparations.

“Last stop, Orcas Island. If you have not yet returned to your vehicle then please do so immediately,” comes a loud crackling voice over the ferry loudspeaker.

I glance around, seeing that the handful of cars next to me are prepped and waiting, anxious to get off on the island. Only one vehicle remains empty, and I have a good guess who it belongs to.

From the license plate, it appears that this car is also a rental like mine, albeit from a slightly higher income bracket. The thing is absurdly out of place amid this earth-toned scenery, a brilliant yellow two-seater sports car with huge, shimmering silver rims.

A few minutes pass and still, nobody comes to claim the vehicle.

When we finally land and get our instructions to disembark the ferry, the passengers behind this yellow car are force to drive around it, myself included. It’s only after I’ve pulled up onto the main island road that I glance into my rearview mirror and notice Amber and Jessica finally strolling over to their ride, waving away the frustrated ferry workers who throw their hands up in frustration.

If I was anywhere else, I’m sure this encounter would’ve left me frustrated, but as the roar winds up into the lush green forest of the island, I can’t help but let the sweet feelings of relaxation and relief wash over me. Everything here is quiet and calm, untouched in a way that is honestly quite inspiring.

Back in the city, I found myself frustrated by the repetition of it all, but out here it feels like nothing has even started happening yet. Gazing out at the thick tree trunks that whip past, I find my mind drifting back hundreds of years to when they were just saplings, wondering how little has actually changed. Sure, this road probably didn’t exist back then, but just a few yards off the cement these plants have likely gone completely undisturbed.

Taylor’s cabin is on the far end of the island, in a location even more desolate than this one, but on the way there I pass through a small town with a selection of quaint little stores and restaurants. Most of them are closed down for the season, but a few remain open to serve the locals.

Having stopped before the ferry ride, I’m fully stocked with groceries and supplies, so I continue on my way.

Honestly, all I want to do is get to the cabin and start writing, a desire that I haven’t felt in a long, long time. I have no idea what’s going to come out when I sit down, no plot points mapped out in my head just yet, and for all I know it could all be complete trash.

The important thing, however, is that I actually want to write again. This gorgeous landscape around me is just too good to let go of, the scent of the pines and then soft cool touch of the afternoon fog against my skin as I roll the windows down. I need to capture this.

The road winds more and more as I go, twisting and turning through the woods until eventually the pavement gives way to crunching gravel. I slow down to a crawl, glancing around for any sign of an address.

Soon enough, the trees open up to a glorious view of the ocean. I’m atop a hill and looking down at a grassy runway that leads to the water, three or four small cabins lining the road.

The top cabin has a number nailed to the side, spelled out in selection of twisted, tan driftwood.

“Seven twenty two, Birch road,” I say aloud to myself. This is the place.

I pull down the dirt road and then veer off to the side, parking behind my new cabin so as not to block the beautiful ocean view from within. From here, I can see that there’s a vaguely maintained community dock on the beach below, a single, large yacht tied up to it but floating empty in the soft afternoon waves.

I climb out of my car and head up to the cabin, pulling out a key that Taylor gave to me back in New York. I use it to open the cabin door.

The second that I step inside this place, I’m utterly blown away by its quiet, unassuming charm. There’s a fireplace against the back wall with a framed map of the island above it. Two massive couches sit before this, facing one another with a coffee table in between. The furniture is overstuffed and slightly too big for the space, by that only adds to its cozy charm. In the other room is a kitchen and out front is a deck with a perfect view of the grassy hill and the beach below.

The deck, of course, would be a perfect place to spend my days writing, but for now it’s a little cold out. Off to my left is a small bedroom, but it’s too dark and there’s not much of a view, so I finally decide that the large fluffy couches are my best bet, something that I certainly can’t complain about.

I spend the next half an hour loading in my bags and groceries, carrying them into the kitchen and fully stocking the fridge for the days ahead.

Finally, when all of this is finished, I make some tea and then pull my laptop from its case, carefully bringing them both over to the couch. I set my supplies out before me, the perfect writing set up, then take a deep breath, excited to finally begin the next stage of my career.

I raise my fingers, but before they can touch down on the keyboard there’s a loud, thunderous thump that rattles through the walls, shaking every dish in the nearby cupboard.

I sit up straight, not quite sure what’s happening. Immediately, my mind begins to question whether or not there are earthquakes here in Washington, but seconds later another loud thump rattles through the cabin, and then another and another, creating a steady rhythm. Although there’s no melody present, it quickly becomes apparent that whatever is making this racket is not a natural occurrence.

I stand up and walk over to the deck, throwing open my door as I’m immediately hit with even more of the earsplitting sound. The tones are no longer muffled, and it now becomes apparent that the noise is the heavy beat of a large rock and roll drum kit.

Of course, it’s much too loud to be just any old drum set. Whatever this is has been amplified and projected through speakers, rumbling across this beachfront cove at a near supernatural volume.

I glance down at one of the cabins below and gasp in shock at what I see.               When I’d arrived earlier, these buildings showed no signs of life, but now Jessica and Amber’s sports car has been parked right next to one of them, the curtains of the small building drawn, but every light on within.

After holding my tongue back on the ferry, I find myself completely out of restraint.

Boiling over with rage and frustration, I march down off of the deck and head towards this outrageous cacophony, the rhythmic sounds growing louder and louder with every step. Soon enough, I’ve completely traversed the grassy hill, arriving at the cabin’s front door and knocking loudly.

Unfortunately, the drums are hammering away so loud that there’s no way for the knocks of my small hand to be heard. Going full Brooklyn, I take another approach, kicking my foot against the door as hard as I can. I can see the wooden frame shake, but the sound is still not quite loud enough to draw the attention of anyone inside.

Suddenly, the drums stop, if only for a moment. Seeing my opportunity, I give the door one more kick as hard as I can.

“Get out here you bitches!” I scream at the top of my lungs. “I need to have a word.”

There’s a brief moment of silence from behind the door, and then seconds later a muffled eruption of that same obnoxious laugher I’d heard back on the ferry. Eventually, the laugher quiets down into a soft giggle and then disappears completely, replaced instead by some quick chatter that I can’t quite discern.

“I’m not going away,” I call out. “Not until you come out here!”

The only thing I receive in return is utter silence from inside.

I raise my hand to pound on the door one last time when suddenly it opens wide and I stop dead in my tracks. I’d fully expected to find Jessica standing before me, with that same obnoxious grin, but what I receive could not be any farther removed.

There in the doorway is a tall, breathtakingly handsome man, shirtless and chiseled in all of his muscular glory. He’s covered in tattoos, giving his perfect canvas an even more exotic edge, and his hair is messy and black. His face is covered in a perfectly timed five o’ clock shadow, not long enough to be a beard, but nicely emphasizing his dark features and strong jaw.

“Hi,” is all that I can manage to say, the word falling limply from my mouth.

“I’m Grant,” the man says in a thick, British accent, “and you must be Miley.”

“Riley,” I correct him, stumbling over the word a bit.

“Right. The girls said they met you on the boat, huh?” Grant continues.

I’m vaguely aware that I’m supposed to respond at this point, but I’m just too entranced by Grant’s shirtless body to respond. The guy is damn near comically toned, his rugged shape something that shouldn’t naturally exist outside of the pages of fitness magazines or a romance novel cover.

I’ve seen plenty of handsome men before and still managed to maintain a coherent conversation, but something about Grant twists my brain completely around on itself, rendering me helpless.

I feel like I’ve seen him somewhere before.

“You alright?” the man asks with a laugh, breaking through my mental haze once more and pulling me back to reality.

“I’m sorry,” I stammer, shaking my head from side to side as though it might clear out the cobwebs within.

“I asked if you were alright,” Grant repeats. “That’s not really an answer.”

“Yeah, I just lost my train of thought there for a minute,” I confess.

“Understandable,” Grant retorts with a smirk.

The second that he says this I find myself completely disengaged from the man’s charms. He’s implying, of course, that he’s well aware of just how attractive he is, which couldn’t be more off putting. He’s not wrong, but a little humility would go a long way.

“You’re making a lot of noise,” I finally inform Grant. “What are you doing in there?”

“Writing drum parts,” he explains, very matter-of-factly. “We’ve got a whole studio set up in here, would you like to come in and listen?”

Grant’s eyes make their way up and down my body, checking me out, taking note of the subtle curves of my feminine frame. It’s a disgusting, piggish maneuver, but there’s something about it I can’t help but find slightly thrilling. This guy could clearly get with any woman that he wanted, yet for a moment, his attention has squarely fallen onto me.

I force the flicker of attraction out of my head immediately. I’m better than this, and as far as I can tell, Grant is a complete asshole.

Still, his face remains strikingly familiar.

Suddenly, it clicks.

“Oh my god,” I blurt. “Are you Grant Morrison? The singer of Bad Blue Medicine?”

“When we’re recording, I’m the whole band, actually,” he confirms. “Singer, guitarist… today I’m the drummer.”

Now the fight to quell my attraction is even more difficult. It takes everything I can to push the feelings of arousal out of my mind, locking them deep down in the basement and throwing away the key.

Bad Blue Medicine was one of my favorite bands in college. Soaring hooks, incredible musicianship and heart wrenching vocals were their trademarks, a throwback rock and roll group that hit all the marks yet somehow still managed to bring something entirely new to the music scene. They were critical darlings for a while, putting out at least three hit albums that I was aware of. Eventually, my interest faded.

Still, any time one of their songs comes on the radio, I can’t help but turn it up.

“I’m a huge fan,” I admit.

“The feelings mutual, darling,” Grant replies in his thick accent, offering me a playful wink.

Once more, I’m equal parts disgusted and intrigued.

“Listen, can you just keep it down in there? I’m on the island for some peace and quite,” I explain. “The volume in your studio is up so loud that it’s literally shaking my house.”

“Drums are loud,” Grant informs me, something that I clearly knew already.

“Yes, but you’re amplifying them to be even louder,” I continue.

“So you want me to turn it down?” Grant clarifies again.

“That was be wonderful,” I inform him. “Please.”

The rockstar considers this for a moment, then shakes his head. “No.”

I’m completely floored by his response, not quite sure if I heard him correctly despite the fact that his reply was a single word, loud and clear. Grant’s rude defiance has flown in the face of any normal social interaction, and that says a lot coming from a New Yorker. Even if he refuses to change the volume, he’s at least supposed to lie about it while we’re standing face to face.

“So you’re just… not gonna turn it down?” I question, utterly dumbfounded.

“Nope,” Grant confirms, shaking his head from side to side. “I need to know if the beat’s any good before we start writing to it, and I won’t be able to tell unless it’s really slamming. You came out to this island for a place to be quiet, I came out here to be loud.”

Grant opens his arms wide, gesturing across the hillside and towards the trees beyond, while simultaneously showing off his incredible biceps. “See, nobody’s here to care about the noise. Until you showed up, of course.”

I let out a long sigh. “Can’t we reach a compromise?”

“Afraid not,” the man replies flatly.

Suddenly, from out of the darkness behind Grant saunters the familiar form of Jessica, swaying her hips from side to side with a sensual grace that is both annoying and impressive. She’s wearing an oversized, ripped tee shirt with the logo of a heavy metal band emblazoned across the front, too twisted to read and likely borrowed from Grant. Her long slender legs stick out from below it, and who knows if she’s wearing anything underneath. She carries a half empty beer bottle in her hand.

“Check out her shoes,” Jessica says to Grant, teasingly.

Grant glances down at the same ratty slip-ons that I’ve been wearing all day.

“Uh, yeah,” the rockstar offers, clearly not understanding how he’s supposed to react.

“Cute, right?” Jessica continues, laying on the sarcasm on as thick as she can.

“Yeah, they’re pretty cool,” Grant finally replies.

Frustrated, Jessica steps between us and pulls the cabin door closed. “Bye sweetie, he’s got work to do.”

The wooden door slams shut, leaving me standing in silence and confusion. I’m still completely blown away by the events that just transpired.

For a few seconds, there’s utter peace and calm in the air, the only sounds drifting across my ears those of the nearby birds and the soft waves rushing across the sand of the beach below.

It doesn’t last however, and the next thing I know, the thunderous, thumping crashes begin again.

I consider knocking once more, but quickly remind myself that Grant has already been very clear about his intentions of listening to me. There will be no compromise.

Now there’s only one option left, and although there’s a deep dark part of me that would love to remain cool in the eyes of this breathtakingly handsome rockstar, the logical portion of my mind knows exactly what needs to be done.

I turn and march back up to my cabin, grabbing ahold of the phone and dialing the island sheriff.