Especially when I hadn’t written a word since that night. I’d had plenty of nightmares, so that wasn’t the problem. It was him. The lack of him. He was my story. He carried horror and hell around with him.
It frustrated me. Infuriated me.
He was a fucking muse.
I didn’t believe in muses.
In people carrying around the ability to control an artist’s lifeblood. Their creation. It was bullshit made up by men as yet another way to control a woman, by slapping the label of muse on her, objectifying her in yet another way.
Of course, people inspired me. Their flaws, faults, their depravity. I collected it all and mixed it with my own nightmares, created a story. But I could’ve done it without them, if I really wanted to deep dive into my psyche. I had more than enough depravity.
I was the one responsible for my books. For the lists I hit. The money I made. Awards I accumulated. No way was I crediting someone else. Writing a book was the most violent, painful, and hard thing that I ever had to do. And I’d done it eighteen freaking times. Planning on doing it fifty times over before I died. If I didn’t die young, like I’d been so certain I would ever since I could remember.
As much as every book almost killed me, I survived because it was something entirely mine. I did it. Created it. Never did I have to rely on someone else.
And here I was, wasting away over a book I couldn’t write without him.
My Saint.
My demon.
My Devil.
I got rid of the crutches after a week. Walking was still complete agony, but I would take the pain if it meant my independence. Actually, I liked the pain. Enough to flush the painkillers down the toilet and just stick to my whisky and wine. I wanted to feel it enough to fuel me and the booze numb me enough to be able to function.
Functioning today meant walking into a bar just after one p.m.
I was trying to distract myself from the urge I had to drive around the roads surrounding my property in order to find Saint’s house.
No.
I would write the old-fashioned way.
By getting drunk.
At staring at the interesting, if not enchanting, bartender who had a story of his own.
He was reading my book when I walked in. Dead Doves.
Standing up, leaning against the bar, holding it one hand. His hand curled around the spine, the book bent in a way a lot of authors would’ve been horrified about.
Not me.
It made me want to smile.
It scratched at the bottom of my stomach in a pleasing, arousing way. He was manhandling it. He was stretching it, molding it to him, not being careful, watchful of what he should be doing. He was lost in the book.
That much was clear when he didn’t look up until I’d sat down and tapped my nails on the bar.
His eyes were cloudy, adjusting from being in my world and moving to this one, like going from pitch black to bright sunlight.
He didn’t even look sheepish, or embarrassed at having being caught.
“You like it?” I asked, curious. I wasn’t sure why I asked. I never asked people questions like that about my books. I genuinely didn’t care. Didn’t want to know. Didn’t want to attach my self-worth to other people’s opinions of my work. It was necessary for an author’s survival. Especially one who put all her demons inside the pages, disguised as devils.
He didn’t immediately placate me. No. He took a breath. Glanced back down at the page he’d been reading. Squeezed the spine hard enough for me to see his knuckles whiten and the pages morph. Then he released it. Dog-eared his page and closed the book, setting it down with reverence he hadn’t been handling it with before. He didn’t apologize for the roughness, for damaging the book. Committing cardinal sins hardcore readers would’ve crucified him for.
I liked that.
His eyes met mine. Icy blue. Jarring against his pale skin, his dark hair, obscuring his stare just a little.
“I’m not sure,” he said finally.
I waited.
“It’s not really meant to be something you like, is it? The end of the world, with no hero? No redemption. Too close to reality, maybe.” He glanced down again. “I will say I’m angry that you’re in here, despite how interesting you are, how much I’ve been wondering about you, because you’re interrupting.”
This time, I did smile. I couldn’t help it. That was what I wanted people to say about my books. I wanted them to trap them. Encapsulate them, even if they didn’t want it.
I also liked that he called me interesting, not beautiful. I knew he thought I was beautiful. All women knew when men found them beautiful. It was a skill we had to perfect for protection more than anything else. A man who found a woman beautiful was a dangerous creature. He expected a certain reaction. Certain attention. If that was not given to him, he could turn into something other than a man.
So yes, this bartender found me beautiful.
But he called me interesting.
“Don’t let me disturb you,” I said. “Pour me a drink and go back to it.”
He reached underneath the bar for a glass, then for the whisky. “You didn’t come here for conversation?”
I took the glass. “No. I came here for this.” I nodded my head. “I rarely go anywhere for conversation.”
He grinned, showing slightly crooked, white teeth. It suited him. The whole, “Bob Dylan” grunge look he had going on.
What he didn’t do was pick up the book again.
“Why would I read the book when I’ve got the author right here?”
I put my drink down and trailed my fingers along the glass. “Because the book is much more interesting, trust me.”
He raised his brow. “Ah, says the woman who bought a murder house without qualms, that caused the town recluse to venture out of his hideout, come and rescue you, and bring you into town to be brought back from the brink?”
I bristled immediately. Not just at the mention of Saint, who was the very reason I was here. At least three quarters of the reason. The rest was the bartender’s eyes and whisky they didn’t sell at the liquor store.
“I’m not someone to be rescued,” I clipped, draining my drink.
He wasn’t perturbed by my tone or what I knew was my third worst glare. He refilled my glass and nodded down to the book. “Oh, I know you’re not someone who needs rescuing. You’re someone to be rescued from.”
I smirked. “That was a close one. I was about to claw your face off.”
His gaze darkened. “Ah, I think I’d rather your claws in my back than my face.”
My stomach dipped in a way that surprised me.
Not the same way as the night of the nightmares and firewood.
No, warmer than that.
Simpler.
I waited for him to speak more. It was fun, playing this game with someone who actually spoke, smiled, had a personality that wasn’t walled up behind emotional steel and flesh and blood muscles.
To be fair, this guy had decent enough muscles.
More than decent.
“You don’t know my name,” he said.
“No,” I agreed.
He grinned when I didn’t say anything else. “You want to know my name?”
I shrugged. “You want to give it to me?”
His eye twinkled in teasing, showing me he was holding back making a tacky joke at my expense. “It’s not exactly a state secret.”