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***COVER REVEAL***

Unlit Star by Lindy Zart


 Release date: 8/29/14

Cover art by: Regina Wamba at Mae I Design and Photography

Add to your TBR list on Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/22051310-unlit-star


 Genre: New Adult


Blurb: Rivers Young was the popular guy untouchable by reality. He was like a star—bright, consuming, otherworldly. The thing about stars, though, is that they eventually fall, and Rivers Young was no different.

He fell far and he fell hard.

Delilah Bana was the outcast enshrouded in all of life's ironies. Alone, in the dark, like dusk as it falls on the world. When Rivers fell from the sky, she was the night that caught him. In the darkness, they found one another. Together they melded into something beautiful that shone like the sun.

Only, the greater the star is, the shorter its lifespan.

Readers of Take Care, Sara...

For the next 24 hours, Merry Christmas, Lincoln (A Take Care, Sara Christmas Novelette) is FREE on Amazon! Be sure to get your copy!

***Sneak Peak of WIP*** Warning: 18 + due to language and content

  
       Last night she had sex with a guy she didn't even know.

It wasn't the first time. It wouldn't be the last. She didn't know why she continued to do it. She guessed it was because she didn't care enough. She inhaled, burning her lungs with chemicals and nicotine as she stared at the angry red tip of the cigarette. The smoke wafted up toward her face, stinging her nostrils and eyes. She let it. She couldn't remember his name or his face. All she could really remember was the smell of alcohol and sweat, the way she felt sickened by him yet continued to let him touch her—all the things she wished she could forget. She tried to burn the memory of the stranger from her skin with a hot shower, but all that did was scorch her skin.

Reese felt dirty and used—she felt like she deserved to feel that way.

Putting the stub of cigarette out on the sole of her black Converse, she climbed through the window and into the living room of the apartment. It was a small room with white walls, tan carpet, bare walls, and a mismatched couch and recliner. She didn't have a lot of belongings and nothing in the place really coordinated, but at least it was clean.

She got ready for work, changing from her cotton shorts and tank top into a tight black shirt and dark stretchy jeans. A quick stop in the bathroom had her brown eyes lined in black and her short blond hair a purposeful mess around her face. Grabbing her cigarettes and keys, she locked the place up and walked across the street to the tattoo shop she worked at.

Leo glanced up from his sketchpad as she entered the shop. “Rough night?” he asked in his deep voice.

Except for the impressive tattoos covering his body, Reese's boss was pretty average in appearance. His voice, on the other hand, was exceptional. It was like butter with a hint of a purr in it, the masculine timbre sexy and dark. It caused shivers to break out on her skin whenever he used it, which, sadly, wasn't that often. There were times when she zoned out just listening to him talk, although the most he ever did was when he was explaining something work related to her.

She also had fantasies about him using his mouth and voice on her in creative ways. Not that that would ever happen between them. She more or less offered to sleep with him a few months ago and he declined by completely ignoring her. The week following that was loud—mostly from her slamming things around and snapping at everyone, including costumers. She almost lost her job. Leo's exact words were: “Quit with your fucking attitude or get out.” She got rid of her attitude.

“What can I say, I like it rough,” she said mockingly, checking the appointment book. The afternoon was full. Good for Leo, bad for her non-productive lazy ass.

His pencil went flying and he stalked from the room, her eyes lifting just as he turned a corner and disappeared. She smirked, knowing his bad-ass exterior hid an uncommon chivalrous soul that frowned upon demeaning talk and behavior, especially about and toward women, no matter if she was talking about herself or someone else. Apparently he was one of those guys who loved his mother. She shouldn't continue to tease him, but it was too easy. The fact that he could fire her ass at any time seemed to get lost in the mix of it all. Picking on him made her feel better about him finding her undesirable, because why else would he have said no?

No one said no.

Reese retrieved the black coal pencil from under one of the four chairs in the waiting area across the room from the front desk, carefully setting it beside his partial sketch. Her body froze as she took it in, feeling a pinching in her chest as she gazed at the indescribable beauty created by a man's hand. It was a bird, the outline of it bold and black, the feathers lifelike, the eyes holding intelligence. It looked on the verge of flight, strong and unafraid. She swallowed thickly and moved away, looking up and crashing gazes with Leo from where he stood by the doorway.

“It's...” She cleared her throat and showed him her back as she walked toward the bar stool she habitually perched on for the duration of her work day. “It's amazing.” Her face heated up at her admission. Reese and compliments didn't usually work well together. As in, she didn't give them. Keeping her eyes on the scrawled names of the schedule, she asked, “Who's it for?”

“Not you,” he replied as he sat at his desk. The matter-of-fact tone of his voice was grating in ways she couldn't even explain to herself.

She glared at his lowered head for a good thirty seconds before sighing and checking the phone messages. Her evil eye was wasted when he wouldn't even look at her. That was another thing about Leo—he never looked at her for long. If Reese was a less confident woman, she would have serious self-esteem issues working with him. But she knew she was attractive to the opposite sex, even if not to the rare male that was him. There was no shortage of men wanting her.

That was Reese Ward: The girl all the boys wanted and none loved.

“Saw you on the roof again. Told you not to do that.”

He also had this annoying way of speaking in half-sentences a lot of the time. Like the effort to add an extra word or two was too exhausting for him to contemplate, or too beneath him. Reese went a whole day speaking that way just to aggravate him back. It was a total fail. He didn't even seem to notice.

"Were you spying on me?"

He ignored that. What a surprise.

“Are you going to kick me out?” She'd asked him this before. The answer was always the same—silence.

The history of Leo and Reese was confusing, as was just about anything that involved the two of them in any way or form. Their acquaintance began about six months ago. She'd just gotten fired from her job as a waitress at the diner next door to his shop. She'd mouthed off to the owner one too many times and that was the day he decided he'd had enough. Leo witnessed the whole embarrassing scene as he stood unlocking his front door. She was jobless, and as of the night before, she was homeless too.

It was all too much and she started crying. That he saw her tears had always been a sore spot for her—people didn't see her cry. It was a rule of hers. He took pity on her, offering her a place to stay with cheap rent, and a job. She was a stranger, nothing to him, and he was willing to give her more than anyone ever had before. She said no at first, but an hour standing in the cold rain eventually changed her mind.

Reese never understood why he did that and she didn't think she ever would. It was obvious he had no patience for her and that he didn't particularly like her either. Why did he help her all those months ago? Why did he continue to put up with her bull shit?

“You know, I'm not hurting anyone by smoking on the roof. Would you prefer I smoked in the apartment?”

“Not smoking at all would be good.”

“Yeah, well, it's not up to you.”

“Who's first?” he asked, not even glancing her way. He had another habit of not acknowledging her snippy comments when he so chose to—or a talent maybe. Being able to not always feel the need to have a comeback was a notable gift. One she, unfortunately, did not have.

“First timer. April Lange. Age nineteen. She wants a flower or some goofy shit on her foot. I told her to get here around twelve to fill out paperwork.”

She decided to pretend to earn her money and started a pot of coffee, moving on to straighten the stack of magazines on the end table between the chairs. Next she turned an alternative rock station on on the stereo, keeping the volume low so it didn't distract Leo's concentration. He immediately got up and changed the station to classical music. It could have been Beethoven—she wasn't sure.

“Angry enough without music encouraging it more,” he told her.

Her first inclination was to tell him to go screw himself, but instead she went with, “And you're boring enough without Bach lulling you and me both to sleep.” She was proud of herself for digging that name up. She hadn't even known she knew of two classical instrumentalists.

“Mozart,” he corrected.

She debated the smartness of saying “biteme” really fast and then stating she thought it was another classical musician's name, but decided against it. Instead Reese did minor cleaning around the white-walled waiting room, the back room he did the actual tattooing in, and then checked the bathroom for supplies and overall cleanliness.

Most of the time she felt like she wasn't really needed around the place. So why did he keep her on as an employee? The million dollar question. Certainly not for her sunny disposition or their really deep, insightful conversations. Mention of a former employee had never been brought up, so she assumed there hadn't ever been one. Of course, it wasn't like he ever really told her anything.

Leo was more than capable of doing all of her duties—the guy was a neat freak worse than she was, and he was painfully orderly. She thought maybe he had a form of O.C.D., but when she mentioned it at one point, the look he'd given her was so lethal she'd never brought it up again. Like, death by eyes alone was possible.

The scent of strong black coffee took over the lemony smell usually lingering in the tattoo shop. She poured Leo a cup, setting it on the windowsill beside his desk. He nodded his thanks, zoned out in the world of creativity. She got herself a cup as well, staying far enough back that she didn't break his concentration, but close enough that she could watch him work. The quick, sure strokes of his tool against the paper, the way his hand formed what his mind told it to, was phenomenal to see in motion—how he could take a blank piece of paper and turn it into something unforgettable. To give life where there wasn't a mere moment before.

Time was lost as she observed. Her eyes stared at his fingers, wondering how they could do what they did, and then in return wondering what they would be like on her body. The way they mastered the pencil made Reese think they could rule and bend, even reconstruct, anything—maybe even her. She felt the quickening of her pulse and turned away. One would think, with the amount of action she got, that she wouldn't have to resort to having illicit visions about her boss.

Her boss, who was an enigma full of closed doors and secrets. Her boss, who was seven years older than her. Her boss, who didn't even like her. Maybe that was the appeal. He was a challenge. She liked challenges. She also apparently liked tattooed men with plain features, sexy voices, and abrupt conversations. Reese was learning new things about herself all the time. Go her on the path of self-discovery. Maybe she could even write a book about it. 'The Screwed Up Musings of a Screw Up.' Catchy.

She was torn from her daydreaming by a steely-eyed look from Leo. She must have been making him nervous. She backed away with her eyebrows and palms raised, turning back to the desk by the door. She sat down on the stool and eyed the clock. Only eight more hours to go until she could escape from the stifling atmosphere of the room with all the drawings on the wall near the door. She was surrounded by beauty made with the hands across the room from her. Leo only did freehand work—his freehand work.

At times she felt like she was sitting in the presence of someone she wasn't worthy enough to and that at any moment he would realize it and finally give her the boot. She even expected it on a daily basis. She came to work thinking, Today will be the day he tells me to go. She didn't understand why it hadn't happened yet. She didn't understand him and she kind of thought that was the point. He didn't want her to.

***

Loud voices, laughter, cigarette smoke, heat, and music—it all pulsated around her. It felt like the sounds were in her ears, shouting into her brain, the warm temperature of a room with closed windows suffocating and inescapable. She sat in the middle of it all, observing the people around her with the glazed eyes and foggy awareness of someone who should have stopped drinking a long time ago—or never started to begin with.

Her lips were numb. That was the point when she needed to be cut off. But there was no one there to babysit her—not that she would listen if there was—so instead she brought the drink back to her lips, sucked its mix of artificial sweetness and biting liquor through a straw until it was gone, and let her hand fall to her lap, ice sloshing out of the plastic cup and onto her jeans.

She felt so heavy, the weight of remaining even partially upright almost too much. Reese's backside was firmly planted on the floor, but her upper half moved like her limbs were boneless, swaying back and forth. People become disjointed entities with elongated faces, blurry bodies, and too-bright clothing. Their voices took on a maniacal, high timbre, and it was all so aggravatingly loud.

Reese's hand lifted to mess up her short hair that was beginning to fall flat around her ears and neck. Instead she pitched forward, her chin hitting the linoleum, the ice spraying from the cup and onto the floor near her face. She stayed that way, her chest against the floor with her ass in the air. It was surprisingly comfortable. People laughed, ice crunched under shoes, and she began to laugh with them. Maybe she could just sleep there. She didn't think anyone would mind.

“You okay?” a low voice asked by her ear.

She swatted at the annoyance, on the brink of passing out, and a hand wrapped around hers, another under her arms, and hauled her to her feet. “I was fine there,” she mumbled, seeing pieces of clothing through the slits of her eyelids. She couldn't seem to open them completely.

“You were, yeah, but what about everyone trying to walk around and over you?”

“Fuck 'em,” she slurred, dipping forward dangerously fast.

The voice laughed, the hand tightening on her arm to keep her standing. “Need another drink?”

He had to be stupid. Anyone could see she didn't need another drink, even her. She shrugged, only one shoulder cooperating. What was one more drink? “Sure.”

“I was joking.”

“Only assholes joke about drinking,” she informed him. He was shuffling her somewhere and she knew she should probably protest, but she was so tired, and his voice was nice. If he kept talking, she could probably pass out standing up right where she was. Actually, she could probably do that whether he continued to talk in his lyrical voice or not.

“I'm Mick,” he told her as a door opened, cool air rushed over them, and a door closed again. Reese's alcohol-infused brain noted that they must be outside. Even under the influence of spirits, she was quick like that. Also, the cold air gave it away. That, and the water dripping onto her head from above. It was raining—misting, actually.

She fought to open her eyes far enough to take in the man beside her. “Reese,” she supplied, right before she threw up on him.

He sighed, moved her toward something cold and hard—a wall—and told her to sit down. She couldn't believe he wasn't yelling at her. Of course, if he had, she wouldn't have cared. Her throat was raw and tasted of her drink, but with a horrible taint over it. She slid down to the wet grass, and when that wasn't comfortable enough, she let her body fall to the side, the pull of slumber getting too hard to ignore.

“Hey. Don't be passing out on me now.” Gravel crunched under shoes as he walked away. Maybe he was leaving her out there. She didn't mind. It was quiet. “Yeah. She's here. Reese, right? You owe me big time. I just got a shirt full of vomit. Yes.” A sigh. “Why do you make me rat people out? Yes. They were. I'm not sure. First floor. Okay.” At first she thought he was still talking to her, but then she realized he was on a cell phone. The footsteps came back. “Reese.” A hand shook her shoulder. “Let's get you up. Come on.”

“Go away,” she moaned, oblivion tugging at her. She just needed to rest. Just for a little bit. The world was spinning and her stomach was flip-flopping around and she just needed to pass out. She'd get up in a few hours.

“Which floor do you live on?”

She pointed up, rolling onto her back. It was an effort to open her eyes and squint at the sky. Raindrops smacked her face, washing the makeup from it, washing her shame from her. She wondered, if she just stayed out there forever, would she eventually be washed clean of all of her sins? It was a nice thought. She opened her mouth to catch the moisture on her tongue, hoping it would remove some of the nasty taste from her mouth.

“That really doesn't help me out. Come on.” Arms fit under hers and lifted her to her feet. She swayed, fell back against a tall frame, and let her head rest against his shoulder. The fact that she was smashing her back into her own vomit didn't register as quickly as it should, nor did it matter as much as it should. That was why alcohol was nice—it dulled everything.

“Who are you?” The rain was coming down harder now, the sound of it like millions of needles hitting glass. Reese's clothes were soaked and clinging to her. She closed her eyes and enjoyed the downpour.

“I'm Mick, remember?”

“Do you live here?”

“I do. Just moved in last week. I'm on the fourth floor.”

“Why were you at that party?” Her limbs were so loose, too loose to get to work. Mick was holding her up more than she was holding herself up.

“A friend asked me to stop on my way home.”

“Were you looking for me?” They were moving forward, but also side to side with her uncooperative weight throwing them off.

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

“I owed someone a favor and he made me pay up.” They were at the door to the apartment complex. He somehow managed to get the heavy door open while keeping her on her feet and maneuvered them both in. He was gifted.

“Must have been a big favor.” Her rain-lodged shoes slipped on the floor and she caught herself against the stairwell railing. The white walls and bright lights of the interior were striking and made an ache form behind her eyeballs.

“You have no idea. What floor, Reese?”

She turned her head and blinked her eyes into focus. She noted black hair and kind brown eyes. That caring expression on his face abruptly shut everything up inside her. Nice people didn't exist, not really. The ones who seemed the nicest always wanted something in return, or they were hiding something, or they were pretending to be nice so you didn't realize how truly vile they were until it was too late. Or they were being forced into it because someone was making them—like whoever he'd talked to on the phone. She frowned. Who the hell had he been talking to?

“Reese?”

“Who were you talking to on the phone? Who asked you to see if I was at that party and made you babysit me?”

Thin lips pursed. “I'm not supposed to tell you that.”

True, the unhealthy amount of booze she'd consumed—vodka and cranberry juice—had dulled her motor skills and thought process, but it hadn't completely eradicated them. She jerked her arm from his grip and glared at him. There were two of him, so it took a lot of concentration to keep him within her gaze.

 

Fucking Leo Chavez. He had to be behind this.

He owned the apartment building. This guy just moved in. This guy owed him a favor. Leo was the only one in this whole messed up world who seemed to care about her even the tiniest bit and who would know she was at that party. The little—never mind that nothing about him was actually little—snoop—nor that he really wasn't a snoop—probably overheard her talking about it on the phone with Amber at work earlier. She knew he didn't care about her, not really. She was some kind of possession, some charity case, he had to check up on. He felt obligated, for whatever reason. Maybe she reminded him of someone or something—a younger sister, a cat, who knew.

“So, what, you're his personal spy now?”

“Whose?”

“Leo,” she bit out.

Mick raised an eyebrow at that. “Look, he just asked me to see if you were okay and that if you weren't, to help you home. That's all. Clearly, you were not.”

“Clearly, you need to get the fuck away from me. If he wants to play babysitter to me, he can get his ass over here and do it himself.” What was she more pissed about? That he'd had someone check up on her, or that the person checking up on her wasn't him? She stomped up the stairs, her breath coming out in short gasps as she forced her body up to the third floor.

Once there, she leaned against the door as she unlocked it, falling onto her knees as the door gave way beneath her weight, and went about kicking off her wet, vomit-ridden clothing. She threw them in the direction of the laundry room, which was actually a closet with a washer and dryer inside. She didn't bother with light switches, stumbling through the living room and veering to the right. The lights of the bathroom blinded her, so she closed her eyes on them, finding the shower through touch alone. She sat on the tub ledge, her head resting against the shower stall as she turned the water on.

Body washed and teeth brushed, she sat on the couch in the dark, her cell phone in her hands. She'd taken a handful of pain pills and chugged three glasses of water, so whatever dehydration and ensuing headache felt the need to form could think again. The phone screen was resting on the number of the tattoo shop, where all calls were forwarded to Leo's cell phone after hours. If she called him, she'd blow up at him. If she called him, she'd probably lose her job for real. If she called him, it meant she cared in some way about his actions tonight. If she called him, she couldn't let the numbness descend and she desperately craved it right now. She scrolled past his name and ended on another.

Reese sent a text and within twenty minutes she was wrapped within the arms of a man. Talking wasn't wanted nor necessary. Any details of his life before this moment and after this moment made no difference to now, or to her. In the dark his mouth loved her while his body punished her, and then the reverse was done. She clenched her eyes shut when the fingers touching her morphed into another's; lean-boned and gifted. She bit his shoulder when she couldn't evade the pale gray eyes with their reprimand. He growled low in his chest as his body formed to hers, taking and taking.

Tears trickled from her eyes when one pair of eyes changed to another, and the hands became another set entirely. The hands that hurt the most. The eyes she could never fully run away from. Her chest filled with pain, but her body overrode it with pleasure. She became wild, moved faster against him—anything to escape her mind where the memories lived. On and on it went, until she was lost in the sensations, until she lost herself.

When it was over, he didn't ask to stay and she didn't ask him to. He left and she was once again alone. She cried into her pillow, hating herself, but hating him more—the one who was supposed to protect her and instead hurt her in ways she had never recovered from; ways she didn't think she ever would be able to recover from. Bloodshot eyes greeted her in the mirror when she finally forced herself to her feet and into the bathroom to shower and brush her teeth again. She pulled on a shirt and shorts and crawled out the living room window to smoke a cigarette. The roof was slippery and her butt was wet within seconds, but she barely noticed. She let the cold and rain seep into her, staring at the building across the street.

The building was the color of sand and rectangular in shape, nothing overly noteworthy about it. She felt like she was watching it from a greater distance than she was—that it was some mirage of security that she could never really reach. Rain pelted its top and slid down its walls, making it glisten in the dark, alight in the night as though even dusk could not fully extinguish its bright beacon. She didn't get her fascination with it. It was just a building. There was no life to it, no heartbeat, no words, nothing to make it appealing in any way.

A lone light shone in the studio apartment above the shop. She'd never been in his living quarters, but she imagined that was the room where Leo slept each night. She wondered if he was still awake. She wondered if Mick had told him what a bitch she was and that Leo owed him for hauling her drunk ass out of that party. She wondered if he was watching her, at this very moment.

He didn't know it, but the reason she was out there so much was because looking at the stone structure centered her. It wasn't to smoke her cigarettes. It wasn't to irritate him by blatantly disregarding his wishes. It was to keep a piece of her grounded when she feared all of her was drifting away like leaves in the wind.

The cigarette was turning soggy between her fingers. She inhaled a final puff and listened to it sizzle as she touched it to the wet roof. She threw the butt in the kitchen waste basket and grabbed a blanket from the closet near the bathroom. Her bed smelled like the man she'd let into it and she couldn't sleep there again until she'd washed the sheets and blankets.

 

 

 

 

Safe and Sound is 99 cents on Amazon...

Hello, Zartians! Just a quick message to tell you that my first self-published book, Safe and Sound, is only 99 cents for the next 24 hours. Spread the word and be sure to pick up a copy yourself.

Lindy

EXCERPT:

Breakfast dishes washed and put away, Lola went about sweeping the kitchen floor. She’d made pancakes she and her mother both picked at and Bob complained were too chewy, though he’d eaten six of them. She’d gotten the wrong kind of orange juice too; the kind she always got, but today it had been the wrong kind.

The kitchen was painted a cheery yellow and accented in red checkered curtains and apples galore. It used to be her favorite place to be. She and her mother would bake cookies together and talk about silly things, giggling and happy. She and Sebastian would do their homework at the table. Rachel, another friend she’d lost touch with, used to gossip with her about boys and girls over PB and J’s and milk. Things had been pretty wonderful just a year ago. Such a short amount of time, really, and yet it seemed the year since Bob showed up had been never-ending.

Now there was a gash in the cherry wood table from Bob’s steak knife from the time Lola had overcooked his steak and burned the potatoes. It had been a small rebellion on her part that had led to food being splattered across the wall, the gash in the table, a broken plate, and her mother’s tears.

“What are you doing?” Bob demanded from the doorway. He wore a blue flannel shirt with holes in it, only partially buttoned, and gray sweat pants. He had never been a handsome man, but for a time he’d been groomed and clean; now he was just disgusting in smell and looks. Her skin crawled. How could her mother stand his touch?

Lola jumped, dropping the broom. She quickly picked it up and faced him. “Sweeping.”

He moved into the room and grabbed the broom from her. “You can’t even sweep right. This is how you sweep.”

She watched him push the broom back and forth across the floor. How could there be a wrong way to sweep?

“See?”

Lola nodded, though his way of sweeping and her way of sweeping looked quite similar. And she’d swept that floor a million times since he’d been married to her mother and he’d never once complained about the way she swept before. But of course she couldn’t say any of that. Lola used to. She used to say things.

He shoved the broom at her and she fumbled to grasp it. “I’m taking your mother grocery shopping. Did you make a list like I told you? With the right kind of orange juice written down?”

She nodded.

Bob put a hand to his ear and cocked his head. “I can’t hear you.”

“Yes.”

“Where is it?”

“On the counter.”

His eyes drilled into hers and Lola shifted, wanting to run from the room. “Get. It.” She didn’t move fast enough and he pinched her arm. “Now.”

She darted to the counter and plucked the small sheet of paper from it, outstretching her hand with her head down. He snatched it from her fingers and she quickly pulled her hand away.

Bob feinted toward her with his fist raised and she jerked back, her face heating as he laughed. “Not so tough, are ya?”

Lola stared at the back of his head as he walked from the room, anger and hate burning through her. She could see herself grab a large pot and bash him over the head with it. She could hear the satisfying thud as metal met flesh. She could see him fall to the floor, unconscious and maybe dead. And she was happy. She shook the upsetting thought away and swept the floor with renewed vigor.

***DELETED SCENE FROM COMPLETE***

As I sit and wait for Mia to make an appearance at the Red Rooster Diner, a blonde slides into the booth opposite me. Her hair is in thick waves that blanket her shoulders and her eyes sparkle emerald in a tanned, pretty face. The perfume that floats over to me is sweet-smelling, like vanilla, and her top is hot pink and tight against her well-toned figure. I pause with a glass of water to my lips, wondering why Ana Love is sitting before me and looking at me in such a commiserating way.

“I see you're both still idiots,” she announces, brushing hair from her face. There is no malice in her tone of voice; it is as though she is merely making an observation. I suppose she is.

I set the glass down. “What are you talking about?”

“You. Grayson.” She shrugs. “Idiots.”

I don't know Ana. I don't know what kind of person she is and I don't even know the relationship she had with Grayson. I know they were friends, but they could have been more than that at some point. When Grayson lived here, I saw her with him once in a while; mostly when he was working. She runs the nicest bar in town; Jackie's Bar—named after her mother and owner. I don't even think we've really exchanged words. Yet here she is, telling me how dumb I am.

“Why is that?”

Throwing her hands up, she asks, “Are you together?”

“No.”

“Is he still living in California?”

“Yes.” My face is hot.

“Is he dating someone else?”

I really wish Mia would show up soon. “Yeah. He is.” I look up, glaring at her. “So what?”

Her eyes darken with empathy and Ana's voice softens as she says, “Grayson loves you. He's always loved you. Can't you see that?”

I don't say anything. My throat is thick and my heart is aching, making it impossible to speak. If I could count the meaningful moments between us—too infrequent to amount to much—maybe I could think she was right, but then what am I left with? Not Grayson, that's what.

“Unless...you don't love him.” Cocking her head, she studies me with pursed lips. I stare defiantly back, really wanting her to go away. After a moment, she shakes her head. “No. You still love him. What is wrong with you two?”

“We were teenagers. A lot has changed since then. We've both moved on,” I lie.

Ana's snort shows how much she believes that. “Yeah. I can tell.”

I am starting to get aggravated by her comments. She doesn't really know anything about what happened with Grayson and me. She can speculate, but she wasn't there; she doesn't know how I felt or how he felt. She doesn't know how much it hurt to let him go, or how much it still hurts not having him.

“What do you care anyway?”

Eyes narrowing on me, she leans closer. “I care because I care about Grayson. He's my friend and I want him to be happy. You are the only thing that's ever made him happy. I don't understand why you two don't do whatever it is you need to do so you can be together.”

Straightening, I say, “Wasn't it your uncle who signed him? Wasn't it you who made sure your uncle heard him sing? You wanted him to go. Why are you acting like I was the only one responsible for him leaving?”

“Can I get you something to drink?” The waitress, a young girl with red hair and wide golden eyes, asks Ana.

“Yes. I'll take a water with lemon. Thank you. And there will be four of us dining together.” She smiles at the waitress, and then turns her gaze to me. “No one made Grayson leave—not even you. He made that decision. True, you broke up with him, breaking his heart in the process. You could have handled that differently, by the way. But only Grayson could have made Grayson go. He had to go. He knew it. That isn't what I'm talking about. I'm talking about now. He went and he did what he had to do, and now he's here, and you're still apart.”

“He has a girlfriend,” I remind her.

“Megan?” She rolls her eyes. “She's okay and everything, but she isn't you.”

“We are not eating together.” I don't care if I sound bitchy. There is no way I am enduring a meal with her, and Grayson on top of that. I haven't spoken to him in days. The time from one chance meeting to another is agony. It would be better to not see him at all, but even that is painful. I really can't win.

She just smiles and shrugs.

I am actually relieved when I look up and see Grayson approaching. His face is dark with a scowl. He has his glasses on and is dressed in a blue and green plaid shirt with dark jeans. His eyes flicker over me and then remain on Ana until he reaches us.

“Ana, what are you doing?” he asks stiffly.

“We're joining Lily and...” Her eyebrows lift.

“Mia,” I mutter, keeping my eyes averted from Grayson. I have no qualms about glaring at Ana. She ignores it.

“...Mia for lunch. Lily invited us.” She smiles brightly at me.

I stare back.

He looks from Ana to me, a suspicious look on his face. “Why?”

“Because we all have some catching up to do and we thought it would be fun.”

“Lily doesn't like me, so...” His gaze is locked with mine, defying me to say otherwise.

Oh, so apparently we're back to that. What did you expect? My face feels wooden from trying to keep all expression from it and the lump in my throat is close to impossible to swallow around.

“It isn't that I don't like you...” I begin.

“Really? Because I'm pretty sure that's what you said.”

I scowl at him and he glances away, but not before I catch the twitching of his lips. It's annoying how my anger always seems to entertain him. I grab a sugar packet and toss it at him.

His hand shoots out, catching it before it connects with his chest as he lifts one arrogant eyebrow at me. I don't understand how that simple act can cause such illicit thoughts to form in my mind, but it does.

“Such violence,” he murmurs.

Mia finally makes an appearance; looking flushed and guilty, but also excited. Her hair is pulled back in a high ponytail and she is wearing short red shorts and a white flowy top. She stops and gives Ana and Grayson a look. “What the hell?”

“That was kind of my reaction,” he says, eyes narrowed between me and Ana.

“What's going on, Lily?”

“Nothing. Thanks for being late.”

My friend's eyes narrow on me, but I am too upset to care. If she had been on time, chances are I wouldn't be in the predicament I now am. Her face turns redder and I am not sure if it is from anger or embarrassment. Mia stiffly slides into the seat next to me. Grayson grudgingly does the same. We all glance at one another and away. The tension at the table is thick. I just want to disappear. Instead I glare at Ana. She doesn't seem to notice, calmly perusing the menu.

“Your brother's band is playing at the bar next Thursday night,” she tells Grayson.

“I thought they broke up?”

He glances at me. “They're back together. You know how famous people get. So melodramatic.” His lips begin to lift in a smile and mine inadvertently curve in response. We realize what we're doing and look away.

“Aidan has a band?” Mia asks. “Isn't he, like, eleven?”

“Almost three years ago,” I answer, eyeing her. A faint red mark on her neck that looks a lot like whisker burn gives me pause. She catches me watching her and quickly moves to lean her elbow on the table, her hand covering the side of her neck.

“This is their first semi-real gig so they're acting like cats on cocaine.”

“Have you seen cats on cocaine?” I ask him.

“Only in California,” he retorts.

“Really? When?”

His eyes shift away. “One time.”

“When?” I insist.

“The details are kind of blurry. It was summer.”

“Uh-huh. Were they at a cat bar when it happened, got a little wild and crazy, couldn't say no to the drugs?”

“Yes. It started with catnip and then they moved on to bigger things.”

“And what were you doing in a cat bar, if I may ask?” The tension has evaporated as we verbally spar and I am struggling not to laugh.

“What can I say? I have a secret fetish. I like cats.”

“Do your parents know you have a thing for cats?”

He sighs. “I tried to talk to them about it, but they think it's a phase. They're hoping it passes.”

“You got to be who you got to be, cat lover or otherwise.”

Nodding solemnly, Grayson replies, “That's what I said. I just want to be me, with my cat obsession. I'm still the same on the inside. And maybe I'll be the crazy cat man when I'm older, but I shouldn't be judged because of that.”

I can't keep it in any longer. Laughter spills from my lips, Grayson joining in. I watch the transformation of his features; mesmerized by what happiness does to his already gifted looks. It is like the sun opens up directly over him and flows into him; blinding with its purity and beauty. When we stop laughing, it is to find not only Mia and Ana but also the waitress all staring at us. I forgot they were even with us.

“You guys are so weird,” Mia mutters.

“For real,” Ana adds.

“Don't be jealous,” he says, still looking at me.

Mia rolls her eyes. “Trust me, not even an issue.”

He winks at me and I melt, feeling like I just got a little piece of me back.

“Um, so...are you guys ready to order?” Her name tag says Brenda and the flush going over her cheeks says she recognizes Grayson—or maybe it's the way she is openly staring at him like he is her long lost love. I wonder if that's what I look like? I hope not. How embarrassing.

“I'll have a garden salad with Italian dressing,” Mia says, handing the waitress her menu.

“Cheeseburger and fries.” Ana smiles at Brenda.

I open my mouth and Mia and Grayson say in unison, “Chicken strips and fries.” I shrug, not disputing them. So I am predictable.

Grayson grins at me again. He has to stop doing that. It is making my head go fuzzy. “I'll have a chicken salad sandwich, a cup of chili, and a salad with ranch dressing.”

“You are such a girl,” Ana teases after the blushing waitress leaves.

“I need to watch my figure.”

I glance down at his defined chest tragically hidden by his shirt. There is absolutely nothing wrong with his figure and he knows it. His muscles are perfectly proportioned without a hint of fat on his frame. When I look up, he is watching me with heat behind his eyes. He rubs his jaw and my name stares back at me in bold, black lettering. It makes my breath stutter and I bite my lip to keep a moan inside. Just like that—that is how quickly I am affected by him. A look, a word, a simple action on his part and I am a mess. My skin is burning up and I have to drag my gaze from his or be incinerated.

Ana clears her throat. “Wow. Do you two need to leave? Maybe go...talk...somewhere?”

My skin heats up for another reason entirely at that observation. Are our feelings so obvious? And what are his feelings? I know he desires me, but does he still love me? In the deepest part of me, I feel he does.

“Shut up, Ana,” he murmurs, taking a drink from the glass of water in front of him.

“Have you been mauled since you returned?” Mia asks, not looking too interested in his answer.

“Nah. Just one attempt and by an elderly lady. Her groping was easily deflected.” A small grin takes over his mouth. “The thing about the town you grew up in is that even if you make it big in the world, you're still just you to the people you grew up around. I kind of like that. People around here are excited, but they aren't fanatical like some of the fans. They knew me before Thrush, so it isn't as monumental to them. I am relatively safe from being assaulted by half-crazed women.”

“So you didn't have to resort to the badass self-defense moves you learned?” Ana asks, playing with a lock of her hair.

“No.” Grayson gives her a look.

Her hand drops from her hair. “What? Is no one supposed to know about your martial arts class?”

“It's not that no one can know—I just don't like to bring it up.”

“Why?” I ask curiously.

He shrugs, but avoids my eyes. “I like to have parts of me not open to the public. It seems like every little detail about me is scrutinized by people that don't even know me. Some parts I'd like to keep to myself.”

“We're not the public. We're just us—people you know,” I point out.

“And we don't gossip,” Mia says, which earns her an eyebrow lift from Grayson. She kind of is a gossip.

“I won't tell.”

He smiles. “I know, Lily.”

“Isn't she your biggest secret of all?” Ana nods her head toward me.

I frown; wondering what she is hinting at, but Grayson is glowering at his friend. He growls, “What is that supposed to mean?”

“Just that everyone wonders about the girl you were with before you became famous; the one you write your songs for, but no one knows who she is, surprisingly. That's all.” She places a hand on his stiff shoulder. “That's all I meant, Grayson.”

He nods stiffly, but the relaxed atmosphere is gone. I don't understand what happened or what Grayson thought Ana meant, but he isn't happy. I can tell she is troubled as she gnaws on her lower lip and continually glances at him. We eat our meal in awkward silence, all of us going our separate ways as quickly as possibly.

Authors...*sigh*

Here's the thing about writers: We all think we're going to write this amazing bestseller that will make us famous and we'll have all these instant fans, and let's not forget the money, and we'll just be able to leisurely type up stories for the rest of our lives in complete stability without worrying about finances, whether or not future books will do well (because they WILL) and everyone will love us. The reviews will prove that. They'll all be five stars!

So, yeah, there's THAT.

Then we actually publish a book and realize we were so, so wrong. Although, it would appear some authors DO get that first published book that's a bestseller, and they probably DO end up with a gazillion fans who will buy anything that has their name on it (even ketchup packets), and have months, maybe years, of outstanding sales to give them their monetary stability.

Then there's the rest of us.

We write a book. We think the world will love it. The world might very well love it, but if the world doesn't know about it, they can't decide whether or not they love it, right? Promoting is MAJOR for authors. I mean, every hour of the day-crazy-blood-shot eyes-caffeine-high-can't eat-can't sleep-snap at anyone and everything that tries to pull you away from contacting people about your book-major. Not that I would know.

Anyway.

Here we are, with this book that took months to write, that consumed our every thought, that haunted us and would not relent until we were fanatically typing it out, that made us cry, and laugh. This book that forced us to think about things we'd rather not, and not only that, but write them down for all the world to see (if they, ya know, were to know about the book). This book that spoke to us, changed us, opened our eyes, made us look into our souls and reflect what we saw with our words. This book that stole our emotions from us and put them down on paper in the form of letters arranged into words, arranged into sentences, arranged into a story.

Unread by most, loved by some.

It's sort of disheartening. So why do we keep writing? When every other thought is a self-doubt, when we have days or months of depressing sales, when we self-promote our brains out (literally. I'm like a zombie some days), and feel that we are getting absolutely NOWHERE. When we have days where we think we're shit, our work is shit, and that anything we ever produce will continue to be shit.

Well, obviously we're insane. But we also love what we do.

I guess that's why we continue with our dreams. Because if we don't, then we're just masochistic. There has to be a reason for it all, right? Why continue to put ourselves out there only to be shot down? Writing isn't just something we can stop. It's in us, it's a part of us. It doesn't go away, not really. So we write, and we dream, and maybe someday, we even get our dream.

WRITE ON.

Lindy