Читать книгу Unwanted Girl - MK Schiller - Страница 12

Nick’s day followed the usual sequence. A morning jog with a stop at the flower shop, followed by a visit to the cemetery, repeating his apologies to a girl who could never answer back. A mid-morning addiction meeting complete with robust coffee and painful stories. He spent the remainder of the day gawking at the damn blinking cursor, mocking him with its slow, shameless dance. Today was different, though. Not in his habits, but definitely in his demeanor. He was excited…to see her again.

He disapproved of his own enthusiasm. He shouldn’t like her this much. It was dangerous for him. Her name was appropriate because she was shy, but at the same time opinionated, perhaps even brash. Oh, and she did have goddess-like qualities. She had a sense of humor, and she listened to him with rapt attention. He listened to her, too. In fact, her lyrical voice made his dick jerk, which in turn made him feel like a jerk, but hell, that part of his anatomy had a mind of its own. Interestingly, it had been inactive for a very long time. It was good to know, unlike his career, his dick wasn’t dead.

She arrived on time, wearing her large trench coat and an even baggier blue sweater underneath. She certainly didn’t dress to impress, which was almost a sin in this city. Yet, she managed to be sexy nonetheless.

“Hello, Shyla,” he said, gesturing her inside.

“Nick,” she greeted.

She placed the paper bag on the table. Nick helped her with her coat and took her knapsack, and just like the night before, she seemed surprised by his small gesture. His hand twitched slightly, aching to tuck the loose strand of hair behind her ear, but he refrained.

She cupped her hand to her mouth, her grin transforming into a long yawn.

“Tired?”

“Very much so, and it’s your fault, Nick Dorsey.”

“My fault?”

She reached into the knapsack and pulled out his book. “I read this last night. I stayed up very late, but it was worth it. I loved it.”

Nick tried to subdue his grin, but couldn’t help it. The fact she liked something of his meant a great deal, especially coming from such a harsh critic.

“I’m glad you enjoyed it.” And relieved, too.

“It’s amazing, Nick.”

“Stop swelling my ego.” Among other things.

“I have to get this out. The fact you can get a girl from rural India to sympathize with an Irish poker player from New Jersey…well, that’s pretty special. I think that’s what a good book does. It brings us together as people no matter how different we are, because in the end, the human experience connects us.”

Nick swallowed as he took in her words. A sense of gratitude filled him, but he wasn’t sure why. “I’m humbled by your description.”

She handed the hardcover back to him.

He held his hands up. “I told you to keep it.”

“I plan to. I was hoping you would autograph it.”

“Of course.” He walked over to his desk and grabbed a pen. “Would you like something to drink?”

“I bought drinks this time.”

He took his time autographing the copy for her. By the time he handed it back, she’d set up the table for them. She handed him his drink.

“Juice boxes? Is this a joke?” The confused look on her face made it quite clear she wasn’t joking. “I haven’t had one of these since preschool.”

“I know it’s childish, but I love them. I thought you might like one, too. They actually do taste like candy.”

God, she was so fucking innocent. How would she survive in this city? He shook the ridiculous question out of his head as soon as it entered. She had survived, and it was a miracle in some ways. Not because she had—naive girl versus the big, bad city wasn’t a unique story. That she survived with her innocence intact was the true miracle.

Nick laughed, taking one of the small boxes with its colorful design and tiny straw. She misunderstood his hesitation because she took the straw, freed it from the wrapper, and punctured the tiny dot at the top of the bright yellow box.

“Thank you.” He sipped, wincing at the artificial sweetness.

“You’re most welcome. He had such an interesting life, your grandfather.”

“Yeah, he had some good stories.”

“Enlisting in the Army at a young age and then losing his wife. And the relationship you two had. I can see how you both needed each other. How he influenced you.” She walked over to the wood frame hanging in a prominent place in his living room and ran her finger along the border. “These are the cards, right?”

“The only royal flush ever dealt to him. When I graduated college, he gave them to me.” Nick deepened his voice, bringing out the Jersey of his Gramp’s accent. “He said, ‘All I have to give you are these cards I’ve been carrying in my back pocket for twenty years and some advice. You’re smart enough to know there is a sucker at every table, but I hope you’ll be wise enough to realize that sometimes it’s you. I never was.’”

“Wise words.” Her smile widened when she opened the book and read his inscription. “To Shyla, a shining light in a dark world. Love Nick Dorsey.” She looked up at him, the dimple deepening with her grin. “It’s beautiful. Thank you.”

“My pleasure.”

“Do you think the world is dark?”

“Sometimes.” He didn’t want to have this discussion with her. She had an ability to draw out his sorrow in a way that both relieved and surprised him. “But not tonight. I don’t want to talk about me anymore. Tell me about you.”

“What do you want to know?”

He pulled out a chair for her. “Anything.” Everything.

“My father is retired. My mother passed away a while ago.”

“I’m sorry. That must be difficult.”

“It was.”

“Any brothers or sisters?” he asked.

“I’m an only child.”

“Me, too.”

“That’s about it.”

“I doubt it. Do you like NYU?”

“It’s a great school. I’m here on a scholarship.”

“Impressive. I graduated from there myself.”

“Why didn’t you say so yesterday?”

“I didn’t want to change the subject. Big surprise, I was an English Lit major.”

“How come you didn’t move back to New Jersey?”

Nick dropped the needle on the record player, hoping the music would defuse, possibly distract him from making an advance on her. Nick didn’t have a trace of an accent so he wondered for a split second how she knew he was a Jersey boy before it dawned on him that she knew a great deal about him from the book.

“I love Jersey, but this city has an ebb and flow that’s conducive to writing.”

“I get it.” She gestured to the turntable with its record spinning on the track. “Who is this?”

Nick tilted his head. “Jimi Hendrix. The song’s called “All Along the Watchtower.”

She moved her lips, silently repeating the name as if trying to commit it to memory. “Jimi Hendrix, I’ll have to remember the name.”

He arched a brow. “You’ve never heard of Jimi Hendrix?”

“No, but I like this.”

“I have so much to teach you.”

She chewed her sandwich slowly. “Are we friends then?”

Nick hadn’t quantified it. To him, friendship was something natural that progressed without definition, but she needed reassurance. “Without a doubt. Why do you like the song?”

“I can feel the words. Do you understand?”

“I follow.”

Her voice lowered to a whisper. “This has to be one of the most crowded places you can live. It’s exciting, exuberant, and exhausting. It’s easy to get lost, in every sense of the word.”

“You’re right, but it’s also one of the few places where a guy like me and a girl like you can break bread and converse. What made you ask to come in last night?”

“You seemed nice. I’m not usually this forward.”

“I know.” He arched his brow. “It took you a year to talk to me. At least about anything more than the weather.”

“You could have talked to me, too. Why didn’t you?”

“I’m not really sure.”

“We wasted time, didn’t we?”

“Not really. I wasn’t the same person. I’m glad we stuck to weather reports. Anyway, besides being a teacher, what else?”

“What else what?”

“What else do you dream of?” She lowered her head. He leaned forward. “You can tell me.”

“It’s silly. You’ll laugh.”

“Your dreams are safe with me, Shyla.” Nick expected her to answer with future forecasts, including marriage outlooks and the number of children she’d have.

“I’d like to write a book.”

Nick crushed the juice box in his hand. “You’re kidding, right?” he asked with a slight annoyance.

She narrowed her eyes. “Why do you say it like that?”

“Everyone is thinking about writing a book.”

She played with the plastic wrapping of her sandwich, smoothing it out against the table. “You must hear it a great deal in your line of work.”

“I’ve heard it three times this week so it’s a little under quota, but yeah. What’s your book about?”

“It’s a love story.”

He laughed. “That figures.”

“What do you mean?”

“You said it was your favorite.”

She narrowed her eyes, her lips pursed. Nick cursed himself…not just for pissing her off, but because her angry look turned him on. “It’s not glamorous or even particularly pretty. It’s definitely not cliché if that’s what you’re implying.”

“I’m sorry. I can be an assuming ass sometimes.”

“It’s not a love story in the traditional sense. It touches on some heavy ideas.”

“Like what?”

“Female gendercide, for one.”

Nick almost choked on his sandwich. “Female gendercide? As in the act of systematically killing female babies?”

“Yes.”

“Sounds like a real feel-good kind of book.”

“I know you’re being sarcastic, but ironically it is.”

“What do you know about the subject, Shyla?”

“I’ve read and heard stories.”

“So basically you know nothing.”

She shook her head slowly, her long lashes fluttering over her chocolate brown eyes.

“One of the most important rules in writing is to write what you know.”

Something he said must have resonated with her, but not in a good way. She stiffened before she leveled her head, squared her shoulders, and met his eyes. “What experiences do you have with the Russian mob, Nick?”

“Excuse me?”

“Well, if I recall correctly, and I think I do, in the Max Montero book I read, he infiltrated the Russian mob. I suspect you have some real world experiences in that area since you’re all about”—she paused dramatically, fingers in air quotes—“‘write what you know.’”

The girl had gotten him. He bowed slightly, conceding to her argument. “Touché.”

“You asked me my dream, and that’s one of the big ones. I have this crazy urge to write it. Like if I don’t, I’ll combust.”

Nick understood better than anyone what she described. As a writer, when he came up with a story, it wouldn’t leave him alone until he put it to paper. Unfortunately, he had no more stories to tell.

“How did you come up with the idea?”

“I, too, have a character that speaks to me.”

Nick fetched a yellow legal pad and his favorite cross-pen from his writing desk. “What’s the story?”

“I don’t have it all worked out yet.”

“Tell me what you have.”

“Now?” she asked, looking around the room, as if someone else might answer her question.

“No time like the present.”

She yawned again.

“Unless you’re too tired,” Nick added.

“I’ll be fine.”

“Would you like coffee?”

“I brought some.”

“You brought your own coffee?”

“I always carry it with me.”

To his horror, she reached into her knapsack and pulled out a familiar plastic jar. Nick’s gut clenched in revolt. He tilted his head, trying to keep his expression stern, but failing. “You insult me by bringing freeze-dried, instant coffee into my house.”

“I only need water, and I can make it anywhere. It’s convenient.”

He picked up the jar and chucked it behind him. It landed perfectly into the trashcan by his writing desk. “It’s crap. If there’s one thing I can teach you, it’s this. Not all coffee is created equal. I’ll make you a real cup.”

Her mouth gaped, but before she could respond, he took her hand and led her into the kitchen. A part of him regretted the action because he understood her decisions were not based on preference alone. Even though he was no longer part of that class, he would never forget those struggles. Poor recognized poor. He couldn’t solve those problems for her, and he doubted she wanted him to, but he could damn well make her a real cup of coffee.

He brewed hot water and grinded fresh beans like a professional barista, explaining each step to her.

“What’s this?” she asked, gesturing to the glass mug with a silver lid.

“A French press. I usually use my coffeemaker, so I’m giving it to you. I wanted to show you how to make it.”

“Why?”

“Because instant coffee sucks.”

The skeptical look on her face melted as the rich aroma of fresh brewed coffee filled the room. “I don’t have a coffee grinder.”

He opened a top cupboard and took out a silver package. He tossed it to her. “That’s already ground.” He took out the three spice jars in the cabinet. “Do you like chocolate, cinnamon…nutmeg?”

“Isn’t it cream and sugar?”

“Not the way I do it.”

“You choose. I should be angry with you for throwing away my coffee.”

“Try this, and then tell me how angry you are,” he said, handing her a steaming mug. Their fingers touched briefly, making the exchange more awkward.

She blew before taking a sip. Her eyes widened, and she ran her tongue over her full lips. The reaction so subtly demure and downright sexy, it caused Nick’s dick to twitch. She opened her mouth, but paused and took another sip as if trying to verify her appreciation.

“Mmmm,” she whispered.

“Yep.”

“Touché, Nick Dorsey,” she said, clinking her mug against his. The best laughter came from the gut and worked its way up. And that was the exact laugh that came from him. One he hadn’t heard in a long time.

Seated again at the dining table, half-empty mugs later, Nick waited patiently for her to start. “Shyla, we don’t have to do this if you don’t want to. I figured I could give you some advice and make up for being an ass.”

“The coffee made up for it. It’s not that. I haven’t told anyone.”

“Every single book starts the same way.”

“What way is that?”

“With an idea. Sometimes you can have a great idea and a piece of crap book or vice versa. I promise, even if you don’t write it, you will feel better for talking it out.”

“I’m not sure where to start.”

“Chapter one unless there is a prologue.”

“No prologue. Here it goes.” She took a deep breath and pulled her legs up, encircling her arms around them. “Once upon a time, a very long time ago in a land very far away, there lived a village woman.”

“What the hell are you doing?” Nick interrupted.

“Telling you the story.”

“Are you writing a fairy tale?”

“No.”

“Is that how you would start it?”

“Um…yes.”

“Okay, let’s try something else. Tell me the story like you’re talking to a friend, not as if you’re reading it out loud.”

“I am talking to a friend.”

“Yes, you are.”

Nick moved his chair closer to hers. There was still a distance between them, but he caught a whiff of her vanilla scent. It was subtle like her, but even more pleasant than the coffee aroma.

She cleared her throat and began again. He jotted notes while she spoke. Soon though, he put down the pad and propped his head in his hands, listening to her lyrical voice. He wasn’t sure if it was the allure of her voice or the interesting story that held his interest—probably both.

“I think you have something,” he said when she was done.

“I don’t. It’s just an idea.”

“Why don’t you try writing it?”

“I’m not a writer. It comes off bland and emotionless on the paper. I want to do it justice.” She yawned again. “I should go. It’s late.”

He walked her down, put her in a cab, paid the driver, and secured her agreement to come back the following night. He tried to go to bed himself, but sleep would not come. He either tossed and turned or studied the skylight over his bed. The window provided a framed visual of stars lighting the universe. He traced the scar across his abdomen. Finally, he closed his eyes, only to snap them open a few seconds later. The snippet of the tale she’d told replayed like a record set on repeat. She had the right words, but maybe not the adjectives and connectors to drive it home. Finally, at one in the morning, he flipped off the covers and staggered to the writing desk.

Nick cracked his knuckles as he regarded his once friend and now foe—the blinking cursor. But this time, a new energy coursed through him. Before he could give the idea much contemplation, he began typing.

Her story flowed through his fingers as they tapped and whirled on the keyboard in a frantic pace. The connection between his hands and brain lacked any hesitation. The words came effortlessly as they once did. She was the composer, he was the conductor, and the story was the music. It was a rough draft for sure, but he’d filled in the blank spaces and colored her outline. He saved it under his drafts with the working title Asha’s story by Shyla Metha.

He swallowed, wondering what her reaction would be. Would she appreciate his help? Nick Dorsey had many critics. Perhaps they even outnumbered his admirers. His work experienced both hail and ridicule in some of the most prestigious media outlets by professional editors, passionate readers, and even celebrities, but he’d never been as nervous about a review as right then.