Night Owl

CHAPTER 4

Hannah

"F*ck OFF?" I stuck my hand on my hip and glared at Chrissy. "Just wait a minute. He said 'f*ck off' and hung up?"

"Uh-huh. Yup. Unless it was an epically well-timed call drop. But um, Hannah, not sure about that guy. He was a liiittle bit of an a*shole." My sister squinted as she emphasized the word little. I couldn't help but laugh. "A little bit of an a*shole" was putting Matt lightly. Still, I had to figure out why he got so mad.

My sister and I were stopped at a motel in Billings, Montana. It was 2:00 a.m. I had another hour of driving in me, but I wanted to search for something in the U-Haul, and I wanted to talk to Matt.

I blamed being on the road for thinking about Matt constantly. The endless highway, the repetitive scenery, tuning out my sister's bad music—oh, and our explosive phone sex last night.

God, ridiculous! I was infatuated with a guy I knew nothing about.

"One more time," I said, yanking open the back of the trailer. It rolled up with a clatter. "You called him... Mr. Frostypants." My mouth twitched. "And he immediately said 'f*ck you' and hung up?"

"Ohhh my god, yes! That is what happened Hannah. What is your deal with this asshat?"

"He's a good friend," I lied, "and I think he's actually pissed. I texted him from Perkins and called and got nothing."

"Maybe he was out. I don't know. What are you looking for in there?"

"Oh, um... I wanted some clothes." I rubbed my neck. My sister stared at me. I got the sense that she had seen through both of my lies and possibly even heard me in the bathroom last night. "So. Yeah. I don't need any help. Gotta rummage, that's all. You can check us in."

"Mhmmm." Chrissy spun and headed into the motel.

Thank god.

At this point, I knew I would spill if she grilled me. I felt like a thirteen-year-old girl, bubbly with excitement and desperate to gab about my latest crush. He said this, he did that. Spare me. I was so much cooler than this.

I boosted myself onto the edge of the U-Haul and turned on my keychain flashlight, peering into the jam of boxes and furniture. After fifteen minutes of struggling, I managed to shift out the box I was looking for. It had the word BOOKS in black Sharpie on the side.

I dug out my worn copy of Ten Thousand Nights by M. Pierce. I flipped through its dog-eared and highlighted pages until I found the lines Matt quoted.

There is no such thing as loneliness. There is only the idea of loneliness.

I sighed and swung my legs from the edge of the U-Haul. God, what lines, and what a strange concept—that the fear of loneliness is the fear of a phantom.

In the back of the book I had printouts from the LA Times book blog and clippings from The New York Times Book Review. I flipped one open and perused the first few lines.

M. Pierce remains a mystery, tops charts with Harm's Way

November 13, 2009

Almost two years after the appearance of national bestseller Ten Thousand Nights, Harm's Way, the new hardcover fiction from M. Pierce, has reached the top of the bestseller list. Like its predecessor, Harm's Way straddles (or obliterates) the boundary between genre fiction and literary fiction. Part thriller, part Kunderian inquiry and all page-turner, Harm's Way has critics going to bat...

I skimmed down a few lines.

Little is known about the author, who declines book signings, tours or any form of public appearance in connection with his or her fiction. Knopf's lips have been sealed since the 2007 release of Ten Thousand Nights. The author's agent is rumored to be at the Granite Wing Agency, though this has never been confirmed.

Perhaps, like other notable reclusive writers, including Thomas Pynchon and J.D. Salinger, M. Pierce fears the effects of publicity on his or her life and prose.

The author's decision to remain anonymous leaves fans wanting. "Official" M. Pierce fan pages have appeared...

I smirked, refolded the article, and tucked it away. God, leave the author alone.

I owned all four of M. Pierce's books—Ten Thousand Nights, Harm's Way, Mine Brook, and The Silver Cord—which had been published at semi-even intervals between 2007 and 2012. I didn't care if I never found out who the author was, and book jacket photos are universally depressing. I just wanted another M. Pierce novel, soon.

I studied my phone.

I'd told my sister I called and texted Matt from Perkins. I actually called twice. I texted four times. His silence gnawed at me.

Was he having misgivings about our... our what? Our friendship that wasn't a friendship? Our weird arrangement in which we helped one another get off?

"F*ck this," I muttered. I called him again.

The ringtone sounded four times.

"Hannah."

"Matt! Hi. Don't hang up, please. Did you hang up on my sister?"

"Yeah."

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have let her answer. She's a little..." I frowned. Edgy? Abrasive?

"She's fine," Matt said. His tone was cool. "I was simply done talking."

"Oh. So is that your thing? You hang up whenever you feel 'done talking'?"

"Sure, why not." He gave an exaggerated sigh, like it was killing him to be on the phone with me.

"And hey, are you only in a good mood after you jerk off? Because it's starting to feel that way."

I heard Matt's hesitant, breathy laugh.

"You're funny, little bird."

"I don't feel very funny right now."

"God, you're too cute."

"What!" I spluttered. "Stop being crazy. I'm... I'm trying to—"

"Trying to figure out our situation? Give up. I don't think there are any rules for this kind of thing, or any helpful guidelines. Anyway, it doesn't matter."

There was a long pause. I held my breath. Doesn't matter? Somehow, this thing with Matt—"our situation"—did matter to me. I liked it. I wanted it. It made me feel a little out of control, but I liked that too.

"Doesn't matter," he repeated quietly. He cleared his throat. "So. Who's the new guy?"

"Huh? New guy?"

"Yeah, your sister said there was a new guy. Hannah's new guy."

"Uh... she did? I didn't hear that."

"Yeah. Well, no. She asked me if I was your new guy, which I'm obviously not, and which... obviously implies there is some... new guy." Matt couldn't keep the feeling from his voice, and the feeling wasn't curiosity. It was simmering rage.


Realization hit me like a sack of cement.

Matt thought I'd gleefully helped him come and enjoyed our intimate chat on the phone, all the while cruising into my next relationship.

"Matt!" I snapped.

"What," he snapped back.

"I would never have done those things with you if I had a new guy, god! Could you for one minute think better of me? I mean first the picture thing, now this. I get that you don't know me, but seriously, you're projecting your a*sholery onto me. I'm not some backhanded psycho chick looking for a good time on the phone because I don't have the guts to cheat for real on my nonexistent new guy, trust me."

I was gripping Ten Thousand Nights so hard my nails dug into the cover. Okay, so I kind of lost it right there. But he deserved it.

I listened to the silence. I checked my phone to make sure Matt wasn't "simply done talking." He was still on the line.

"Hello? Matt?"

He began to chuckle, the wry sound fanning my anger.

"A*sholery?" he murmured.

"Yeah, well. Ugh. You know what I mean." I loosened my hold on the paperback. "And by the way, I know you plagiarized M. Pierce last night. Nice try."

Matt was quiet again.

"Hey... I'm kidding. I mean, you did quote from Ten Thousand Nights. But it was awesome. Pierce is seriously one of my favorite authors."

"Oh? I've only read that one book. Not sure why I bothered. It got a lot of publicity; I thought it would be better. I guess the line stuck with me. Personally I think the author is a bit of a windbag. What are you wearing?"

Matt's sudden transition from bored dismissal to my attire left me speechless.

"Clothes," he offered. "You have them on. I want to know what they look like."

"I'm outside," I said sheepishly, "sitting on the edge of the U-Haul."

"I don't care. I'm not angling for phone sex, though I wouldn't mind it. It's unusually easy to come with you, Hannah. Unusually satisfying, too."

I sighed and tilted my head against the cool metal interior of the trailer.

"Soon I'll be home. I'll have my own room, a door I can lock."

"I can't think about that now," Matt said. "Don't make plans. I'm not real."

"What?"

"You don't know me. I'm scared to have you close. Tell me what you're wearing."

"A... a little black dress with an empire waist. Black strapless bra, black thong."

"Another thong. Did you wear that for me? Did you know we'd talk?"

"Yes." I blushed. "And no. I wore it so I could tell you. I didn't know if we would talk. I hoped we would."

"Hannah..." For a split second, Matt sounded grieved. When he spoke again, his voice was level. "God, Hannah. I've been thinking about f*cking you. It's like there's something wrong with me. I can't stop thinking about it. I want my body against yours, my cock inside of you. It's driving me wild. Does that frighten you?"

"No. No, I've... been thinking about it too."

"Have you? Tell me."

"Yeah." I pursed my lips and swallowed. He wanted me to describe my fantasies? How totally awkward. "Um, I'm surprised I haven't veered off the road yet, honestly. I just keep... daydreaming hardcore." Oof, word choice.

"Hardcore? How illuminating." Matt chuckled. "I'll tell you, then. Today when I showered, I thought about having you there. I thought about your soft body pressed against the cold tiles, my arm around your neck, your ass against my cock."

I closed my eyes.

"Go on," I whispered. My words pulled another little laugh from Matt. I found myself smiling at the sound, which was quickly becoming one of my favorite sounds.

"Greedy little bird, aren't you? I thought about your breasts pressed into the tiles. I wouldn't be gentle, Hannah. I would force your legs apart and finger you like I owned you."

A helpless moan slipped out of me. I clamped a hand over my mouth and glanced around the parking lot. I was alone. The only sounds were the wind and the occasional rumble of a truck passing on the highway.

"I'd make you moan a lot louder than that. Whether or not you were ready, I would push my dick up inside of you... and you would shake against me. I would slap your ass to feel you tighten up in surprise."

"God," I sighed. I had turned to jelly, slumped against the wall of the trailer. I would definitely need to change my underwear before I slept.

"I think that'll do for now," Matt said, his voice suddenly businesslike. "Believe it or not, I'm trying to be decent tonight. This morning, rather"

"Decent?" I felt myself spiraling back down to earth. God, this guy could breathe and get me wound up.

"Mm, decent. As in, trying to have an interaction with you that doesn't end with me whipping out my dick... even if jerking off is the only thing that puts me in a good mood."

I laughed and rolled my eyes.

"Fair enough, no more sexy talk tonight. But one night of decency won't clear your reputation, Matt. Sorry."

"Hey, I'm not usually like this. I usually play my depravity a little closer to my chest."

"Pfft, you're not depraved."

"Tell that to my dick. I swear, it's like a dog lately—show it the slightest scrap of attention and it gets all excited."

I giggled, then blinked. Did I just... giggle?

"Um." I picked at the hem of my dress. "Yeah, so." No sexy talk. Great, fine, except I didn't know if Matt and I were capable of normal talk.

"Aha, not only is she a first-class phone sex partner, but her scintillating conversational skills will likewise leave a man breathless."

"Matt! Yeesh, I was thinking." I tucked a coil of hair behind my ear. "I wasn't sure if you wanted to go... or if we could talk for a little bit. Um, about decent things."

Matt stayed quiet.

I was coming to expect his silences, along with his fitful laughter and sarcasm.

"We can talk," he said finally.

And we did. Or rather, I did.

For an hour and a half I sat on the edge of the U-Haul and told Matt about Mick, my childhood in Colorado, my sister and brother, my parents, my job at the bank and shitty jobs before that, and dozens of other irrelevant facts.

Matt was an expert evader. He was a great listener, too. Every time I tried to steer the conversation toward him, he deftly turned my questions back at me. It should have been infuriating—I usually hated going on about myself—but this time it was a relief.

I needed this.

For the first time in years, someone wanted to hear about my thoughts and feelings in more than a cursory fashion.

And Matt wasn't just being polite. He laughed and asked questions; he reminded me where I was when I lost my train of thought.

By the time we were done, I had told Matt my condensed life story.

And I had gleaned a single new fact about him.

He was twenty-eight.

"We're in Billings," I told him at the end of the call.

Matt enthused about Montana briefly. He mentioned idolizing Norman Maclean and having done some hiking and climbing around Glacier—and then, as though he'd let go of two precious pearls, he shut down.

"Climbing, huh?" I ventured.

"Mm."

Mm seemed to be Matt's all-purpose noise, which could mean yes, no, let me think about it, I'm bored, I'm amused, I'm annoyed, I'm aroused—basically anything.

"That's cool. You must love Colorado then. Are you super outdoorsy or something?"

"Mm."

"Cool..." I snapped up the new facts: Twenty-eight, Norman Maclean, outdoorsy.

Just what I needed to fuel my fantasies: the idea of a well-read young man with a leanly muscled climber's body. Yes please.

"I better get to sleep," I said reluctantly. I glanced at my watch. 3:40 a.m. "Geez, where does the time go."

"Optima dies," Matt mumbled, trailing off.

"What?"

"Latin. Nevermind."

I frowned.

"Okay. Well. Yeah. Sleep. I think if we get going early and push it, we'll be in Colorado by evening. I'll reply to your post ASAP."

"No rush on that. You'll be busy when you get home."

"I know. I want to write it. I miss our story... a lot."

"Then I look forward to it," he said.

I heard a little electronic click and glanced at my phone. Matt was gone.

Note to self: teach this man how to say goodbye.