This had to be a joke. Incredulity was quickly replacing my fear. Matt's brother just sauntered into my office and was now strong-arming me into flying to New York to rescue Matt's alcoholic ass (that was doing god knows what in some random cabin), and oh, before I even agreed to this crackpot plan, he'd talked to my boss and cleared my schedule— "...some spending money," Nate was saying, "travel expenses, anything you need above and beyond the car and the ticket. All my contact information is here. I insist you keep the change as I know this is something of an inconvenience."
I turned my deer-in-headlights look on the envelope Nate was pressing into my hands. Thoughtlessly, I rifled through the bills. Brand new Benjamin Franklins. Okay, I was counting. One thousand, two thousand, three thousand— "Five," Nate murmured.
My head shot up.
My god, this wasn't for travel expenses. This was a bribe.
Nate moved toward the doorway, leaving the money in my hands and the travel information on my desk. I was paralyzed with anger. That was fortunate for Nate, because otherwise I would have brained him with my stapler.
"I'll be in touch," Nate said. "I'm staying in the city for a few days. Call me if you have any questions. Hannah, I knew you would help. The way Matt spoke about you..."
There it was again, that guileless vulnerability. This asshole loved his brother, at least, who also happened to be an asshole.
Briefly, I envisioned Matt and Nate sitting together and discussing me. Conspiring? Was this a ploy to send me running back to Matt's arms?
No, no way. Matt was drinking. Matt was in trouble. I needed to think.
"You're both the same," I fumed.
Nate glanced over his shoulder.
"Of course we are." He smiled and shrugged. "We're brothers."
CHAPTER 23
Matt
_____
THE FINGER LAKES are wine country.
Fuck, they even have this thing called the Seneca Wine Trail. You go around the whole goddamn lake hitting up wineries until you pass out. It's like a hall crawl for cultured adults.
Granted, I wasn't about to hit the trail. I did hit up a few wineries, though. I'd borrowed my brother's bike, a silver Icon Sheene, and I tore all over Geneva like a maniac.
Not caring is really damn liberating.
I kept the cabin stocked with wine, bourbon, and Dunhills. Nate stopped pestering me around the middle of September—thank god. He'd had a damn good idea, me getting some time alone in nature or whatever, but I didn't need him to mother hen me the whole time.
So I was drinking again. So what? I forgot how much I loved it.
And fuck, I wrote Ten Thousand Nights drunk off my ass. It's still my most popular novel. I could write The Surrogate wasted, no problem.
I wrapped myself in an afghan and sat out on the porch. I made my weekly call to Pam.
"Matthew," she sighed.
God, that bitch. What did she always have to be such a bitch? I was starting to expect her oh-no-it's-Matt-again tone, like damn, too bad I have to talk to my most famous author.
"Yeah, sorry to rain on your goddamn parade," I slurred.
Silence.
"I mean fuck, Pam, it's not like I'm fucking nobody. Last time I checked—"
"It's the time, Matthew." Her voice was quiet and faraway. I looked at my phone. It was four in the morning.
"You're two fucking hours behind me! God Pam, also, fuck, work on my schedule. I'm the next fucking Balzac. What about Proust? He used to—"
"Matthew, what do you want."
There was no question at the end of Pam's sentence. That bitch. She knew she had me by the balls because she had Hannah.
I spit a mouthful of Riesling over the rail. I needed a bottle of beer. Better yet, I needed a bottle of Woodford Reserve.
"You know what I want. What does she think? I'm writing like you always ask but you're never fucking h—"
"She loves it." Pam stifled a yawn.
Okay, Pam had probably been asleep—like I fucking cared. She deserved this. She ratted me out to the reporters. Her and Bethany, maybe even Nate. I'd had time to think and I finally figured they were all in on it. They knew about me and Hannah. They tore us down on purpose.
Why, I didn't know, and it didn't matter. You can't trust anyone.
"I swear," I growled. "Tell me more."
"She... she really empathizes with the narrator, the surrogate."
"Why?"
"I don't know, Matthew. We work together, we don't do psychoanalysis."