“What we did?” Yolanda repeated, tilting her head and raising an eyebrow. “I don’t get your meaning.”
“You know.” He leaned closer and lowered his voice to a whisper, even though they were the only two in the room. “Us. Hooking up.”
Yolanda jerked away, eyes wide. Incredulous, she gaped at Nick. Then she burst into laughter. Genuine laughter. She threw her head back and let out a true guffaw.
Nick stared at her, confused as fuck. “Was it bad sex . . . ?”
“Nick, honey,” Yolanda said, gaining some composure. “You and I did not have sex last night.”
“We didn’t?” Nick’s mind was spinning. “Then why was I naked?”
“You were too drunk to go back to your own apartment, so I let you sleep over. I slept downstairs at Henry’s. You got into my bed fully dressed, so you must have taken off your clothes in the middle of the night. My room does get unreasonably hot. I’ve talked to the building manager about that.”
Nick was relieved, but he felt infinitely more mortified than anything. He scratched at the back of his neck and squeezed his eyes closed, frustrated with himself.
“Yolanda, I am so sorry,” he said. “I completely misunderstood what happened. Please forget I was ever so stupid to think you would even consider having sex with me.”
Yolanda patted his cheek affectionately. “Oh, it’s all right, honey. I’m a shameless flirt, but I’ve only got eyes for Henry Lin.”
Her phone rang then, abruptly interrupting their embarrassing conversation. Yolanda grabbed her phone off the kitchen counter and began speaking in rapid-fire Spanish. She turned back to Nick and gestured for him to make a plate, but Nick knew he should take this opportunity to leave now. He’d already made things awkward enough.
“Hey, I have to go,” he said quietly, so as to not interrupt her call.
Yolanda waved goodbye and Nick slipped away, grabbing his new Vans by the door on his way out. They were a recent purchase after his old sneakers had become so worn down, there were holes in the soles. Nick was still becoming used to the idea of being someone who had disposable income.
He sighed in relief once he was finally back at his apartment. The large, empty space used to overwhelm him. He’d never lived anywhere so big before, so new. His living room was sparse. There was a television mounted on the wall, and across from it sat Yolanda’s mustard yellow recliner that was still covered in bits of Pomeranian dog hair. His bedroom was just as empty. Only a mattress sans bed frame and a few shirts and pants hanging up in his closet. This was the first time since college that he’d stayed in one place for longer than a month. He was still getting used to the idea.
His phone vibrated in his pocket, and he looked at an alert he’d made for Sunday mornings.
You should be writing. Don’t be fucking lazy.
He wiped his hand over his face. He should be writing. He was trying to make a real effort to stick to a schedule and actually draft the book he’d been paid so much money to write.
He showered and threw on a T-shirt and sweats before he grabbed his laptop off the kitchen island and sat down in his only chair. He opened his document and stared at the same eight words that had been plaguing him for months.
THE ELVES OF CERADON
Book 2
By N.R. Strickland
Maybe it was the pen name that annoyed him. He’d created it when he’d been an embarrassingly naive twenty-two-year-old who’d thought he was going to be a big deal. He’d figured the pen name was necessary. Because as long as Nick had been alive, and much longer before that, Nick’s dad had been terrible with money. He stole from people, he gambled, he begged and manipulated everyone around him—especially the people who loved him—until he got what he wanted. Nick had witnessed and experienced this behavior for as long as he could remember. He’d known that if he earned a decent income from his book and his dad was aware of this fact, he would chase Nick down every day, constantly asking for money that he would simply waste. And Nick figured hey, why not make his alter ego British to throw his dad further off his scent? But then the book had tanked along with his original publisher, and Nick took it as a sign from the universe that being a novelist wasn’t in the cards. He’d buried that career and N.R. Strickland.
None of that had mattered to Marcus, though. Once he got his new job at a fancy literary agency, he took Nick’s book and ran with it. Suddenly, in January, Marcus had resold Nick’s book to a new publisher, Mitchell & Milton Inc., one of the biggest publishers in the country. And not only were they republishing The Elves of Ceradon in the fall, they’d signed Nick up for two sequels. They’d paid him a shit ton of money, and he’d received even more when the TV rights sold to HBO. It was why he could sit in this expensive-ass apartment. All that he’d dreamed of as a stupidly hopeful college senior was finally happening. His first draft of book two was due in November, which meant he had about five months left to complete it. But how the hell was he supposed to continue a story he’d given up on over six years ago? Not to mention that everyone at his publisher assumed he was British because of his bio.
He stared at the blinking cursor and felt like it was mocking him. He didn’t even know where to begin. When he’d written the first book, he’d used his own life as inspiration. Deko might have been an elf prince, which Nick most definitely was not, but they were both solitary people who were trying to leave the shit in their past behind. Nick might have been trying to distance himself from his father, while Deko was escaping a vicious, deadly species of life leeches, but still. Nick had seen himself in Deko.
Maybe too much time had passed. He’d spent too many years writing for World Traveler. His life had become a series of starts and stops, different countries, strangers and acquaintances. He knew more languages now than he did at twenty-two, but his drive and desire to be an author—to be N.R. Strickland—were gone. And that was funny, because now he definitely did need the pen name and anonymity. Not even his editor knew what he looked like. Marcus handled in-person meetings, while Nick and his editor only spoke on the phone. His editor oddly but politely never made a comment about his lack of a British accent, but Nick was sure she wondered, and he felt like he’d look stupid if he told the truth now. In the deal announcement press release, his publisher had described him as an “undiscovered, obscure British talent.” Being British added to the appeal. Nick was paranoid that they’d drop him if he came clean. And more than that, he wouldn’t take any chances on word of his new lot in life somehow getting back to his father. Because once he found out, nothing would keep him from finding Nick and sucking all the good out of his situation because that was what he always did.