I nod. "Who doesn't? The guy is a genius. Detective Bryce Hernandez from his Bloodlust series is the reason I became a cop."
"No kidding? I love the gruesome way he describes those murder scenes…" She shudders a little. "Unbelievable."
"I can definitely appreciate his ability to make you feel like you're right there in the story, but it's the character development that I've always loved the most. He has the most ruthless villains. Tragic, unapologetic heroes. It's the best."
"I love the tragic heroes. Fuck all that flowery bullshit other people write. That’s not life. His stuff is raw and gritty and just…" She gets lost in her words and bites her lip, her eyes locking with mine.
I laugh, knowing exactly what she's talking about and appreciating the commonality. "Let me tell ya… there's only one other big-time author anywhere close to here, and his name is Nicholas Sparks." Her face wrinkles with disdain, and I grin. "So I know all about that flowery crap. No fucking thanks."
She laughs, and fuck, she's adorable when she does. "Have you ever met him?"
"No, never have. Actually, that’s the thing. No one’s really met him. The stories around Asheville about EA Mercer are abundant, though they’re all just hearsay. No one’s ever really seen the guy…kind of a hermit, I guess." I laugh. "So wait, you said you're here for writing research… tell me you're not trying to meet the guy. I'm not trying to discourage you here, but he's literally a ghost. I mean, he has an assistant who does everything for him, right down to his grocery shopping, and from what I’ve heard, all she does is bitch about what an asshole her boss is."
"Oh, well"—she arches a brow—"while he is a literary genius, he absolutely has his moments where he's a big-time dick." She shakes her head. "He means well, I think, just has a very short fuse."
My body stiffens and eyebrows rise. "No way. You're fucking with me, right?"
"What? That he's a huge dick? No." She takes a sip of her coffee, smiling around the cup rim.
"No, the fact that you actually know he's a huge dick. How? Spill."
Her eyes drop to her lap, and she fidgets with a loose piece of thread on her shirt. "I, uh… I'm doing this book with him. I mean, it's not really a—it's more of a writing project. So anyway, he had me come up to his cabin to work on it with him, and well, he can just be an asshole sometimes." She glances at me, a nervous grin inching across her lips. "So, yeah…"
I glance from side to side and twist around to scan behind me before looking back at her. "Am I on Punk’d right now or something? You said you're still in school, didn't you? And he's EA Mercer. Did you win some kind of author lottery?"
Her cheeks flush, and she shrugs. "Kinda. I won some contest he held to find a co-author." An uneasy laugh bubbles from her throat, then she swallows hard. "Crazy, huh?"
I put my head in my hands and run my fingers through my hair. "Consider my mind blown. Very impressive. You must be one hell of a writer."
Now her cheeks are full-on red. "I'm just… sick in the head enough for him, maybe?"
"Well, the cat is out of the bag. I'm going to go ahead and apologize ahead of time if this ever dominates future conversations. Just give me a swift kick to the shin or something to reset me."
"It's fine. And I'm not kicking you."
"So I'm going to assume, by that response, that there will, in fact, be future conversations?" I smile, though I can feel my face flush with nervousness. I've never been confused for being smooth. That's just not who I am.
"I mean"—she swallows—"sure."
My gaze fixes on the tiled wall. I’m unable to read this woman whatsoever. I finish my coffee, and without turning to her, I say, "I like the enthusiasm." I smile, the cup still held to my lips.
"I'm not one to get overly excited about anything… but I do like talking to you, and I don't like most people, so there's that."
"Oh yeah, you either?" I say, setting the cup down, a devious smile stretching across my face.
"Nope. People are assholes."
"I spent three years in the army. Two of them were spent fighting against the most vile pieces of shit this world has to offer." My eyes drift to hers. "It takes the optimism right out of a man. When it comes to humanity at least. I guess that's why I became a cop." I lean in just a bit, smile, and shrug. "Well, that and EA Mercer."
"Thank you for your service," she blurts then inhales an uneven breath. I get the feeling she's never exactly certain when to say something or how to say it.
That comment though—I can't help but internally cringe. Sometimes I feel that by talking about my service, I'm invoking some sort of appreciation. I'm not. I'm just talking about me, and I know she likely means her thank you, but I still can't help but feel it's most often said because it's the only thing to say.