The Seventh Book Read online

The Seventh Book

  By

  A Calliope

  Copyright 2013 Calliope

  License Notes

  This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents and dialogues in this book are of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is completely coincidental.

  Epigraph

  Mia made me do it…

  Table of Contents

  A Blank Page And A Bottle Of Jack

  Fame And Riches For The Bargain Price Of A Soul

  Timekeeper Therapy

  Victim Of Romantic Circumstance

  Obligatory Contracts And Contractual Obligations

  How To Lose A Guy For One Night

  The Awkwardness Of Morning Afters

  Falling In Love: Not Just For Fictional Characters Anymore

  Denial: A River In Egypt, Among Other Things

  It’s Not You… No, Really…

  The Second Stage Of Grief: Bringing Down The House

  Over And Under And ‘Round And ‘Round We Go

  Too Late

  I’ll Be Seeing You

  About A Calliope

  A Blank Page And A Bottle Of Jack

  The first swallow burned like hellbroth going down, but the next one was easier. Pretty soon it was just pleasant warmth in her belly. Anna regarded the half empty bottle, then the tumbler in her other hand and decided to save herself some time. She ditched the glass.

  Taking a swig straight from the bottle she returned to her little nook and dropped her behind into her ergonomic chair. The momentum sent her rolling and spinning across the hardwood floor and she leaned her head back to watch the ceiling pass by at the speed of light.

  Thunk.

  “Ow.” Who put that bookcase there? Oh, that would be her. With another swig Anna stood from the chair. The room was still spinning. She reached for the chair to pull it back. Missed. Repeatedly. Tired of watching her hand wave through the air, she dragged her feet back to her desk and bowed to put her face level with her nemesis.

  “I will get you, my lovely,” Anna said to the blank page on her computer screen, attempting another drink. It spilled over her chin and she glared at the bottle. “And all your little blank friends too.”

  A shrill chirp from the outside had her turning to face the window and its lovely vista of trees. “What are you staring at?”

  Someone knocked on the door.

  Pointing the bottle that way she said, “Hear that? It’s Bigfoot come to crunch on your birdy bones.”

  Cheep.

  “Shoo!”

  If birds could flip a bird, that one did. Bastard.

  The annoying someone knocked again.

  Too drunk to bother wondering how anyone managed to find her cottage, Anna shuffled her feet to open the door.

  The blurry man on the other side smiled. And then the smile turned sour. “You must be Anna Nym.”

  “Depends on who’s askin’ n’ what they’re sellin’.” She leaned to the side to look behind him at the beautiful vista of more trees. No car. She frowned. “How did you get here?”

  “I have this magical device that can summon conveyance at any time. It’s called a phone. May I come in?”

  “Ha.” She closed the door in his face and leaned back against it to take another drink.

  Knock. Knock. Knock.

  My, that was a pointed knock. If she didn’t know better she’d say he was annoyed. Or the Grim Reaper.

  Uh-oh. Anna opened the door an inch and narrowed her eye at him. Just as he opened his mouth to say something she asked, “Are you the Grim Reaper?”

  “No,” he said on a sigh.

  “IRS? I pay my taxes, you know.”

  “No.”

  She thought about it a second. “MIB?”

  “How drunk are you right now?”

  Anna fumbled switching her hold on the door and the bottle, and then stuck her arm with the bottle out. “About this drunk.”

  The man landed a solid face-palm and muttered something under his breath.

  “I didn’t understand any of that but ‘m pretty sure it wasn’ nice.” She tried to pull her arm back inside but the bottle wouldn’t fit through the door opening. Regarding her feet, she moved them out of the way and opened the door a little more. Success.

  “Okay,” the man said. “I am—”

  Anna closed the door again.

  KNOCKKNOCKKNOCKKNOCK!

  “All right, all right. Geeez!” She opened the door fully. “Look, I pay my taxes, I am not an illegal. I don’t have a marijuana grove in my basement and I didn’t order a pizza. Not that you have any. Now what do you want? And why do you have a suitcase?”

  “As I was trying to tell you before, my name is Alex Smiles. I am a fiction consultant. I was hired by your agent. She said you’re having trouble writing your latest book.”

  Anna huffed. “I told her I do not need a male escort for inspiration!”

  “Then it’s a good thing she didn’t call one. May I come in?”

  “What’s my agent’s name?”

  “Kristina MacCallan.”

  “Really? What happened to Josie?”

  “You fired her last year because she was stealing from you.”

  “Oohhh, right.”

  “So?”

  “Huh? Oh!” She stepped back from the door to let him in.

  “Thank you,” he muttered.

  “Whatever.” She raised the bottle for a drink, only to have it ripped from her hands. “Hey!” She chased him across the living room to the kitchen, nowhere near fast enough to stop him from dumping half a bottle of perfectly good Jack Daniels down the drain. “Damn it, that was my last one.” Her only one, actually. Anna didn’t really drink.

  “Good. Let’s go sit down, shall we?”

  “Listen, pal, I don’t care who you are, or who hired you, or for what. This is my house! And you don’t order me around. Or spill my booze.”

  “You’re talking to a coat hanger.”

  Anna squinted. Yep. Her stomach roiled and she slapped a hand over her mouth. “I think I’m gonna…” Too late!

  Strong hands spun her around and pushed her head down over the trash bin. Anna heaved and threw up, then repeated the process again until she felt completely empty. The bin disappeared, and then the guy was dragging her upstairs. He opened a couple of doors before he found the bathroom. Anna heard the water start in the shower, and then the bastard dumped her into the tub, right underneath the icy cold spray.

  “Clean yourself up. I’ll wait downstairs.”

  Fame And Riches For The Bargain Price Of A Soul

  By the time Anna made it out of the shower, she was half frozen but seeing straight again. She stripped out of her sopping clothes and dried off, brushed her teeth and put on sweat pants and a thick, long sleeved tee. Her hands were numb but she managed to pull the blanket off her bed and wrap it around her.

  Grouchy and miserable, she went back downstairs to confront Mr. Smiles. He wasn’t very smiley when she found him.

  “You know, this isn’t what I expected when you opened the door.”

  She glared at him. “Ditto.”

  “I mean, as drunk as you are, I guess I just figured everything here would be the same kind of mess.”

  Anna looked around at her beautiful pine wood furniture, gleaming hardwood floors and window treatments, the ornate stone fireplace and the built-in bookcases on either side. “Sorry to disappoint.”

  “Here, this’ll make you feel better.” He handed her a tall glass of water and three aspirin pills.

  Anna didn’t hesitate. She drained the glass washing down the pills and was still thirsty by the time she came up for air.

>   “I put on a pot of coffee.”

  “I don’t have coffee.”

  “You do now.”

  Anna groaned and sat on the couch. “So you’re… what are you again?”

  “A fiction consultant.”

  “For romance authors?”

  “For any authors. But mostly romance, yes.”

  “Uh-huh.” She tried to curb the attitude, she really did, but it was tough trying to take him seriously when she kept seeing Male Escort flashing in her brain.

  “I know what you’re thinking and it’s not like that. “

  “Uh-huh.”

  He made a face. “Think of me as a temporary personal assistant with the know-how of novel writing. Mostly authors hire me when life gets overwhelming for them and interferes with writing. I run errands, handle PR, I keep the social media wheels turning and the actual media occupied. I take care of the business side so they can focus on the creative side of writing.”

  Anna looked out the window. There was nothing but forest and mountains in every direction. The nearest town was ten miles away and she only ever went there to pick up her mail and groceries. She was as isolated here as a person could get and she paid Kristina good money to take care of the social media side of things. There was absolutely nothing she had to do except write. “Yes, you’re definitely in the right place at the right time. I don’t know what I would have done without you.”

  “Obviously that’s not all I do.”

  Male Escort.

  Anna bit the inside of her cheek.

  The consultant cleared his throat and shifted his weight in his seat. From one model pose into the next and not a photographer in sight. His life had to be a series of passed-up opportunities. “Kristina tells me you’re having trouble with your latest in the series. Book five, was it?”

  “Seven.” And it should have ended with five. The story was done, the main characters squared away. She’d been proud of that release and she hadn’t been the only one. The book had been number one on the NY Times Best Sellers list for three months running.

  So naturally her publisher had been unwilling to let it go to waste. He’d offered her a ten book contract and a hefty advance with a tiny caveat that half of them had to continue this series. Which was finished. Her agent at the time had been all for it; had urged Anna to sign on the damn dotted line. She’d be set for the rest of her life.

  Drunk on her own success, and with her new woodland cottage under construction, Anna had signed. She’d managed one more book without screwing up the previous five, fired her agent, moved out here, and now she faced the daunting task of writing four more. She couldn’t bring herself to do it.

  “Right, seven. So talk to me about what’s going on.”

  “Nothing. Isn’t that why you’re here in the first place?”

  “Why? What’s holding you back?”

  Anna rubbed her forehead. “Listen, I appreciate the effort but this whole therapy thing just isn’t my thing. Sorry you had to make the trip for nothing. I will reimburse you for travel expenses but I would really like you to leave now.”

  “No can do. My contract is binding for two weeks. All expenses paid.” He leaned forward. “This isn’t therapy, Anna. I’m here for you, not the other way around. Whatever makes your life easier, that’s what I’m here to do. Think of me as an asset, not a burden.”

  She remained unconvinced.

  “Come on, what have you got to lose?”

  Anna blew out a frustrated breath. “Fine. Whatever. It’s not gonna do any good, but if you wanna kick up your heels here for a couple of weeks, be my guest. Just so you know I have the town sheriff on speed dial and a shotgun in the closet.”

  “Good. I’ll sleep easier. This is bear country, you know.”

  She grinned. “Are you scared?”

  “A thriller writer three years ago made me go swim with the sharks with him. I’m not scared of anything anymore.”

  Timekeeper Therapy

  Thirteenth century CE, some wisecracking yahoo in the Old World created a mechanical clock to tell time. It was a breakthrough that changed the face of the work week. No longer were people dependent on the sun to tell them when to sleep and when to wake up. Now they could designate a set amount of hours for each activity and make their bosses and priests happy.

  For centuries thereafter, there was a ticking clock of some sort in every house that could afford it. Later in every room of every house. And then on every wrist of every occupant of every room of every house. The world filled with the noise of tick-tock-tick-tock and the people rejoiced.

  Second half of the twentieth century CE, another yahoo somewhere else invented a digital clock that did not tick, making it possible for people to not only tell time, but do it without disrupting their work flow. Their bosses and coworkers were overjoyed. Sentimental morons continued to buy ticking clocks.

  Twenty-first century CE. Sentimental moron Anna Nym bought a ticking clock. Later that same century, she was coming to regret it.

  Alex Smiles was a man of his word. He did not leave. He set up the guest room all by himself, cooked dinner called a bunch of people from his own phone, sent several emails from his own computer, and went to bed without ever getting in Anna’s way.

  He’d remarked on the speed of her internet connection. She’d scoffed. As if she would have anything other than her own dedicated high speed line. She had top of the line up- and download speeds, which she tested regularly just to make sure she got her money’s worth. She could stream an HD movie without it glitching a single time. Anna might be living in the middle of nowhere but that didn’t mean she had to join the Caveman Tribe.

  Which he found out when he discovered the ultra modern self-flushing toilet and the Jacuzzi tub in his room. To say nothing of the radiant heating in the floors and the state-of-the-art appliances in the kitchen.

  Anna was not unduly proud of her house. She was totally self-sufficient here, with water running through a filtration system from an underground stream to her faucets, and the solar panels on the roof coupled with several mini wind turbines inconspicuously placed where they wouldn’t be an eye sore. She’d built this house to survive a zombie apocalypse if need be.

  But right now she had one big problem inside it. A mail ordered escort-slash-consultant who refused to take no for an answer.

  Tick-tock-tick-tock…

  They were sitting in the living room. Smiley expected her to think about what was messing up her flow so she could get over it. She hadn’t answered him yet.

  He huffed, checked his watch and started tapping his foot.

  And tick-tock-tick-tock…

  Smiley stood and paced to the window, then back across the house to the other window. There was nothing for him to see at either one. “You know, I think I know what your problem is.”

  She almost laughed. “Really?”

  “Yeah. You’re holed up here, middle of nowhere, all by yourself. No wonder you can’t write. There is nothing here to write about.”

  “Is that so?”

  “I think you should move. Get back into the real world. You’ll get inspired like that.” He snapped his fingers to demonstrate.

  Anna rolled her eyes. “The real world? And just what do you imagine that to be?”

  Smiley gestured at something outside. “Towns. Cities. People. Everything out there. You know, the world. The real, honest to God, real world. Instead of what’s inside your head. That’s it. You’ve written yourself into your head and you can’t find your way out again.”

  “So, according to you, the real world is out there.”

  “Yes, and by coming here, you intentionally cut yourself off from it.”

  “So this is not the real world.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Then, according to you, I don’t live in the real world.”

  “I just said that.”

  “I know. But that means that this house is imaginary. And everything inside it is a product o
f my imagination, including you and me.”

  “No, I mean—”

  “Now hold on, you just said the real world is out there.”

  “Right, but I—”

  “So nothing in here is real, which means I am not real, and therefore whatever I do or don’t do doesn’t matter because it’s not real. I think, therefore I don’t exist, which means my location is a moot point in terms of inspiration because none of it is real anyway.”

  “Are you trying to convince me, or yourself?” he asked dryly.

  “I am simply following your logic.”

  “You’re trying to get inside my head?”

  She grinned. “I already am. You’re not real, remember? You’re in my world now which makes you my fictional character.”

  He rolled his eyes. “You’re avoiding the issue.”

  “Nope, you are. You’re the consultant, therefore the mover of the plot. The plot isn’t moving, therefore you’re not moving it. Hence, we stand still.” She crossed her arms and raised a taunting eyebrow. “I could do this all day.”

  Smiley considered her for a moment, then returned to his seat opposite her. He took a cookie from the plate between them but didn’t eat it. “You know, I’ve met a lot of writers like you.”

  Anna snorted. “I doubt that.”

  “Tell you what. Let’s play a game. If you’re a fictional character, then you have a back story. I’m going to tell you what it is and if I’m right, you tell me why you’re not writing the seventh book.”

  “And if you’re wrong?”

  “I’m not.”

  She shrugged. “Fine, you go first.”

  “Only one of your parents got a college education. You grew up in a home where the debate over education versus skill was a regular dinner table conversation. You were an above average student, bookish type, but nothing spectacular. Introvert, right? Didn’t join clubs, didn’t go to the prom, focused on your studies in college and finished with some artsy degree, like History or English Lit. You graduated and got a minimum wage clerical job you hated, which pushed you into writing your first novel. You quit the job the moment you got published and never looked back. You’ve had…what, two boyfriends in your life? And both of them left because you were too busy in your fantasy world to realize there was another person in the room so you decided books would have to be enough and stopped trying all together. Then you moved out here because if you’re out of reach you have an excuse for not dating, which makes your life easier and keeps your family off your back. How’d I do?”