A/N: Hi there! This story is a complete alternative universe. Thank you Stine for letting me rant to you about it and Mary for all the support and beta-ing. I love you guys! I'm not sure if I will continue writing more (I would love to, but I'm bad at producing words), in the mean time enjoy this little one-shot.
New York City was a place people usually romanticized. They liked to walk around Central Park and describe how their lungs filled with pure air. They created metaphors about the people rushing down the streets on Wall Street and relativity. They admired the Upper East Side women that strutted the streets as if they were in Dior's catwalk. Everybody was enchanted with the beauty of the Big Apple.
Except Kurt McVeigh. He knew that walking through Central Park, he was breathing the same air that he had breathed when crossing through the streets. His lungs were inhaling the car dioxide combined with a thousand particles of disgusting elements he would rather not know about. Beneath those straight-faced people that rushed through the financial district was a thick layer of stress, depression and anxiety. Those women were objectified and seen as soulless, high-maintenance, annoying dolls, who were probably in an unhappy marriage.
He didn't hate the place, he hated the idea people created of it. If they observed it through his eyes they would see a mundane place and above that the thousands of interesting persons that lived in that atmosphere. He loved observing people. He liked to imagine their life story and what was going on inside their heads.
Whenever he had to spend time in the city, he tried focusing on the diversity of stories and humans. It wasn't easy because every time he was in town, it was business-related. He especially disliked that every time he had to visit his literary agent. He had to rush out of the subway station and walk to 57th and 8th, where he would find the publishing house headquarters.
He hurried through the busy Manhattan streets and reached the tall building. He was sat in a modern minimalistic lobby while a gorgeous dark-skinned girl attended phone-calls. He opened his mid-sized black moleskin, took a pen from his pocket and jotted down some words.
"Mr. McVeigh?" The girl called, breaking his attention. He raised his head. "Mr. Agos is ready to see you. This way."
He followed observing the infinite white walls, he felt he could lose dimension at any time if it weren't for the occasional modern piece of art or a window. The girl stopped in front of a glass cubicle and opened the door. Cary Agos stood up as he entered.
"Kurt, so good to see you!" Kurt shook his hand with little enthusiasm.
"Mr. Agos." He nodded his head lightly as he sat in a tiny lavender see-through chair, placing his notebook awkwardly on his lap. Kurt pondered if the latest trend was to make everybody as uncomfortable as possible.
"Please, it's Cary. How are you enjoying New York?" Kurt glared outside the window. Cary remained standing.
"Fine." Kurt shrugged.
"Great." Cary gave him a much rehearsed smile, causing him to feel distressed more than the chair he was on. "You found your accommodation appropriate?" He sat down and crossed his hands over his crystal desk.
"Yeah, it's great, thank you". They had chosen a hotel in the Upper West Side, he was thankful that they hadn't chosen one in the middle of Time's Square or any other popular tourist site.
"I'm glad. As you know, tomorrow is the convention. You will sign books from 2 pm to 4:30 pm. Statistically the convention should peak around that time. We've been promoting the event for the past two weeks, an attendance of two thousand people is expected. You will only sign the first three hundred"
"Ok." He nodded. He had never wanted to have book signings and publicity but it had happened and he wasn't about to complain. He had done it for the past eight years, he had adapted. Thankfully he didn't have a very recognizable face, so he had managed to keep a quiet lifestyle. Outside from these events.
"Are you wearing that?" Cary stared at his plaid shirt and jeans.
"I'll probably change underpants," he joked, but received a deadpan expression. "I have a blue shirt and dark jeans"
"Good" Cary nodded. He shifted some papers, finding courage to say the words. "Now, about your new manuscript…" Kurt studied Cary's expressions.
"You didn't like it." He had known, it wasn't his usual troop. It dealt with philosophical thoughts and it bordered on Socrates, rather than the adventures he was well known for.
"It's not that. I enjoyed it. It's… deep, but your audience, your fans… They want Ernest Balfour saving the day. They want action, thrill, suspense!" Cary moved his hands eagerly, but his eyes revealed worry.
"It is about Ernest Balfour," he muttered.
"Yes, but he's going through some middle-age crisis. He's asking questions about his existence and nature… it's unnecessary." Kurt crossed his hands on top of his journal, and gave a half-smile.
"It's necessary because it makes him what he is."
"But the public doesn't need to know that. They know his essence and that is enough. You should really consider the White House mystery we pitched." Kurt grabbed his notebook tightly, gave a pat to his leg and stood up.
"Don't take this the wrong way." Cary jolted up, his anguish intensifying.
"No, I understand." It was business after all. "I'm just drained, I don't feel I can continue writing Ernest". Cary put his head down and looked at the floor sympathetically.
"It's writer's block. Everybody goes through it. After the convention, take some days to explore the city. It'll be great inspiration." Kurt smirked.
"Yeah, I'm not sure about that." He gave the younger man his back and headed towards the door.
"Just try. We believe in you." Kurt placed his hand on the handle of the door.
"Not enough to publish that book." He pointed to the perfectly piled pages that lied on Cary's desk.
"We believe you can do much better." Kurt stopped himself from shuddering at how hypocritical Cary sounded.
"You're right, I can," he mumbled before walking out of the door.
The next day he woke up and decided he should write some ideas for his next book. He sat at the table the hotel room offered and opened his computer. He stared at the blank page, his mind distracted; his meeting with his publisher on repeat. He shut the laptop close and searched the room for his notes. Reading the random descriptions usually gave him some inspiration. He read the small description he had made of the receptionist, it was plain. The girl had been pretty but he hadn't felt a sense of inspiration taking him over.
It was 7am when he left his hotel room in search for breakfast and a cup of coffee. He took the train downtown, some stations before the new World Trade Center. It marveled him that people could work on a daily basis in a site so tragic.
On the subway ride, he had been able to encounter two wonderful strangers, an old man that read the newspaper and a violinist he heard playing as he left the station.
He searched for the least commercial coffee shop, ordered a cappuccino and a blueberry muffin and sat down. He glanced around, all business people, so he settled on writing about the cashier. He became instantly distracted when a lady in a brown coat entered and stood in line. His mind drowned him with words. He stared longer than usual and she caught a glimpse of him.
He took his pen and began describing her, enthralled by her appearance. She made it to the cashier and he focused on the way her lips parted as she spoke, on the way her hands clutched her cell phone and purse. Her hands delicately reaching for her wallet. His eyes never leaving her figure and his hand never leaving the page.
He watched as he received her coffee and gave a polite smile to the barista. He must have been staring because she made eye contact with him and he had to shut his jaw and look down. He continued scribbling words, hoping the woman had left. Instead a shadow appeared in front of him. He looked up. It was her.
"I think I've seen your face before." He widened his eyes. "You are that writer, Mc-something." He sighed, relieved she had approached him about his work and not the little exercise he had been conducting.
"McVeigh." She nodded. She had a good memory for faces, she had read one of his books three years ago and on the back cover they had included a picture of him and a small biography.
"Yeah, the one who created the American James Bond." He squirmed his eyes. The press had made that comparison once, but it haunted him everywhere he went.
"I like to think of him as the American Hercule Poirot." She smiled politely and sat in the chair in front of him. He straightened his back.
"Of course." She looked at his hair and lowered her gaze to his hands, still resting on the small journal.
"You know staring isn't polite." So she had noticed. He tried analyzing her, her hand was gripping her coffee and she was making direct eye contact. There was a spark in her eye, he was up for the game.
"Nor is it sitting at a stranger's table." She curled her lips. He couldn't hold back his smirk.
"Oh, were you expecting someone?" She faked surprise and put her hand on the handle of her purse.
"No, no, go ahead." He shifted his empty cup of coffee and moved his writing behind it. She raised an eyebrow at him.
"Are you writing your next bestseller?" He shook his head.
"No." He lowered his gaze and tapped his fingers on top of the table.
"So what were you writing?" she asked with a playful tone. He gave her an embarrassed look, hoping she would drop the subject. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to pry."
She gripped her purse and coffee. Kurt needed to explain himself, he didn't want to offend her.
"You." His voice deep and hoarse. He went back to arranging the objects on the table.
"Excuse me?" She searched for his eyes, he slowly met them.
"I was writing about you," he confessed.
"Oh." Nervousness showing in her tone.
"It's not what you think. It's a writing exercise. I describe random people and places." He took his moleskin and flipped through some of the pages, she noticed that among some of the pages there were small sketches.
"Oh. May I see?" He considered but ended sliding his notebook over the table looking at her apologetically. He was going to receive a slap when she was done reading it.
It hadn't happened before, that he had admitted he was writing about random people. He had been approached and asked why he was staring at a stranger, but he had never been honest with a stranger. She smiled and began absorbing the words. He lowered his gaze, trying to escape this reality through the residues of his mug.
The room has been overtaken by her strong presence. Men turn their heads as she makes her way to the counter, a dazzling entity. Perfectly aligned shoulders are carried by black heels that tense her visible pale calves. Her skirt, which ends past her waist, accents a vision of an hourglass. There is a message in her clothes, well pressed and forbidding. She carries elegance and femininity, without forgetting to impose her vigor. She stands in line impatiently, looking at her phone. Another business woman consumed by the frantic city. Her façade falls for a second as she whispers her order, her red lips moving in a hypnotically pace. Who would be lucky enough to trace the lines of her long neck? Caress her impeccable blonde hair? Rattle it? Clearly, not a mortal.
She finished reading the paragraph and stared at him blankly.
"It's nothing really," he spoke lowly. His body tensioning, he regretted immediately allowing this woman to read what he had written about her.
"I'm sorry. Let me get you another coffee for bothering you." He began to stand up, noticing her cheeks had begun to turn red.
"No, it's… it's great." She gulped loudly, lost on what she should say. She had never been the subject to a writer's inspiration and she had definitely never been complimented in such a flattering manner. He was a complete stranger, but it seemed like he knew every detail about her.
"Is that a no to the coffee too?" She shook her head.
"I would love to but I have to get to work." If New York City had taught her anything is that she should be wary of unfamiliar faces. She grabbed her coffee and purse and stood up. He mirrored her actions, grabbing his notebook and jacket.
"Then let me order you one to go." He felt a pang of guilt, maybe his writing had been too intruding. He hadn't meant to make her uncomfortable and now every possibility of getting to know her better had vanished.
"No, it's alright. I work two blocks away from here." She stared at his remorseful expression. She knew appearances could be deceiving, but he didn't look harmful. "You could walk with me."
She decided she would try to figure him out before jumping to conclusions.
"Sure." He put on his jacket and opened the door for her. The cold air hit them as they walked out from the coffee shop. She began walking right and he followed, entranced by how her hair moved with the wind.
"So, is McVeigh your real name? Or is it just to make your character sound even more heroic?" She had made the connection. He smiled and looked at his shoes as they walked through the crowded sidewalk.
"I didn't want to keep it, but my publisher thought it worked. Something about it being polemic." She sipped her coffee, hiding a small chuckle.
"I can imagine." They arrived at a street crossing, the red light on for the pedestrians. He stopped and looked at her, she turned her head both ways, made sure there were no cars coming and crossed the street. He looked at the no-crossing sign again before tagging along.
"Are you from New York?" she asked politely. He was wearing jeans, cowboy boots, a plaid shirt and a worn-out suede jacket. It certainly contrasted with the business attire others wore. Besides, he had trouble avoiding not crashing into other people that rushed by.
"I think it's obvious." She eyed him quickly.
"Montana?" He raised an eyebrow. He would have to add to the description that the woman thought highly of her wit and wasted no time in using it.
"Illinois." She was tempted to ask if he lived in Chicago, but he acted nothing like a city man. He probably lived in the country.
"What brought you to New York?" He didn't enjoy small talk, but he found it was an easier task with her.
"A book signing."
"It must be great to have all those crazed fans. A real ego boost." He sighed, the mere thought of what he would be doing this afternoon frustrated him. He appreciated that people enjoyed his writing, but he didn't like speaking about it. He also couldn't stand all the pictures people took of him and the selfies, he hated those in particular.
"I'm surprised you've actually read one of my books." She slowed down and swung her head to glance at him.
"Why?"
"You don't look the type." He put his hands in his pockets. She beamed at him and quickened her pace again.
"And what type of literature do you think I read? Romance novels?" her tone sarcastic. She was enjoying toying with him.
"No, you look like you enjoy classics. Fitzgerald, Hemingway, even Shakespeare." He eyed her, analytically. She pressed her lips together, uncomfortable that this man could read her so well.
"And you don't look like a man who could write an action hero." He rolled his eyes.
"He's not an action hero, he's a detective." He stopped and explained to her. She crossed her arms and sized him up.
"That passage, when he saves the 20-something-year-old girl by kicking more than six armed men? I felt I was watching a Vin Diesel movie rather than reading an Agatha-Christie-type of mystery." He tilted his head and squinted his eyes.
"Have I offended you?" she inquired amiably.
"No, it's fine. I don't enjoy Ernest as much either." He shrugged and started walking again.
"You must enjoy the royalties. All those copies you've sold at fifteen dollars per book…" They reached another stop light. This time the light was green.
"I could sign yours. Sell it on eBay and gain twice the fifteen dollars." She chuckled openly, her radiant teeth showing. He was captivated.
"I feel your little description of me would be far more valuable." She lowered her pace and stood in front of some revolving doors. She then moved to face him. His hands were still in his pockets and he had half a smirk planted on his face. She found it charming. "Well, this is me."
"Big corporation." He glanced at the building. It had to be more than 30 stories high and he could see a big sign on top, probably stating the company's name.
"CEO," she stated proudly as she too glimpsed at the skyscraper. He had guessed the business woman part right.
"It was nice meeting you, Mr. McVeigh." She extended her hand, he took it and she shook it firmly. He felt and impulse to trace his thumb over the soft skin of her fingers, but he stopped himself.
"It was nice meeting you, Misses-"
"Miss Lockhart," she corrected him. He could finally assign a name to the woman. She withdrew her hand from his and walked through the building's door. He stood there, in awe, words escaping him.