Chapter One- Bread and Butter
Gently, I nodded my head once to him in thanks and rushed out the door. He hadn't asked for my autograph or a photo yet, and I was hoping to catch a break. Turns out, I got lucky. His beeper went off, and suddenly, I wasn't so sure that he would have the time to ask for one. Instead, he apologized briefly and ran off in the direction of the 12th Precinct. In one guess, I managed to figure out he was a cop. Silently, I started off for my loft, which was the opposite direction but in the same jurisdiction. When I reached my building, platforms killing me all the way, I was glad to find that the doorman hadn't seen any of my favorite Deep Space Cowboys lately. I took the elevator to the loft and relished in the silence of the building.
I popped the key in the lock and gave it a turn before I stepped into the place I called home. Silently, I set my bag down on the carpet and plopped down on the floor. I plunked out of the boots I had worn for my very early morning meeting with my editors and then dug through my bag until I pulled out the sketch pad I kept in there for emergencies. I then pulled the laptop out and a set of soft pencils. I set the whole works down on the table and then raced up the stairs to get out of the foolish emerald dress I was wearing and into some jeans and a t-shirt before I realized that, while it was not an ordinary day in many ways, it was suddenly extraordinary. It became this because I remembered something; my brother, Eli, was coming over, and he wanted to know what a double shot mocha with whipped cream tasted like. I had forty five minutes to get him the coffee. Silently, I slipped into my shoes again before I rushed down the hall to the elevator, which I took down to the ground floor. My wallet was stuffed hastily in my back pocket, but I'd left my coat upstairs in the middle of January. Quickly, I rushed outside and ran to the coffee shop. Breathless, I stepped inside to have my breath stolen again. My blue eyed mystery was sitting with a medium height blonde man at a table in the back corner. When the bell clanged, he raised his eyes, and I lowered mine. Quietly, I approached Sarah, the morning clerk, and asked for my usual. She quirked her head at me, and I breathlessly told her about my brother's fascination with my choice of coffee shops. I hadn't yet told him that it was more for the people than the coffee; I could get what I wanted just about anywhere.
As I turned to go, my blue eyed mystery stood up and headed toward me. I went to make a break for it, only to find that my shoe laces were untied. One armed pin-wheeled for balance, only to be caught and used to steady me.
"Thanks," I whispered, knowing who it was.
I shuffled off to the side and crouched down to tie my unruly shoe. "You know, everyone I've talked to says that you're so bold and forward, but you don't seem so... bold," he said softly.
"You shouldn't believe everything you hear; it's not a smart or a wise habit," I replied as I finished my knot. I picked the coffee up off the ground and headed for the door, only to hear him say "stop." What now? Can't I get through one day with only one embarrassing thing happening to me?
I felt a warm overcoat drop on my shoulders. "At least let me walk you home," he said.
I was utterly flabbergasted. Not only was my mystery man living up to the picture he'd painted in my head, he was talking to me, a lowly author with blue fringe and plain old straight black hair. My lip was split, I knew that much, and I had at least one good shiner to show for the previous night's activities.
"Hey, Flack, where you goin?" came a cry, and I turned to see the other man at the table looking at us curiously.
"I'm gonna walk my friend here home if it's all the same to you. Head back in and I'll make it up to you later," he replied softly, and then he opened the door. "You know, it's not a good idea to be running around New York in January without a coat."
"I know. I was caught off guard by a cosmic slap in the face, if you'll forgive the wording," I muttered.
"And what cosmic slap would that be?" he asked.
"My older brother's coming to visit and expected a cup of my favorite coffee on the counter waiting for him because I told him it would be there," I replied softly.
"Not to be a little forward, but is Midnight Rhymer your real name?" he asked.
"I wish. I'm just Amy. Amy Blaine," I said before I could stop myself.
"Granddaughter of Jacob Blaine? The founder of the largest shipping company in the nation?" he asked with a double take.
"The one and only," I mumbled.
"That has to suck," he smiled.
"You have no idea," I replied with a laugh.
"Forgive me for asking, but you've got one heck of a shiner and a split lip to boot. You get beat a lot?" he asked.
"Nope. I don't have a steady boyfriend, so there's really no one to abuse me," I smiled. "But, you refuse to give the wrong Deep Space Cowboy an autograph and bad shit goes down."
"So, you got in a fight with a guy... over an autograph? Don't like to give 'em out, or what?" he asked, and I could hear the sadness in his voice.
"Nah, it's not that. A Deep Space Cowboy is one of those people from the fabled tribe of Crazy Folks that absolutely love to show up at my door. The particular DSC that we happen to be discussing is also my own personal stalker. I'd love to hand him my autograph on the bottom of a restraining order, though," I said as we rounded the corner.
"Is he about five-eight with dark black hair down to his shoulders and big old coke bottle glasses?" he asked, and I looked up at him.
"How do you-"
"He's in front of your building, Ms. Blaine," he said.
"Amy," I said automatically, and my eyes turned to the doors of my building.
"I'm giving you one minute to pretend I'm not a cop," he told me.
"I knew it!" I said through my teeth.
I slipped out of his coat and handed it to him. He turned his head away, and I approached the dark haired man in front of my building. Jack, he had called himself. He approached me, holding out his hand. I clenched my fist at my side, but he didn't look at it. Instead, all he saw was me coming at him. To him, he probably thought. Instead, not caring if my blue eyed mystery cop was looking or not, I walked right up to him and threw the punch I had been waiting to throw. I watched as he staggered back, and then felt a pair of arms around me, guiding me away. Quickly, I spat at his feet and let myself be led to the building.
"I'm getting tired of that asshole," I muttered, knowing that it was my mystery cop.
"If you're Amy, I'm Don, ok?" he said.
A name to go with the face. "Ok," I said softly.
He handed me a small business card. "Don't hesitate to call that number, and I don't mean just if he comes back," he said, and I could hear the smile in his voice. "You throw one hell of a punch for a girl."
"I was born and raised in Hell's Kitchen, what do you expect?" I said with a smile of my own.
We stepped into the elevator, and I watched him fold his coat over his arm. His every movement was suddenly being etched in my brain, and if I wanted to I could list a thousand different adjectives describing it, but the one at the top of every list would have been graceful. It was what I needed for the final part of my book, and he must have noticed something because he was looking at me.
"What's up? You look like the cat that got the canary," Don asked me.
"I am! And you just became my savior," I answered, and I couldn't contain my excitement. I did something that the normal me would have done a while ago; I placed a chaste kiss on his cheek. But, the old me would have been ashamed of what happened next. I blushed bright red and apologized quickly. It was so quick that I started stumbling over words like you wouldn't believe.
"Slow down," he said as the elevator door opened and we stepped out. "Who says that I didn't enjoy that?"
"I don't see why you would," I muttered. "It's not like Paris Hilton kissed you."
"No. You're much more beautiful than she is," he replied.
I snorted. "Yeah, right. I'm just an ordinary writer from Hell's Kitchen who got lucky. I'm not beautiful or really all that talented," I tried to explain.
"Ordinary writer?" he asked darkly. "Then why are they calling you the Stephen King of mystery?"
"Because they're oddballs who like the idea of a woman saving lives," I growled. I didn't like being called talented by readers. That was probably why I didn't read my reviews.
"Why do this if you're not talented?" he asked me softly.
To that question, I had a complicated and un-understandable answer. "You wouldn't get it."
"A writer thing?" he asked.
"And a me thing," I answered.
"Try me," he prompted.
"When... when you come from money, and you've got a personality like mine, you want out from under that. You want something that you can call your own, but you don't like being called talented or special, because if you wanted that, you could use your real name. When you write, you don't do it because you want to. You don't do it to get famous, or at least the good ones don't. You do it because you have to. It becomes a drug after a while, and, when you've finally got something done, you know damned well that there are a small amount of people out there that want to see that, despite the fact that you're addicted, you're being productive. So you go find an editor and a publisher, get the work out there for the people that matter most, and then sometimes other people pick the book up. They tell their friends who go out, buy it, and read it, and then they tell their friends. Then, you have a fan base to publish for. It doesn't make you special or talented. Being an established novelist makes you luckier than the sixteen thousand other kids and adults out there that are trying to write for a living," I explained softly as we started toward my loft. "I put myself through college on those first four books; didn't use an ounce of my parents trust."
The conversation lapsed into silence as we neared the apartment, but I heard the click of his holster as we approached and saw a figure at the door. "ELI!" I cried, and he stood up and turned. I ran to him and wrapped my arms around him. "Eli, this is Don. Don, this is my brother Eli."
"My pleasure, I'm sure, but... what are you doing here?" Eli asked, and I could see him appraising Don.
I nudged him in the ribs before I handed him the coffee. "I ran out to get that for your pushy arse and left without my coat. He was kind enough to walk me home in his."
Quietly, he leaned over and rested his head on my shoulder. "Is he like you or like me?"
"I'm assuming he's like me, Eli. Don't get your hopes up," I muttered.
Eli turned to me and pouted. I shoved him inside and offered an apologetic smile. "See you tomorrow?" Don asked.
"Or call you tonight," I said softly. "After all, my favorite stalker can't take a hint. I might need a police officer to swoop in and save the day."
He smiled and turned to go, but, for some reason, he stopped and turned. And, I couldn't take that smile on his face anymore. I wanted to wipe it off there so fast, and that was exactly what I found myself doing. I bolted at him and watched as he instinctively opened his arms. I fit into them exactly, and I felt my lips press against his. At first he didn't respond, and I started to get the feeling that maybe this wasn't such a good idea; I began to pull away. But, his hand was suddenly firmly in my hair, pushing my lips closer. I could hear Eli laughing, and my hands stared to work their way along Don's waistline to his gun, but he promptly caught me. Before he broke the kiss and moved my hand, I slipped my own business card into his pocket.
"I really don't want to arrest you after that," he smiled, and I was amazed that he'd enjoyed it so much.
"You know, I gave you my last name, but you never gave me yours," I murmured.
"Flack. Don Flack," he said with his best impression of James Bond.
"Ok Double O One Seventh," I giggled, and we parted carefully, him looking behind him to make sure I didn't decide to jump him again. I slipped into my apartment and leaned back against the wall.
"What the hell was that? I thought you said he was your mystery man and that you'd never spoken before today?" Eli asked skeptically as I locked the door.
"Oh, come on, aren't I allowed to be spontaneous once in a while?" I asked.
"Hey, don't start with that again. That was not spontaneous- that was spontaneous combustion right there. He was melting you on the spot, my sister," Eli laughed.
"Do you want dinner or do I have to bash your head in with the frying pan first?" I asked darkly, starting toward the kitchen.
"It's a shame that he's not gay. He's quite a piece of work. I'd love to get my hands on him for a model," Eli muttered, rubbing his hands together.
"I'll get you a sketch," I laughed.
"You'd better. That man was born to be on canvas."
This update was free. I'm holding the next one hostage until I get a review. *Points Flack's gun at update* Gimme the review of the chapter gets it.
Bwah hahahahaha. I have schizophrenia, sorry.
