Chapter Text
Chapter 1
Picture a scene: Sun-soaked. Gleaming. The light cascades over everything it touches, making even the most ordinary objects dance and shimmer – hard edges dissolved into an unending, fluid movement between shadow and not-shadow. Illumination in kinesis.
Now picture a building: Modern. Sleek. A feat of architecture, perched right by the water’s edge – light refracting off the waves as they sigh in towards shore.
Picture: Somewhere in California. The sunshine state.
Within the house, a figure stirs in a darkened bedroom. The house, while beautiful, borders on being ostentatious, a statement of wealth – nouveau riche. See me, it says, I am important. See me, it says, I am worth something. But the figure stirring in the bed, last night still ringing in his head, does not feel worthy. This figure? He feels empty. Like a ghost in this huge house. A copy of a copy of himself. Transparent and barely there.
Unreal.
He groans as he sits up and rubs at his eyes, which are red and raw from crying and laughing and another night spent in absolute chaos. He runs slender fingers through his dark hair and looks down at his body. He is fully clothed: ripped jeans and a stained, dark t-shirt. He looks upwards now, his hair in his face and his eyes fall on the two figures sharing his bed, both completely naked in stark contrast. A man and a woman. Both incredibly beautiful. Both works of art. Both displaying the perfection of god’s work. But he doesn’t believe in god and if god does exist, he definitely wouldn’t be caught dead in this house with him. The longer his eyes sweep over their perfect faces, the more disgusted he becomes. At them. At himself.
He grimaces and removes himself from the bed. The large bedroom is trashed – broken glasses, overflowing ashtrays, various accoutrements that his eyes do not want to linger on. Unsteady on his feet and with a slamming headache, he leaves the bedroom and stumbles down the stairs into the wide, open expanse of the living room. The house is, presumably, a rental because anyone who knows him, truly knows him, would immediately understand that this is not to his own unique aesthetic taste.
The living room is, like the bedroom, completely trashed. He moves towards the mess of a coffee table in the centre of the room and picks through the detritus there, looking for a cigarette, something, anything to kill the shaking in his skull. His fingers run over the rims of empty glasses, abandoned articles of clothing (not his own), the soft crumble of white powder – remnants of cocaine because fucking everyone is on cocaine here. That’s the only reason why everyone is always up for a party. It’s also the only reason why he’s even able to move despite his crippling, crushing depression.
Finding no cigarettes, he sighs and his eyes track upwards towards the television. He frowns as he notices the slash of violent red paint running from the bottom of the white wall, right across the screen of the over-sized television, tapering off towards the ceiling like an open, gaping wound. He spots the tin of paint peeking out from behind the sofa, bleeding onto the carpet. The red stripe is a new addition to the bleached room. He has a vague recollection of standing on a chair to reach the highest part of the wall last night and laughing maniacally as he did it. Laughing as he destroyed something else. It seems… very on brand for him lately.
He forces himself to take a deep breath and his hands are shaking as they move up and grip his arms in the gesture of a hug, but it’s a hug that doesn’t offer any comfort. The sound of the waves outside the window draws his attention now and he looks so lost, so out of place as he drops his arms and slowly walks out onto the balcony to try and get his head together. He stops there, briefly, allowing the hot air to breathe into him, making him feel sick. He stands on the edge of the infinity pool, his back to the water.
His dark curls, dark clothes, dark state of mind create a juxtaposition between the luminescent sunshine and the white-washed walls of the house. He pauses, head turning and eyes sweeping out over the horizon, to the endless waves rolling towards shore and he feels an acute sense of disconnection. Like he’s drifting away, one tiny piece at a time. So slowly no one can or will notice until he’s completely gone.
Overhead, a seagull cries out as he pulls his t-shirt off. There’s red paint on his stomach – a handprint, possibly his own, possibly belonging to the man asleep in his bed. Too large, too masculine in nature to belong to the woman. He runs his fingers down his face as he discards his top and then he looks up to the sky and closes his eyes.
He falls backwards into the swimming pool, not bothering to hold his breath as his spine hits the water, the sharp smack of the impact ringing off the walls and reverberating into the late morning.
An abrasive camera flash pulled George out of his thoughts and the lonely figure floating in the swimming pool disappeared as he landed back in the present moment. He swallowed as reality impressed itself on his surroundings. He was no longer in California. Instead, he was in London. No sunlight, no heat – just the endless patter of rain against the windows. A sound that has been constant for the past three days.
“What were you thinking about just then?” asked a voice.
George shook his head, blinking as another camera flash went off directly in his face.
“Nothing important. Just daydreaming,” he murmured and the journalist smiled at him. He watched as she brought her pen up to her mouth, already thinking about her next question.
She was leaning against the windowsill, just behind the photographer who was studying something on the screen of his camera now. George took the brief pause between photos to stretch out his arms. It had been a long morning.
“You must be throwing around ideas for the new book already? I mean, a three-book deal. That has to put the pressure on a bit?” she continued, looking up at him now to gauge his reaction.
He offered her a polite smile, well-rehearsed:
“A little. I’m trying not to think about it.”
That was a complete and utter lie. Truthfully it was all he had thought about ever since he had signed the fucking contract. He had even started waking up in the middle of the night with his heart hammering in his chest at the thoughts of the blank word documents and word counts that always seemed to add up to zero.
Another flash from the camera caught him off-guard and half-blinded him.
“That’s perfect George, we’re almost finished. If you could just tilt your head this way ever so slightly,” said the photographer and George obliged, awkwardly looking directly into the lens of the camera.
As he turned his head, his eyes caught a brief glimpse of his surroundings and a memory of how the shop used to look surfaced in his mind’s eye. He saw himself, Ross and Hann standing around the front counter downstairs – Ross spraying croissant everywhere, Hann raising an eyebrow sardonically, the three of them laughing over something stupid. It felt like a lifetime ago now in retrospect.
Actually, the bookshop just generally didn’t feel the same any more. It wasn’t as homely. It felt professional. New. The facelift had been good for the building and even better for business (as Ross loved to remind him) but the ghost of the place – the old carpet, the books strewn everywhere, the heaving shelves – the ghost lingered like a living thing in George’s memory.
In fact, if George ignored the neat line of shelves surrounding him right this instant, he could almost see the mismatched, uneven maze that used to make up this first floor. He could still remember where every single book used to live – even his own, old, self-published copies.
It still weirded him out that those copies were like gold dust now. Ross had been threatening to sell his own on eBay for upwards of £5,000 just to see if anyone was crazy enough to spend that much.
“So be honest, did you expect the success then?”
The journalist was giving him that staged smile that journalists tended to use – the one that was conspiratorial in nature, designed to lure you into a false sense of security and make you think that you were pals. It was a smile he had seen a lot in recent months and he hated it.
In fact, he had grown to hate interviews in general much to the dismay of his agent. He hated that for someone who was now a writer (whatever that meant) his life had become less about writing and more about the never-ending press junket that consisted of the same questions posed by different journalists from different titles over and over and over again. It was like living in a perpetual Groundhog Day.
“Yes George, did you expect this incredible success?”
A new voice entered the conversation and George looked up to find Ross standing in the doorway, arms crossed, an amused smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“How long have you been standing there?” George asked.
“Not long. I came in right as you were giving your best Blue Steel impression,” Ross smirked.
The journalist and photographer laughed politely while George rolled his eyes.
The journalist set her attention on Ross now:
“Did he expect the success then?” she asked and George watched as Ross shook his head:
“He didn’t. None of us did. It was a whirlwind to be honest. What was it The Times said George?”
“They said it was an overnight success,” George said flatly and Ross nodded:
“Completely and totally. It just blew up.”
“Like a bomb,” George added quietly.
If anyone else heard him, they didn’t react.
The journalist was, of course, referring to what had happened. The incredibly unexpected happening of the last two years. The happening that led him to where he currently was: A best-selling author whose fictional debut had been on the top of the book charts for three solid months now. An author who was currently reading proposals from Amazon and Netflix who were both begging for exclusive rights to turn his book into a series. A series that would be, if their proposals were to be believed, the “biggest show in their 2023 calendar” because it was a story that everyone could “relate” to. Whatever that meant.
It should have been flattering and, alright, it was a little flattering but mostly George just felt incredibly out of his depth.
“And was it hard for you to get used to the attention?”
The journalist was focusing on him again now.
George paused as he thought about the weeks following the book’s release. There had been some great reviews. Incredible reviews, actually. But then people had started talking and word had spread and The Sun had ran that fucking unbelievable interview with someone he didn’t even know and suddenly there were journalists showing up outside his apartment and people calling him all hours of the day and night looking for an official statement, a quote, something, anything about the rumours.
Those fucking rumours.
He zoned back in as Ross cleared his throat and gave him a pointed look. The look very clearly said: Answer the question twat face.
“It was an adjustment. I think I’m still getting used to it. Even now,” George said.
“Oh really?” the journalist raised an eyebrow and George resisted the urge to let out a loud sigh. He knew what she was doing – she was trying to draw him out.
He had, over the last few months, gotten a reputation as being “notoriously quiet and guarded” in interviews as a journalist from The Guardian wrote. It wasn’t that George was purposely doing this, it was just because he had undergone so much media training, he sort of felt less like a real person and more like a robot. His agent had insisted on the media training, given the speculation around the book. Waughy had joked that the fact George needed to have media training in the first place meant he had officially reached peak “sell-out status” and even though it had been an ongoing joke, some banter between them all, the more interviews he had done, the more he had started to worry that there was a grain of truth in it.
Peak sell-out. It was sort of fitting given how much his life had changed.
And fuck, had his life had changed.
His life had changed to the point where he wasn’t really George any more. He was The Book. And when the publicity eventually died down, which it would, and when more was expected of him, which it would be, people would quickly realise that he, George, was just an empty shell. That there was nothing inside him. He would forever be defined by who he used to be. The ‘him’ that he had poured into The Book.
Another flash made him jump properly now and the photographer offered a quiet “sorry mate” before asking if George could move over to the window for the “last few full-length shots.”
George nodded, grateful for the interruption.
Conversation stopped as he pushed himself away from the bookshelf he was standing against and moved towards the window, swapping places with the journalist. She repositioned herself by the door, next to Ross. Downstairs George heard the bell above the front door ringing, signifying another customer had entered the building – it was good to know that some things never changed. It was oddly comforting.
The photographer was fiddling with the settings on his camera and George allowed his eyes to roam over the room. They settled on the journalist and then quickly darted away as she caught him looking at her.
“It must have been really hard having to say goodbye to this place. Especially given that you wrote your first draft here…” she trailed off.
“Well it’s not that I said goodbye – I’m still a silent partner. It’s more like I just handed it over to good friends. One of them being Ross,” he nodded towards Ross who had his arms crossed and was leaning against the door frame now.
“He still won’t let us change the name though,” said Ross.
And George laughed at that. It had been a topic of heated debate between himself, Ross and Waughy for the past six months, since the shop’s “rebrand.”
“In The Good Books stays – it’s a great name,” said George.
The journalist hummed her agreement.
After George had received his insane book advance (an undisclosed six-figure sum that was the result of several publishing houses entering into a bidding war at the London Book Fair), and with a schedule suddenly packed full of deadlines and interviews, Ross and Waughy had sat him down and asked if he would consider letting them buy-in to the bookshop.
The official paperwork had been drawn up a week later and George became a silent partner. This meant that Ross and Waughy would run the day-to-day and he would be brought in for important decisions, but aside from that he was free to do as he pleased. The only stipulation had been that George’s office was to remain untouched. Mainly because it was the only place that he could write. It still was. In fact, he still spent pretty much every day in the bookshop. He physically couldn’t bring himself to leave it. He had also been known, even now, to sleep there some nights.
The photographer took a few more photos in quick succession, testing the light, and then he moved towards George.
“May I?” he asked, pointing to the clothes George was wearing.
There was no stylist on this particular shoot. In fact, Hann (who was still a fashionable gentleman and GQ subscriber, thankfully) had helped him pick out his clothes. George resisted the urge to tense up as the photographer quickly and expertly fixed his shirt collar and picked some wayward fluff off his sleeve.
Then he bent down and moved the leg of his trousers. As he did so, a series of images hit George so hard and fast it made adrenaline surge through his body:
A dark haired figure, floating in a swimming pool, screaming at the top of his lungs. A circle of lights, the smell of paint in an art studio, two dark eyes looking up at him, softly glowing in the semi-darkness.
George immediately forced the images away and took a subtle breath.
Don’t. Don’t think about it. Don’t.
He flexed his hands. They were shaking. A tick that was, he had since deducted, post-traumatic.
Don’t do this to yourself. Not now. Please.
“Mate? Alright?”
He looked up. Ross was watching him carefully.
He nodded:
“Yeah, yes. I… I didn’t have breakfast today. I’m a bit shaky,” he lied.
“Do you need a break? We can take five?” the photographer offered and George shook his head:
“No, I’m fine. Really.”
The photographer went back to his camera and started taking photographs but an uneasiness was gnawing at the pit of George’s stomach. He tried to keep his face as neutral as possible.
As if sensing the change in him, the journalist saw her opportunity:
“There is one thing I’ve been meaning to ask you,” she began.
“George? Can you look just over my left shoulder,” said the photographer.
George tried to focus on anything other than the flash of the camera and the tremble in his hands.
“Are the rumours about the relationship in the book true?” the journalist continued casually, like she hadn’t just asked a deeply invasive question.
George’s head snapped up at that.
“Sorry, wha – ?” he started, but he was immediately cut off by Ross:
“Alright, I think it’s time for you to fuck off now,” he said, pushing himself away from the door frame and turning towards the journalist. “I mean it. I’m serious.”
“But if he would just answer the question I – ”
“Mr Daniel already said he wouldn’t answer questions about that. He never has. So why would he start answering questions about it now, hmm?” asked Ross.
“Yes, but we aren’t like the other titles we’re a very respected publication and I just think – ”
Ross waved a hand:
“Nope, it’s not happening. This was all agreed before, in the pre-interview emails if I’m not mistaken? You can’t just break an agreement. A written agreement actually - that’s legally binding if I’m not mistaken. I’m fairly sure your editor wouldn’t be impressed.”
The journalist didn’t have a response to that.
“If you wouldn’t mind just fucking off out of my shop now, that would be great, thanks,” Ross smiled as she scowled at him.
“And who gives you that authority? You’re not Mr Daniel’s agent,” she countered.
“I’m not, but I am one of his oldest and dearest friends - isn’t that right George?”
George just nodded his head.
“See? So, on you go, off you fuck now. You too Peter Parker,” he gestured at the photographer who was standing beside George holding his camera, “Go on, fuck off mate.”
Ross walked over to where the photographer’s bag was sitting on a low bookshelf and picked it up.
“I’m not messing. I want both of you gone,” he slung the bag at the photographer and pointed towards the door.
“Exit is that way pals. Don’t let the door hit you on the way out.”
“Are you serious?” the journalist gave him a look and Ross grinned:
“As a heart attack. Bye now.”
“For fuck’s sake,” she muttered and started shoving things into her bag while George stood there, shifting uncomfortably.
Before she left, she crossed the room towards George and held out a business card:
“If you ever want to talk about it, exclusively, we’d pay you a lot of money,” she said.
George took the card because he didn’t know what else to do.
“Seriously?” Ross appeared and slapped the card out of his hand. “Fuck off!”
The journalist rolled her eyes and made her way towards the door, the photographer trailing after her, trying to put his camera into his bag as he went.
Once they heard the bell downstairs ringing again, Ross raked a hand through his hair and let out an exhausted sigh:
“Can you believe the fucking nerve of some people?”
George shook his head.
“You need to start paying me. I am a far better agent than Karen,” Ross said, kicking at the bottom of a bookshelf and cursing as a book shook itself loose and fell.
“You’re definitely more aggressive, I’ll give you that much,” mumbled George. “What was that by the way?”
Ross gave him a petulant look as he picked up the book:
“It’s a great book and it should stand on its own merit. It fucks me off when people try to make it about those… speculations.”
“Ah, yes, the speculations,” sighed George.
“You worked hard for this mate. He shouldn’t ruin it for you. He has already cocked up enough of your life,” Ross said, purposely spitting out the signifying he.
Ross was still angry. Really, really, really angry. Even angrier than George. Yes, George was angry, completely fucked off if you wanted to get technical about it, but in recent months, he found his anger changing shape and losing its edges. Yes, he was angry but mostly? Mostly he was just sad.
Even now as he thought about it, he could feel his sadness. It sat in his stomach like a piece of lead. It weighed him down. It made him ache all over.
“Are you alright?”
Ross’s voice brought him back to the room.
“Hmm?” George looked at him and then followed Ross’s eyes which were trained on his hands. They were still shaking.
George closed his eyes and forced himself to take a deep breath.
“Another episode?” Ross asked.
“Yep,” sighed George.
The “episodes” as Ross had dubbed them had been steadily getting worse.
“I’m not going to tell you what I think you should do, because I know you already know that. But I am going to tell you to get your shit together before Hann sees it. Because if Hann sees it, you’ll be in for a nightmare,” said Ross.
George gave him a small smile:
“I’m fine, really.”
Ross raised an eyebrow that suggested he wasn’t buying it.
“Really, I am,” George insisted. “Anyway, do you need a hand setting up for tonight?”
Ross shook his head and rolled his eyes in a don’t ask gesture.
“Waughy is all over it. He was up last night making a colour-coded Excel file and someone stupidly gave him a clipboard so I give it about,” – Ross glanced at his watch – “Twenty minutes before he starts barking orders. You better escape now while you can.”
“Alright well if you need me I’ll be – ”
“Downstairs, staring at a blank word doc and trying not to pull your hair out. I know,” said Ross.
George gave Ross a smile as he left the room and started making his way downstairs.
Tonight was a big night for him – they were hosting a signing at In The Good Books. Despite writing the book there, they had yet to do a signing. Mainly because he was contractually obligated to do all the big chain stores and the better selling independents first. It was some bullshit marketing ploy that his publisher pulled rank on. But tonight? Tonight it was all about putting In The Good Books on the map and giving it the attention it deserved. At the very least, the event would draw a crowd and that was good for business.
George flexed his hands as he walked downstairs, through the bookshop, around by the brand new front counter (which was so sleek he really couldn’t get used to it) and into the back office. He closed the door behind him and stood with his back pressed against it for a few seconds.
A memory skittered through his mind – a flash of brown eyes and dark hair – but it was gone before he was even fully aware of it. The uneasiness rose up inside him again, clawing at his insides, and he put a hand to his head as a lingering scent filled his senses – a heady mix of oil and acrylic paint. It wasn’t real, George knew it wasn’t real, but it still set him on edge either way.
Get a fucking grip.
He rubbed his forehead, squeezed his eyes shut and counted his breaths – inhale for four, exhale for four – then he opened his eyes and approached his desk, slinging himself down into the battered old chair.
His office looked exactly how it always looked – dirty, dusty, dishevelled, heaving with random books and bits of paper and overflowing filing cabinets. Waughy was currently trying to get him to tidy it up a bit, even buy a new desk, but given everything that had been created in this room, George was reluctant to fuck with the Feng Shui. If there was any chance that his cluttered surroundings were in some way feeding into his creativity, he didn’t want to upset the natural balance.
The only change that had been made to the room (aside from a brand new laptop which was more comfortable for writing) was the gallery wall that now took up the space directly in front of him. Where before there had only been a blank wall and a single hot pink post-it that had the words ‘Write drunk, edit sober’ written on it, now the wall was filled with photos: A picture of Ross spraying him with a bottle of champagne on the day he signed his contract, the first review of his book that appeared in The Times, a shot of him backstage at The Graham Norton Show and then a photo of himself, Ross, Waughy and Hann drinking more champagne out of coffee mugs on the day that Hann had bought Night Shift and became the official owner of the coffee shop.
The pink post-it was still there, only now it was framed and it sat firmly in the centre.
So much had changed.
George turned on his laptop, opened a blank word doc and waited for some inspiration to hit.
******
“I just really resonated with the main character and I find your prose so beautiful. You have this really incredible way of painting images for your readers – they’re so vibrant and clear. I felt like I was there and I think that’s why everyone seems to develop such an intense connection with the protagonist. Your approach is very… sensual which I appreciate.”
The woman was smiling at him – her perfect teeth gleaming in the low light of the bookshop. Logically, George knew she was beautiful. She had a beautiful face. But it didn’t touch him, not really. Outside, he could hear the wet sounds of traffic. It was a terrible night – cold, still pissing rain – but at least the bookshop was warm and cosy and, thanks to Hann, he had an endless supply of coffee.
“That’s very kind of you to say. I’m glad that you enjoyed it,” George said, taking the book from the woman in front of him. He opened the front cover and then glanced up at her. She responded before he could ask her:
“Julie. My name is Julie.”
“It’s nice to meet you Julie,” he said.
He quickly wrote down a generic message: To Julie, thank you so much for your support. George x.
He closed over the book and was about to hand it back to her when he realised she was holding something else out to him. She pushed the cigarette into his hand and gave him a smirk. Before he could respond, she had picked up her book and was making her way to the exit.
Confused, George looked down at the cigarette in his hand. There was a phone number written on it alongside a very prominent message:
“Does that cigarette say ‘Fuck Me?’?!”
George spun around as Ross collapsed into laughter behind him.
“Oh my GOD. Did you seriously just get picked up by a fucking cigarette?”
George could feel his face burning as Ross grabbed the cigarette out of his hand and held It up.
“Fucking hell, I have officially seen everything,” Ross was shaking his head, chuckling.
“For fuck’s sake Ross,” George snapped. He reached up and grabbed the cigarette out of his hand. “Why don’t you say it louder? I don’t think all the people in the shop heard you.”
“What’s going on?”
George groaned as Hann approached, pot of coffee in tow.
“George just got picked up by a cigarette,” said Ross, snatching the cigarette out of George’s hand again and thrusting it at Hann.
Hann frowned as the read the message on the cigarette and then raised an eyebrow:
“Is this a thing that just happens when you write a book? Because if so I need a career change. Badly.”
“You should call her,” said Ross then, taking the cigarette off Hann again and studying the words, “she seems like fun.”
“I’m not calling her,” said George, his voice flat and devoid of humour.
“Why not?” Ross pressed.
“Leave it Ross,” said Hann, a quiet note of warning in his voice.
“No, I want to know,” Ross was frowning now.
“Because… she’s not my type,” George mumbled.
“Are you kidding me?” Ross looked at Hann, who desperately tried to avoid eye contact. “Your type is unstable, George. In case you haven’t noticed, the type of people that you go for aren’t exactly all there on the sanity scale.”
George cleared his throat:
“I meant… she’s not,” he paused and sighed, getting frustrated with himself, “she’s not…”
“She’s not what? Insane enough for you?” Ross tapped at his head for effect.
“She’s not a HE Ross, for fuck’s sake,” George muttered and Ross’s mouth slowly formed a small ‘o’ as he realised what George was saying.
“I… fuck. Sorry. It’s just there were all those women and then I thought that you weren’t seeing men any…” Ross trailed off and frowned. There was an awkward pause in which George remembered those awful few weeks that Ross was referring to. He hadn’t been in a good place.
“Do you know what? I assumed your sexuality based on what I saw without having all the facts. That’s exactly what I did and it was a dick move mate. Sorry,” said Ross then, looking a bit sheepish. “What?” he frowned as Hann gave a low whistle.
“Nothing, I’m just surprised to hear you say something so… considered,” Hann smirked.
“Well that’s because I’ve been putting manners on him.”
They all looked up as Waughy approached:
“George, do you want me to round up the stragglers? It’s starting to get late.”
It really was getting late. They had severely underestimated the amount of people that were planning on showing up for the signing – there had been a queue halfway down the high street. George glanced at the clock on the wall. He had started signing at five o’clock and it was now half eleven. His hand was starting to get sore.
“That would be great Waughy, thanks,” he responded.
“Are you alright here if I steal these two to help with the tidy up? I reckon you have about ten people left. If we start getting the place in order while you’re doing that, we won’t have to deal with it in the morning,” said Waughy.
“Yeah, I think I can manage,” George gave Waughy a smile as he started pushing Hann and Ross towards the back of the shop, telling them both to “suck it up” as they protested.
Outside the rain was getting heavier. Maybe I should just sleep here tonight?
The truth was that George still wasn’t comfortable in his new apartment. He had moved out of his old place as soon as the deposit from the publisher hit his account. His old apartment held so many bad memories, he just wanted to get as far away from it as physically possible. And while his new apartment was nice – modern, high-end, in a much nicer area of the city – it felt sort of cold. He felt more like a guest there rather than someone who actually lived in it. It was a strange feeling. Perpetual displacement.
George looked up as a man approached and held out a copy of his book to him. He took it, already aware that he was sinking into autopilot and just going through the motions: I hope you enjoyed it. Oh that’s so nice to hear. I’m so glad that you connected with it. That means a lot. What was your favourite part? Mine too. Who should I make this out to? Thanks again. So lovely to meet you. Take care.
And repeat. And repeat. And repeat.
He zoned out, his mind already thinking about heading home. Home to his cold, empty apartment. Home to nothing. Maybe I should get a dog? Maybe that would help?
He was jolted from his thoughts suddenly as a book was slammed down forcefully on the table in front of him. He took a deep breath to try and steady himself and pulled the book towards him. Without looking up George started speaking:
“I hope you enjoyed it.”
There was no answer.
He resisted the urge to roll his eyes and started to scrawl his signature on the book:
“So who should I make this out to?”
“I think you should make it out to the person you have royally fucked over.”
That got his attention.
“Look mate, I’m just trying to - ” his voice died in his mouth as he looked up and met a pair of dark eyes and a face that immediately slammed into his senses, shaking them all up.
His heart dropped inside his chest. He stopped breathing. He couldn’t think. The fear surged up through him, eclipsing everything else.
The figure in front of him was nondescript. His clothes were soaking wet from the rain. He was dressed all in black - black boots, black jeans, black hoodie, black leather jacket hanging opening. His hood was pulled up, obscuring his dark hair which was plastered to his forehead, dripping rivulets of rain down his pale, drawn face. His eyes were ringed with black eyeliner, dark smudges resting just under his eyes, collecting in the heavy bags there that weighed them down. He was thin. Thinner than George remembered. And he was grinning in a way that didn’t reach his eyes. It looked wrong. Terrifying, actually.
George tried to speak, but he didn’t need to because Matty took charge:
“We really need to have a little chat about your book, love.”
******