The Original Sinners: The Red Years. Tiffany Reisz
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stuff like that and even I enjoyed reading them. You don’t need Zach or me or anyone else to tell you how to write. You’re a good writer, Nora. You’re my favorite writer.”
“Your favorite writer,” she said and laughed. She took a long, slow breath. “Too bad. I’m now a retired writer.”
Wesley’s eyes widened in terror.
“Nora…don’t.”
“I don’t know why I even thought about quitting the game. I make more in a month with King than I did on my first and second books combined.”
Nora threw her hand wraps on the floor and started up the basement stairs. Wesley followed hard on her heels.
“You don’t have to go back. I balance your bank statements. You’ve got enough money to live on for five years or longer.”
“I plan on living longer than thirty-eight. Life’s expensive.”
Nora stood in the kitchen and pulled a cup from the cabinet and filled it with water. She drank it down in a few hard gulps.
She slammed the cup down on the counter and reached for her red hotline phone.
Wesley reached out and put his hand on hers.
“I’ll give you every penny I have.” His eyes were black with fear.
“That’s sweet, Wes. But you’re an unpaid intern, remember?”
With that she hit the number eight on her speed dial and held it down.
“Enchantée, madame. To what do I owe this pleasure?” Kingsley asked.
“My waiting list…who’s on it?”
“It would take less time to tell you who isn’t, chérie.”
“Call them. Set it up.”
“Call whom?”
“All of them. You’re right. Luxembourg is a small kingdom. Let’s expand the realm, shall we?”
She expected Kingsley to laugh or thank her. Instead, she heard him exhale and speak in a way she very rarely heard—with sincerity.
“Elle, are you sure about this?”
“Yes.”
“As you wish, chérie.”
“Smile, King,” Nora said with a laugh. “Let’s make lots of money.”
27
Two weeks left…
Zach paced around his flat trying to decide where to begin packing. His flight to L.A. was in exactly thirteen days. He’d arrive on Sunday morning, get settled into the temporary quarters that Royal had rented for him and he’d start work on Monday. There was little to pack so he wasn’t sure why he was bothering about it so soon. With his work at Royal New York almost finished, he didn’t know what else to do with himself.
He opened a cardboard box and starting packing his books. The Great Gatsby…the book that first turned him on to modern American literature when he was a university student. Atonement by Ian McEwan…a glorious story, one of McEwan’s best. Zach stared a long time at the title of the next book—Of Human Bondage by W. Somerset Maugham. Nora had joked about that book once; that she was quite disappointed that no one actually got tied up in it.
When he realized he was smiling at the memory he made himself stop. Everything was over with Nora now—the book, the deal, the promise of a few nights together before he was gone. He was so angry with himself. He thought that once he was settled out in L.A. she would come visit for a few days. He’d offhandedly mentioned the idea a week ago. She asked him if he’d ever heard of something called “Goths in Hot Weather.” Apparently leather and tropical weather didn’t mix. But she’d said she would consider it…if he begged enough.
He’d been fully prepared to beg.
It was useless. Nothing he did could exorcise thoughts of Nora from his mind. The anger had burned itself out yesterday and turned into a cold, hard fist of anguish in the pit of his stomach. He half hoped she’d call. Even another fight was preferable to the bitter silence that had become the last three days since he’d told her it was over.
Zach went into the bedroom and looked around. Perhaps there was something in here he could pack that wouldn’t spur such potent and painful thoughts. He stared at the clothes in his closet and considered packing some of them. But he still had over a week in New York and he didn’t have the energy for sorting out what he’d wear from what he wouldn’t.
Giving up, Zach sat on his bed with his elbows on his knees. He rubbed the bridge of his nose, sensing a headache coming on. He looked down to the floor and saw the corner of Nora’s manuscript peeking out from under the bed.
What hurt more than anything was knowing how good the book could have been. She was almost finished with it. A hundred pages or so was all that was left to rewrite. So close… It would have outsold all her other books combined, outsold all of Finley’s dull, dreary pretentious postmodern books combined. It would have been a sensation.
With his heel Zach kicked the manuscript all the way under the bed. He started pulling clothes from the closet and throwing them into an empty box. He’d just give them all away. Everything. He’d start over completely in L.A.
After a few minutes Zach realized what an idiot he was being. No matter what he did with his things, burn them, bury them or send them by mail, he would take nothing with him to L.A.
He had nothing anymore. And nothing was very easy to pack.
* * *
More exhausted than she’d ever been in her life, Nora dropped her toy bag in the entry hall and didn’t even pet the dogs. She stumbled up the stairs of Kingsley’s town house and stopped at the second floor. She’d been staying with Kingsley since Saturday not wanting to subject Wesley to the torment of knowing how many jobs she was taking in an effort to get Zach and her aborted novel out of her system. Wesley called every day and every day she texted him the same message—I’m fine, kid. I’ll be home soon.
Three clients today—two men and one woman. The men were actually the easier gigs. One had a foot fetish and would pay through the nose just to kiss her boots for hours on end. The other was a masochist who was at his happiest when he was tied up, called a “slut” and beaten black and blue. Both were married men, upstanding members of their communities. They came to her to keep their marriages and lives intact. A few hours with her a month and then they could go back to their regular lives until the pressure built up again and they had to let off their secret steam. Women, as usual, were much more work. But at least Nora liked this girl. She was one of Griffin’s trust fund friends who hadn’t come out to her family yet, afraid they’d cut her off until she straightened up. Nora felt sorry for the girl—she knew all too well how difficult it was to tell the truth about who you really were to the people you cared about.
Kingsley had given Nora the room next to his, after she had reluctantly turned down his invitation to join him in his own bed. Zach had accused Kingsley of being her pimp, but it was just one more thing that Zach didn’t have a goddamn clue about. Kingsley had saved her life five years ago. They were friends and business partners, and right now, business was good.
Without even bothering to undress, Nora collapsed onto the bed. She didn’t have to wait long before Kingsley made his usual nightly appearance.
“Comment ça va?” Kingsley asked as he came into the guest room without knocking.
“Je suis too fucking exhausted to speak French, monsieur.”
“J’accepte.” He sat next to her on the edge of the bed. His hair was unbound and he’d abandoned his suit jacket for the night. He looked ridiculously dashing in the dark vest and knee boots