Desperate for distraction, he flicked on his computer and pulled up the file of his novel. He hadn’t worked on it in a while with the how-to book consuming him, but maybe tonight it would keep him focused on something other than his physicaldesire.
He settled into his chair and decided to play with the book for a few hours. It was a psychological thriller, his play project when he was between magazine and newspaper assignments. One day, he might try fiction seriously, but it was easier work and easy money to stay with what heknew.
Reading over the first four chapters, which were all he had written, he got pulled into the series of gruesome murders and the burned-out cop who was close to a breakdown. Luke remembered now why he’d stopped writing after chapter four. He’d put the poor sucker in a psych ward and didn’t know how he was going to get himout…
No wonder he’d been drawn to open this particular computer file. The irony wasn’t lost on him. Luke was as helplessly locked in torment as hishero.
He sat there, tapping keys without typing anything, imagining the hero’s dilemma. He was a cop who’d spent his whole career—his entire life—abiding by and enforcing the rules. Now he had to break the rules. He had to escape from the prison his preconceived notions had locked himinto.
He had to breakout.
Of course! Suddenly Luke’s fingers were flying over the keyboard. He couldn’t type fast enough to keep up with histhoughts.
At some pointhe became aware that his neck ached. He glanced at the clock. It was four in the morning. He could go to bed, but he wasn’t a bit tired and the killer was about to strike again. Oh, well. It wasn’t as though Luke had to be anywhere tomorrow. One of the joys of his work was setting his own schedule. He stood, stretched and made his way to the kitchen to brew a pot ofcoffee.
Then he went back towork.
Hours later, the coffeepot was empty. He brewedanother.
Time simply ceased to matter. His phone rang a couple of times, but he ignored it. Not only did his hero burn for justice, but he also burned physically for the woman—the psychiatrist on his case—who could both save and damnhim.
Luke glanced up at last, feeling his eyes ache. His muscles were stiff from the combined torture of sitting in one position too long, struggling through the tension of solving murders and coming to terms with his main character’s mental health. But Luke had in front of him several solid new chapters and a rough road map for the rest of thebook.
He leaned back in his chair, rubbing his closed eyes with his palms, tired but satisfied. Not as satisfied as he’d feel after a night of hot sex with Shari Wilson perhaps, but satisfied in a bone-deepsense.
He stared at the gray words darkening his screen and a quiver of excitement raced through him. What if this wasn’t simply for fun? What if he was writing an honest-to-God marketablethriller?
The possibility had him running his fingers across his stubbled chin. Whatif?
He struggledto his feet with an unreal sense of timelessness. He hadn’t pulled an all-nighter like that since college. He checked the clock. Seven. For one bizarre second he thought it was seven in the morning, then he realized it was seven at night. He’d worked just over twenty-four hours. Fueled by nothing but coffee and some serious sexualfrustration.
He grinned stupidly. A few more weeks of trying to stay away from the woman upstairs and he’d have an entire series of murdermysteries.
His stomach did a queasy roll from all the coffee and lack of food. Usually, Luke ate constantly, but he’d been too absorbed to care about eating. Now he needed a decent meal, a shower and sleep, but the vestiges of manic energy still crackled around him and some of the scenes he’d written lingered like dream images. After all those hours cooped up, he needed tomove.
Changing into running gear, he headed out to the street feeling like a long-distance traveler just emerging from an aircraft into an exotic setting. His body might be in Seattle but his mind was still in the book, he discovered, as he found his rhythm and followed the ribbon of pavement in the dusk. At some point it had rained, for the streets were slick with wet, and dark clouds hovered, letting him know that more rain was on its way. He’d lived in the Pacific Northwest long enough to pretty much ignore therain.
As he splashed through a puddle, he realized he needed to let the villain figure out what Luke, the author, already knew. That his cop hero relied on routines to function. Throw him off stride and he was dramaticallyweakened.
How to givethis information to the villain in a way the reader would buy? Suddenly it was important to Luke what the reader thought because some time in the night this novel had moved from being his little hobby to the next phase in hiscareer.
There was a woman in the book, naturally. The psychiatrist helping the cop. Where before she’d lacked substance as a character, she’d come, during the night, to combine Deandra’s fierce focus, Shari’s looks and his mother’s stubbornness. There was more of Shari in his fictitious doc than looks. He’d tried to imbue his character with that innate respect for people’s feelings, and the desire to help them that Shari had displayed in their “lessons.”
When he passed the Danish bakery that was his three-mile marker, he realized he’d gone farther than heintended.
The bakery was closed, nothing in the window but day-old bread already packaged to sell off tomorrow and the fancy cakes in the refrigerated display case. Even so, the sight was enough to make his stomach curl on itselfunpleasantly.
He turned toward home wishing he hadn’t jogged so far. He was literally running on coffee and adrenaline and both tanks were close toempty.
He’d never been so pleased to see his apartment building. Trembling with fatigue and hunger, he dragged himself in the door, hauled himself into the shower, shaved and decided he’d take himself out for a good dinner before hitting thesack.
In the steamy bathroom mirror his eyes were bloodshot, but he didn’t care. The lost sleep and skipped meals had been worth the sacrifice. He’d never felt as excited about anything he’dwritten.
The phone rang while he was heading for the door debating steak versus pasta. He intended to ignore the call, until he saw who was callinghim.
Shari.
“Hello?” His voice sounded rusty and he realized he hadn’t spoken in more than twenty-fourhours.
