Chapter One
“Maybe I don’t have to kill him. I could just choke him and stuff him in a garbage pail.” In between sips of cold brew, he jotted a few lines in his notebook. “But I prefer murder.”
Colson Delacourt sat in his neighborhood coffee spot, ensconced at a corner table. He chewed on his lower lip as he contemplated the plot of his new mystery while scanning the crowd coming and going in a steady stream.
Normally, he’d be at home in pajamas, sitting at the dining table he’d commandeered as his desk, the television on in the background for noise, while his fingers flew over the keyboard. No matter how many times he’d explained it to Evan, the man had never understood how Colson could write with so many distractions.
As it turned out, Evan hadn’t understood a lot about him.
Colson’s stomach cramped, but he couldn’t be sure if it was from thinking about his broken relationship or the coffee on an empty stomach. Heartbreak and hunger didn’t go hand in hand.
“Whatever,” he mumbled to himself. “Hopefully the change of scenery will help.” He closed his eyes for a moment, willing his swirling thoughts to coalesce into coherent words he could put on page. He couldn’t sit and stare at a blank screen anymore, so he started writing longhand and it helped him.
Readers enjoyed not only the complex plots but following the lives of the detectives as they searched for answers. He had twoNew York Timesbestsellers, several short stories, and a slew of awards. A beautiful house and a great neighborhood Chinese restaurant where they knew him by name.
Living the life, right?
Colson sighed. It had been almost four years since his first book had released to critical acclaim. Three years since the second was published and he and Evan had met and moved in together. The burnout had started soon after. It’d been eight months since the breakup. Forever since he’d felt whole.
Not today, Satan.
He reread what he’d written and rubbed his cheek as he pondered. “Dismemberment.Hmm. Haven’t done that yet. Better check the ins and outs. So much blood. I hate a messy crime scene.”
Colson flexed his fingers, took a look around, and met the gaze of an elderly man sitting a table away, who immediately turned his head. Colson frowned. He’d showered this morning and had made an attempt to tame his hair, although he needed to visit the barber. It had been a while. Okay, a long while. Probably his tattoos and the earring were a turn-off. Some people said he was intimidating. Guys used to think it was hot.
Maybe it was a bad-boy image, but his ink had been done more as a fuck-you to his tight-ass, cold-as-ice parents than to intimidate anyone. His stomach twisted again. Anger mixedwith grief slammed into him, a common occurrence anytime he thought about them.
“Fuck it,” he growled. “Let’s do this.” He closed his eyes, and suddenly, like a sunbeam breaking through murky clouds, it clicked. The names of the protagonists, their backstories, and the plot going forward. He could see the pages unwinding before his eyes like the fucking yellow brick road.
“Yeah, baby. That’s it. Perfect. Love it.” His cramping stomach forgotten, he let the words rush over him in waves, and when he finished, he grunted with satisfaction, oblivious to the pain of his almost-numb fingers.
“Finally. That’s got to be three thousand words. That’s two thousand, five hundred and forty more than I’ve been able to write in the past two years.” He reviewed them, ecstatic to see they weren’t merely words on the page but actual usable words. A great first chapter to hook the reader.
“Ha-ha,” he crowed and banged on the table. At a sharply indrawn breath, he darted a glance and found the elderly man frowning. He then huffed and vacated his seat, finding one across the coffee house.
Colson didn’t care. This book was a winner, and he was going to celebrate.
He picked up the phone and hit Hogan’s number.
“Colson? That really you?”
“Yeah, it is. How’s it going?”
“Better now that I’ve heard from you. What’s it been, man? Four months, five? I tried calling, but you were kind of MIA.”
“Make it eight. When…you know…” Colson shrugged. “And sorry about shutting you out. I wasn’t in the right headspace for any conversation other than thanking my food delivery person.”
“Shit, yeah. Sorry. You…okay?” Hogan asked cautiously—a far cry from how he would’ve done it during their hard-partying, beer-pong days in college.
“Yeah. I think so.”
A whoosh of air filled his ear. “Thank fucking God.” Colson heard a noise that sounded suspiciously like sniffling.
“Are you…crying?” A smile curved his lips. A bear of a man at six foot four and two hundred and fifty pounds, few knew Hogan was more teddy than grizzly.
“No, you asshole. I have allergies.”
“Mmhmm.Sure. Anyway, I called because I got an idea for a book and I wrote the first chapter. Three thousand words. I feel it, Hogan. It’s happening again. This is a good one.”
