I give Nana a heads-up that I’ve put lunch in the oven for her, then grab my laptop bag and head downstairs. There’s a tiny little coffee shop a few blocks away, and with my headphones blaring my favorite song, it takes almost no time to make the trip. I step through the doors and give a small nod to the barista I see every afternoon.
While I get my laptop set up and go searching for the location that I saved my manuscript, I can’t help but feel like such a stereotype. Nana getting sick was the biggest reason I decided to come back to New York, but another reason is the fact that here, my opportunities of having my work discovered are so much higher.
New York is full of possibilities for unpublished authors, and I know that deep in my heart, this is what I’m supposed to be doing. Storytelling was always my passion growing up, and when I got to college, I took my first creative writing class. There, I had the idea that I’m currently working on.
It’s about a woman losing her child to a notorious murderer in town, and after years of looking, she finds the first clue that could lead her to find out what truly happened that night at the deadly lake behind her home. It’s marketable, that much I know, but the hard part for me is finding the time to finish it.
Between working at Rudy’s and taking care of Nana, I rarely have time to sit down and just be with my characters. At work, my mind wanders back to thoughts of scenes in my book, and with Nana, I think about what my protagonist would be doing if someone was depending on her the way Nana depends on me.
Sitting there with my computer open and my notes spread out on the table, though, I find inspiration and let it take me in whatever direction it needs me to go in. As much as I love organization, I don’t plan my books. I see the story in my head and the way I get there, but the fun part is figuring out the smaller scenes and all the ways to make those interesting so that no scene feels like it could be removed from the rest of the story.
Before I know it, I’ve typed almost three thousand words—major progress from where I started. My heroine, Malorie, has just been run off the road by the killer’s equally unstable cousin, and her head is bleeding. As much as I want to sit and finish the scene, I decide to leave it on a cliffhanger. There will be plenty of time for me to revisit this world later on.
On the way out, I order a couple cookies and begin my trek home, my thoughts floating like zero gravity. How do I get my protagonist out of this situation? Is she too far gone now? And if she is, how can I give her the strength to fight her way out?
I’d like to be like her. Determined. Persistent. An all-around bad ass. But nothing like that ever happens in my life. Nothing this exciting, or dangerous, or reckless. Maybe that’s why I’m writing. Nana and Madeline would say that I could have all that with a man. I shake my head and smile to myself.
Maybe they’re right. Maybe I just need to find the right man.
Chapter Two
Roman
Each of us is born with a gift. A special talent. Some people act, some people dance, some people sing a fucking jingle.
Me, on the other hand ... I kill.
And tonight is another chance to show the world my gift.
Waiting is the worst part of this job. Memories are the only thing that help pass the time. Leaning against the exterior wall of this nightclub, the memory of my first kill comes back to me. Like most of my memories, it ends with blood.
It was late August, when the weather was finally starting to get colder and the city folk began trading T-shirts for flannels and jackets. My father took my brothers and me hunting for the first time. We’d spent a good few months learning how to shoot both guns and arrows, and he wanted to see how well we’d do after our lessons.
The crunch of leaves under my boots was so vivid that I can feel the texture of them to this day. The wind whipped our faces as we hiked from our truck through the hills until finally, we stumbled into a bit of clearing. At first, there wasn’t much to see. A squirrel clung to a large oak tree. A collection of rocks growing moss on the sides. My father asked us if we saw anything. We said no.
“Then look harder.”
That’s when I saw the tiny brown rabbit pressed against the trunk of a tree, quietly nibbling food. My father gave me a look. As the oldest, I knew what it meant. I’d seen it plenty of times before. Narrowed eyes, lips pulled into a thin, straight line. I had to set the example.
Quietly, I pulled an arrow from my quiver and nocked it, pulling back the bowstring. I steadied myself and set my jaw, holding the position until I could feel the right moment to strike. The air in my chest stopped and I felt the world begin to disappear, every external distraction ceasing to exist. Then I let go.
The arrow sliced through the air in silence. Before my brothers Gedeon and Ivan could blink, the rabbit was dead, pinned to the tree.
I let out a breath and glanced at my father. The only indication that I’d done a good job was the short nod of his head, the most subtle of compliments. It was enough to satisfy me—for a moment. One rabbit alone wasn’t enough, however. I
