Marilyn Grey - [Unspoken 06] Read online

  WINSLET PRESS

  When the City Sleeps

  Copyright © 2014 by Marilyn Grey

  SMASHWORDS EDITION

  To learn more about Marilyn Grey, visit her Web site:

  www.marilyn-grey.com

  All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, scanning, etc.—except for quotations in reviews or articles, without the prior written permission of the publisher. Contact the publisher at: [email protected]

  ISBN-10: 0985723599

  ISBN-13: 978-0985723590

  This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of either the author or the publisher.

  Dedicated To:

  Taylor Swift

  When I wrote this book I thought of you. The character's have many differences, but I thought of you because when I try to imagine a celebrity who considers the idea of true romance ... I think of you. I believe it's possible to be famous and stay down-to-earth. I believe it's possible to be famous, find your best friend and soul-mate, and live happily ever after. I believe it's hard work, much more difficult than it is for a "regular" person. But it's possible and I believe, Taylor, that one day you'll find the one who won't break your heart. The one who will love you for the little girl inside of you, the one beneath the fame and glamour and songs you write. The one you knows you are more than just a girl with a guitar who empties her heart for the world. You are so much more. And you'll find someone to fill all that you've emptied.

  I believe you'll find true love one day. I believe it ...

  because you believe.

  CH. 1 - Sawyer

  Every Wednesday I requested a table for two, but so far I always sat alone, handing the waiter both menus with an expected sigh. Today I overhead them whispering, wondering if I was being stood up by the same girl every time. I never told them who I was actually waiting for. Figured it would be less interesting that way. But today the young girl took my menu's and said, "The girl over there." She pointed behind her. "She asked if she could sit with you."

  I shook my head. "No, thanks."

  I didn't look at her. Didn't need to. I saw her come in right after me. Probably wouldn't had noticed her, but she kept smiling at me during lunch. She looked a bit like a freak or a homeless person, but underneath the Yankees hat, frizzy hair, and strange clothing she seemed too pretty to be either.

  I looked up and made eye contact with her, then looked down when she stood. Oh great, I thought. Last thing I needed was a whacked out woman in my life.

  She sat down in the booth across from me. "Hello."

  I nodded and waved to the waitress. When I caught her attention, I mouthed, "Check, please."

  "I don't bite," the girl said. "I noticed you wait here for someone every Wednesday, but they never come. Either that's the case or you're too embarrassed to sit here alone, so you pretend like you're waiting for someone."

  I took the check from the waitress and shrugged. "Pegged me."

  She narrowed her eyes and crossed her arms. "Hm. Good answer."

  "Glad I aced your test." I stood and took my copy of the receipt.

  "Before you go," she said, standing beside me. "You got change for a hundred? I need four twenties and two tens."

  I pulled out my wallet and handed her the cash. She started to hand me the hundred dollar bill, but I saw her name and number inked in red along the edge. Nora.

  "Keep it," I said, then walked away, half-regretting the loss of what could've been a friend during one of the loneliest and most confusing times of my life. Of course, I did have Chris.

  The city air hit me like a cloud of second-hand smoke. I couldn't stand New York and if it weren't for my brother I would’ve stop traveling there altogether. I'm not a city guy, especially that city. Too many memories. Not all bad, but mostly not good.

  I walked down the street toward my brother's apartment building and saw the strange girl skipping through a crowd on the other side of the street. She turned and waved to me as she rounded the corner. Hands in my pockets, I looked down and reminded myself to pick a different restaurant next week. As much as I didn't want to, I'd be back. Unless he answered the door this time.

  I knocked on the door that led to his living room. "Quin, I know you're in there. Come on, Quin. I see your car out front."

  I pulled the small mallet from my pocket and banged a tune on the door. He'd recognize it. "Quinton Marshall Reed Junior. Open the door."

  I slipped my hands in my pockets and exhaled, wondering why I even bothered. Quin hadn't spoken to me in seven years, but where he lacked loyalty I didn't. I couldn’t after what I did to him. I’d come back every Wednesday for the rest of my life, looking like the fool who got stood up every week by some girl when really it was just my brother. Thankfully we fell out of the spotlight years ago, like a one-hit wonder people occasionally resurfaced to say, "What ever happened to...?"

  Otherwise I may not had been so keen on The Big Apple. As kids we called it The Big Lemon because we couldn't stand it. Now Quin lived right smack in the middle of it.

  Not me.

  I hailed a taxi and climbed inside. "Airport, please."

  The driver nodded and edged back into the traffic. I stared out the window as people passed in other cars, thinking of the times Quin and I would drive to games and make up stories about people in the cars around us. I watched the people, but they no longer seemed interesting to me. Not without Quin to laugh at the scenarios I'd come up with.

  He'd always slap the steering wheel, laughing so hard the car would jerk at red lights, then gather enough air to say, "Where do you come up with these things?"

  The taxi pulled into the airport. I handed him double what he asked for and winked. He nodded and thanked me as I turned and looked at the doors to the airport that would take me back to Virginia. I hated flying. Loathed it. Imagined my death every time I boarded a plane. The guys used to call me a pansy. Not sure if I qualify as a pansy or not considering the fact that I played one of the most violent sports in the world—at least you begin to think so after playing it professionally—but pansy or not, I wasn't interested in dying. Which is why Quin had a Stanley Cup and deserved it. And I didn't.

  And never would.

  The game was his life. For me, it's always been the biggest part of my life, maybe even the deepest, but never the air I breathed. Every hit I took, every slam against those boards, and I'd immediately think of Mom and Dad's grave stones and how I wasn't ready to join them, as much as I missed them.

  Something scratched my back when I walked to the doors. I reached behind my neck to fix my tag, but found a paper instead.

  Call me ... if you want. Nora. 555-7859.

  She had to know who I was. Probably just wanted an autograph or a few thousand dollars. I crumpled the paper and tossed it in the trash can right outside the door. Another reason I hated playing for The Flyers. Ten times harder to find the right woman when you make millions. And I wasn't interested in the wrong ones. Too shy for that anyway. I left the bedroom to my brother. Yet another area he excelled. Although the world believed the opposite. They believed a lot about me that wasn’t true.

  I paid for my ticket and found a seat. Only an hour wait today. I plugged my ears with headphones and watched videos on my phone. Videos of new players. New faces. I studied their every move. And I loved every second of it.

  CH. 2 - Nora

&
nbsp; It's quite possible to look like you have everything in the world, yet have nothing at all. I know from experience. I'm not looking for pity though. Really, I'm not. It's just that, I don't know, I always felt like there was something more to life. More than passion and dreams and love. I spent so much of my life searching for whatever that something more could be, to no avail. I’m sorry. Am I boring you? I'll stop complaining. You probably want to know all about my latest movie, my fancy romance with Spencer, or something else the tabloids are fabricating, and yeah, I'll share some of that with you, but this isn't a story about my fame. It's a story about my heart. I hope you don't mind. I kind of need someone to talk to. Spencer isn't exactly talking material if you know what I mean. I gave my number to some weird guy at a restaurant the other day, not to be flirtatious or anything, only to talk to someone who obviously had no idea who I was. He never called. I figured he wouldn't.

  I should've spent my days and nights dreaming of my boyfriend, Time magazine's sexiest man alive, but instead I dreamt of some Hollywood romance straight outta the latest Nicholas Sparks novel. Yes, I have read every novel from that man's brain. Can't help it. Guess it's the dreamer in me.

  My phone rang. Claire. Again.

  I picked up. "Hey, Claire. I know. I'm leaving now."

  "Your driver is waiting, Nora," she said. "He's been waiting for twenty minutes and I don't think the producers or Mr. Fallon himself will appreciate your tardiness."

  I nodded to Genevieve as she curled the last strand of my hair. She nodded back and pulled my chair out.

  "I wasn't lying in bed all day. Genevieve just finished my hair and makeup. I'm heading down now." I looked in the mirror, wondering who I was behind all of the pretending. I never seemed to stop acting even when I walked off the set.

  "Be good. Smile. And brush off any comments about Spence."

  "Spence?"

  "Only good things about him. Maintain your sweet image, kay?"

  “Oh … kay."

  Well, my appearance on The Tonight Show with Jimmy Fallon went exactly as planned and was sure to send the paparazzi into a tailspin. Claire probably tried to call me a hundred times, but I turned my phone off. She couldn't have believed that I didn't know.

  My driver, Mr. Baxter, winked at me as he dropped me off at my apartment building. I smiled as he shut my door and waited for me to walk through the big glass doors, but when I turned around Claire glared at me with her arms tightly crossed over her chest.

  "What is wrong with you?" She rolled her eyes, so maturely.

  "Oh, come on, Claire. Like I wouldn't know? Somehow you two were always unavailable at the same time. Your perfume on his pillow? Look”—I waved her off and smiled toward the camera flashes—“I never wanted to stay with a guy like that anyway. I only did it because you told me to for the exposure. Well, now I see you had ulterior motives. And that's fine, really. You can have the jerk."

  She shoved her arms to her sides as I walked toward the doors. I shook my head and turned back. She was already gone. Only a sea of flashing lights surrounded me.

  I went inside, took the elevator, and finally found myself enveloped by the comfort of my bed and my best friend, Niles. My little Maltese pup. He curled up next to me as I flipped my TV to my Netflix account and streamed Episode 3 of Season 2. My favorite TV show ever. Fraiser.

  I could already see the tabloids lining the city streets. My face next to Spencer's with a fake rip down the middle. "It's Over: Hollywood's Favorite Couple."

  I wondered if they'd dig up an image of me dealing with springtime allergies and claim I was heartbroken beyond belief. That's what I expected and although I want to say it didn't matter, it did matter a little. I hated that everything around me thrived off of lies. Even the pictures of me on the beach titled "Hot Summer Bod," were photoshopped to make me look smoother, thinner, and overall "enhanced." They used me for their own agenda’s, good or bad, whenever it was convenient for them.

  My best friend London's name showed up on my phone screen. I answered.

  "Wow, Nora. I can't believe you did that. News travels fast in your world. Sheesh. You okay?"

  "I'm more than okay," I assured her. "Come on, did anyone really think we had some kind of profound romance?"

  "But what does this mean for your career?"

  "London, if my career is based off of my relationship with that jerk than I don't want this career. I want to be great, like Julia Roberts or something. I don't want looks or relationships to define my status in this industry. I want to be a good actress because it's what I love. I can't stand this tabloid stuff. It's distracting."

  "Well, you—”

  "I know."

  "Just try to be more low key now. Pull a Joaquin Phoenix and disappear for a while. People might respect you for it. The right people, at least."

  "Maybe I will." We enjoyed a comfortable silence for a few minutes, then I finally asked, "Do you think I made a mistake?"

  "With what?"

  "Following my dream of acting. I'm a celebrity now. It all happened too fast." I paused again. "London, tell me the truth, do you think I want too much out of life?"

  "What do you want?"

  "I want to be a great actress. I want to win a Golden Globe. And I want to fall in love. True love, you know? Love that never dies. I want to find someone who still holds my hand when we are ninety years old, not out of obligation, but because he wants to."

  "There's an exception to every rule, Nora. And you've never failed at being the exception before."

  "That helps."

  "Get some rest, okay? Come visit soon."

  We hung up as Fraiser ended and I fell asleep wondering what tomorrow would bring. With Spencer now in my past, what kind of adventure would the beauty of tomorrow hold?

  I cuddled up to Niles and drifted into a dream.

  CH. 3 - Sawyer

  I stared at the family of ducks gliding around my pond, longing for winter to freeze the surface so I could skate again. The local rinks knew me and so did one too many across the country. That was okay sometimes, but I had to be in the mood. Then there was always the option of renting out the rink for myself, but something felt wrong about that.

  I lit a blowtorch and held it to the hockey stick blade, applying even pressure until I saw that perfect curve. Many of my old friends, the ones who knew me since way before Dad and Mom died, they always asked me if I missed playing. They wondered if I actually enjoyed being a recluse, as they called it.

  I guess in a sense, both. I missed playing, yeah, but it wasn't worth the fame. That ruined it for me. Did I enjoy my isolation here at my house in the middle of nowhere? Yes.

  Hockey didn't end for me when I walked off the NHL ice for the last time. It lived inside of me. Probably always will. Every time I made a custom stick for someone, or some kind of furniture made of recycled sticks and pucks, it gave me that same satisfaction of winning a game. Well, maybe not quite that far, but a similar feeling.

  If there's one thing I know for sure, it's that I loved being alone ten times more than being chased by cameras.

  I sanded the blade down as I soaked some fiberglass cloth in epoxy resin. All the while, wishing I had the nerve to ask the girl I couldn't stop thinking about if she'd like to go out sometime. It's not that I was afraid of being rejected. I'd asked plenty of strangers out in my past and had my fair share of rejection, even amidst fame. I wanted this to be different though. I wanted someone to see through the lies the media said about me and get to know me for who I really was. I wanted one thing in my life, just one thing, to last. Everything I loved died. My parents, my relationship with my brother, my game. Was it too much to ask to have one thing last? Just one?

  I guess what I'm saying is I was nervous to find out that the answer to that question might be no.

  Chris and I met up at a local bar where a bunch of artsy types drank fancy beers. Any kind of normal bar and I'd be noticed, but not Jared’s. I doubt any of those people even knew that professional
hockey players still existed. Perfect for me.

  Chris ordered another beer and slapped my arm with the back of his hand. "Just get her number, dude. Want me to?"

  I glanced over at her, sitting by the wall with a friend. She ran her hand through her hair and flipped it to one side as she laughed. I have no idea what her friend looked like, but she—the one I couldn’t stop looking at—had the most amazing dark hair I'd ever seen. Full and curly and frizzy. I hadn't gotten close enough to see her eye color, but whatever they were, they were incredible. And that smile....

  "Look Reed, ask her before I do."

  She looked over at me. I didn't look away. Finally, she broke eye contact.

  "Maybe in a minute." I focused on my beer.

  A long minute of silence passed and Chris finally said, "Seen Quin lately?"

  I laughed. "That'll be the day."

  "You don't think you'll ever play again?"

  "Me? No."

  "People said you'd be the Jordan of hockey."

  "People also said I was a womanizer and that was never true."

  "Well, you did get laid a lot. And then there was—”

  "They were practically begging me. I wish I was stronger than that, but I wasn't. Womanizer, though? I'm not even sure I know what that means."

  "It means—“

  "Shhh..." I stood and faced her as she walked toward me. "Uh, hey."

  She smiled and looked down. "Hey."

  "Are you free Saturday night? Because if so, I'd like to change that."

  She blushed and nodded her head. "I'd like that."

  I handed her a business card. "That's my cell. Text me your address. Pick you up at five?"

  "Sounds perfect." She brushed my shoulder as she walked by. Her scent lingered as she left the bar. And I couldn't move.

  "Nice pickup line." Chris laughed. "Because if so … I'd like to change that. You sound experienced as a womanizer."