The Sci-Fi Writer
IN THE THROES OF SPACE, HE WOULD be weightless.
Even aboard the vessel Tourmaline, he would be assisted by a taxon suit. But here, the alien terrain reaches out with every stride, as if determined to remind him of his limitations, make him stumble, even fall.
It probably doesn’t help that Jaxon isn’t wearing his glasses, but they get fogged up when he runs, and he can see well enough to make out the contours of the trail, where there is a trail, and the grass where there is none.
Skelbrae’s not exactly a national park, but it’s bigger than it looks. The castle sits up on the cliff, the cottage facing it across the drive, but the island itself is a messy heap of hills, overgrown paths that vanish around bends and cut through groves of trees.
It’s big enough that, more than once, the massive house vanishes from view, snuffed out between the gray sky and green earth as he loops the island, taking a slightly different route each time.
On the first lap, he spots a stone shack sinking into the side of a hill, an embankment, sloping down to a small, secluded beach.
On the second, an overgrown greenhouse, a set of rickety steps plunging down toward the sea, a cluster of trees.
As he passes the castle again, he spots Kenzo standing on the steps with a cup of coffee. When Jaxon goes past, he flashes a sardonic grin, lifts the cup in a small salute, and calls out, “Shouldn’t you be working?”
Jaxon gives him the finger and doesn’t look back, as if the time on the front of the safe isn’t blinking in his mind.
The hours ticking down: 72, 71, 70 . . .
But this is work, he tells himself.
When he runs, something comes unstuck inside him.
His labored breath becomes a backdrop for his mind, and his mind makes space, and in that space, he finds ideas. He’s heard other people do their best thinking in the shower, with the white noise and the wet heat, but he needs to have his body in motion.
But now, when he runs, it’s only a matter of time before his thoughts drag him back.
To the Lightspeed Saga.
To the third and final book, sitting half written on his laptop.
To the email from his editor, padded with faint praise as he tried to soften the news. That the sales weren’t where they needed to be. That he should be proud of everything he’d done, but—but—but—the publisher had decided to cancel the series.
Jaxon’s lungs begin to burn just thinking of it.
This is why he runs with music, so he can turn it up, drown out the bad thoughts and lose himself inside the wailing guitar solos.
He’s always had a soft spot for eighties rock, which his mother used to blast inside their overheated Dallas double-wide.
But his phone is locked in the safe (along with his smartwatch, so he can’t even check his pace), so he tries to focus on his body instead.
The steady beat of his heart, limbs converting energy, the drum of his feet, the way the pieces work together, like a well-oiled machine.
Sidebar: Jaxon Knight would love to be a machine. Not a clunky old computer, but a piece of higher tech, that elegant intersection of organic material and mechanical efficiency.
But Skelbrae seems intent on reminding him he’s flesh and blood. Every time he nearly loses his footing on a bit of shale, a grassy tangle, a jutting stone, he has to drop it into lower gear, just to keep from going ass up.
Kenzo would love that.
Disposable, he called them.
Midlist.
Jaxon picks up his pace. He’s not midlist. He refuses to be midlist. And even if he is at this moment, well, there’s a difference between people passing through (because their publisher didn’t put enough money behind their books, didn’t even have the decency to let them complete their vision so their readers had something to champion) and those who seem resigned—content even—to spend their lives there.
Honestly, Jaxon should win this competition just to spite his old publisher.
Rub it in their faces. Show them they were wrong.
Then they’d beg him to come back and finish the Lightspeed Saga.
He’d consider it—for the readers’ sake, of course, not theirs.
Unless Merriweather offered to take over the whole series, republish the first two, maybe even rebrand them, with fancy covers and a real marketing plan, a proper lead-up to the third and final book. Which they’d do right by. If he won.
He probably could win, given who he’s up against.
Malcolm and Sienna have the advantage of teamwork, but they’re clearly going through something.
Priscilla seems clever, and he has a soft spot for romance writers, not just because they’re kinky but because, like sci-fi, they tend to get short shrift.
But as far as genres go, romance is about as far from thriller as you can get.
Other than YA, and Millie—well, she’s cute, but she doesn’t have the chops. Same goes for Cate.
That leaves the high and mighty horror writer, Kenzo.
But Jaxon’ll be damned if he loses to a guy ironically wearing a vintage AC/DC shirt.
He could win.
The trouble is, he hasn’t read any of Fletch’s books.
He did watch the show, and it had some good action, decent twists—he saw them coming, but the average viewer probably wouldn’t. The lead actress would have been great as Melee in the adaptation of the Lightspeed Saga, if it ever happened.
Which it probably won’t now.
He doesn’t know if it’s the reminder, or the fact he’s on his fourth loop, but his side suddenly cramps. He slows to a stop and tries to stretch, sweat making his shirt cling to his torso.
He looks around.
He’s on the far side of the island, the tip of the castle jutting up over the hills.
He should go back. Go back, and sit down, and start reading Fletch’s manuscript. But the sun is warm, and the air is cool, and he decides to check out that little beach he spotted on the first loop, the slope leading toward the sandy alcove.
On the way, he passes the rickety stairs, the ones that plunge down before twisting out of sight. He leans out, trying to see where they lead, but when his foot lands on the first step, it groans ominously, and curiosity be damned, he’s not going out like that.
He carries on, shoes sliding on the grass as he makes his way down the embankment to the little beach.
Up close, it’s even better. A flawless curve of sand, giving way to calm blue sea.
Jaxon wishes he had his phone so he could take a selfie.
He’s already trying to come up with a caption—something contemplative but suggestive, like he has something to share, but isn’t ready yet—when he reminds himself there’s no point.
He sighs, kicks off his shoes, and stares out at the water.
The tide rolls in with a whisper.
It goes out with a sigh.
He feels his heart slow to match the rhythm, and it’s so quiet, so peaceful. It makes him feel small, but in a good way, the way the sky does on clear nights back in Texas. Looking out at the water, it’s hard to believe the old man drowned in a place like this.
Maybe the weather was bad.
Maybe the waves were rough.
Maybe he hit his head, or his heart gave out.
What a shitty way to go, thinks Jaxon. All that work, the finish line in sight, and—bam. Lights out. And people say everything happens for a reason, but it feels wrong, cruel, for someone to work so hard, for so long, only to have the universe declare, Not you, not this, take everything away and—
Nope. Jaxon shakes his head.
That’s enough deep thoughts for now.
He drags off the sweat-soaked shirt and is about to go for a quick plunge when someone whistles.
Jaxon turns and sees Millie ogling him.
“My kingdom for a camera,” she says with a flirtatious grin as she shuffles down the grassy slope. That’s another thing that could come out of this weekend. Millie Mitchell is totally his type.
He flashes his most charming smile. “Was just about to take a dip.”
“Go on then,” she says, running a hand through her blond curls. “Don’t let me stop you.”
Jaxon stretches once, for show, and then strides straight into the water.
And nearly shrieks.
He stiffens as the tide washes over his feet. It’s cold. Not cool in a refreshing garden-hose-in-summer way, but fucking frigid, like an ice plunge at the gym, and Jaxon has to fight the urge to cry out and shuffle back onto the safety of the beach.
But Millie’s watching, so he sucks in his breath as he wades into the shallows, cold water lapping at his shins, his thighs, nearly loses it when the icy surge skims his nuts, but he manages to hold it in.
Jaxon turns toward her, smiling through gritted teeth. “You coming?” he asks. “The water’s great.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“Would I lie to you?”
Millie considers this, then kicks off her shoes and shuffles forward until the water touches her toes. She shrieks and tries to jump back, but Jaxon catches her hand.
“Don’t you fucking dare!” she yelps as he sweeps her up into his arms and turns, as if about to dump her in the surf—which he’d never actually do, he’s not a total douche—but his heel catches on a stone, or shell, and he loses his balance and they both go down screaming in the icy surf.
* * *
AFTER, AS THEY WALK BACK UP TO the house, clothes wet and teeth chattering with cold, Millie shoots him a look and asks if he’s okay.
“You seemed kind of down,” she explains. “Back there on the beach. Before I whistled. Not that I was spying . . .”
“Stalker.”
She shoves him playfully. “I mean it,” she says. “You can tell me.”
“I was just thinking . . .” he starts.
Jaxon considers telling her about the Lightspeed Saga, about its cancellation, how it feels like a death he can’t grieve, and he’s afraid because it was the best thing he’d ever written, and it still wasn’t enough, and what does that mean for him.
Instead, he just flashes a crooked grin, and finishes, “. . . about how I’m going to wipe the floor with all of you.”
Millie rolls her eyes. “Oh yeah?”
“Oh yeah,” he says, throwing an arm around her shoulders.
Time to stop fucking around and get to work.