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I wanted to reply to her personally and let her know that I’d gotten her message and would send it off but I’d be here all day if I tried to reply to his letters. Instead, the email sent out the automated message which read:
Thank you for taking the time to write to Malachi Lord and for being such an amazing fan of his work. He truly enjoys getting these messages! We will forward it and I’ll let you know when he’s gotten it. Until then, join us at Lord Nation where fellow fans can share their love, support and overall thoughts of each novel.
Esther Noëlle,
Translation Editor.
Penohxi Publishing House.
Lord Nation Creator/Blogger.
“Hold the elevators!” I jumped at the sound of Rafi’s voice, and I rose to my feet as he ran towards the door after my grandfather.
“Grandpa?” I called out but he wasn’t listening. I wasn’t even sure he’d seen me. With his ear to the phone, he put his jacket on and got into the elevator. Rafi tried to get on after him but he shook his head.
“Rafi, what is it?” I asked as he rushed back to the hive and reached for the projector’s remote to turn on the television so that it would reflect on the glass of my grandfather’s office.
On screen we watched as a tall man with what looked like a tire iron broke the glass window of silver BWM, which was one of at least a dozen cars involved in the accident but it didn’t look like New York.
Smoke was coming out of the car and he pulled and pulled until the door budged open, then he lifted an elderly woman out of the car like bloody Superman. The camera zoomed in on his ashy, bloody, scratched up face as he yelled for help.
“What’s wrong with the volume?” Rafi banged the remote on his hand until he turned to us frustrated. “Forget about that. Guys, that’s Malachi Lord!”
“Shut up!” I yelled as we all moved in closer to see.
“He’s bloody hot man!” Diane gasped and then giggled. “I thought he was some old geezer who your grandfather knew, Esther.”
“Yeah,” I whispered staring at the replay over and over again, unable to take my eyes off him. He wasn’t hot…he was…beautiful. And to say that as he was bruised, cut up, and sweaty made me wonder what he looked like every day. It made me wonder if his eyes really were that blue.
“LADIES AND GENTLEMEN!”
“Ah!” Everyone covered our ears as the volume blasted on.
“Sorry!” Rafi said quickly turning it down enough for us to hear the anchor speak.
“As you can see, Malachi Lord, the award-winning and best-selling poet and novelist, who has all but avoided the public eye, refusing interviews, photos, even signings, leaped to the aid of an elderly woman who was trapped in her car. We have reports that despite the fact that he appeared fine during this ordeal, he fell unconscious due to the injuries he’d sustained only seconds after the video feed was cut. He was transferred to a local hospital where he is reportedly in a stable condition.”
“How do they know it’s him?” Leon asked as he chewed on the back of his pen. “I mean, come on? Romance novelist by day, superhero stud…also by day?”
Before all of us could speak our phones started to ring or beep.
It was a good question…a question everyone wanted to know. And the only two people who knew for sure if the man on screen was Malachi Lord, was Malachi Lord himself, and my grandfather, his agent, and publisher.
“I have Reader’s Digest on the line asking if it’s really him!”
“We say Penohxi Publishing House does not disclose any private information about our authors unless authorized to do so by said authors,” I said as they moved to their desks. “Say it over and over again like canaries until you’re either sick of answering the phones and tweeting or you clock out for the day.”
They all stared at me and I didn’t realize why until Rafi handed me a tissue. “You okay?”
I blinked a few times and sure enough water was coming out of my eyes and I had no idea why. This always seemed to happen!
“Yeah.” I wiped my face quickly and tried to deflect. “So does anyone have a better idea?”
“We’re canaries.” Rafi nodded as he answered his phone and, in a heavy Indian accent, repeated what I’d said. Everyone did so with the exception of Li-Mei, who instead of answering calls was making them. She’d dial, lift it to her ear, hang up and dial again. Panicked, she started to shake as she ran her hands through her blonde hair. Her beloved velvet cake pops lay on the ground crumbled and broken.
“Li-Mei? What is it?”
She pointed to the old woman being pulled out of the car. “The woman he’s carrying. That’s my mom!”
