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No kidding. Having a restless night? I just pick up Levi’s book and bam, I’m down for the count.
It’s not that his work isn’t good. I don’t mean to take anything away from him. It’s just that it’s not my… cup of tea. For years I read software magazines and crap like that. Now I read business journals that help me manage the windfall I earned from selling my company. But the highbrow stuff Levi writes?
Not my favorite.
I suck down the last of my beer just as Amalia is starting to look impatient and throw a twenty on the bar. I toss my leather jacket over my shoulder and walk up to her table.
“Hello,” I say.
She looks up, annoyed. From what I’ve been told by Levi and Henry, she looks this way a lot. Lucky for her, she’s still pretty, and God knows, I love a challenge.
“I’m waiting for someone,” she says in a clipped voice, looking past me to the front door again.
Classicbeat it, assholemove.
I’m tempted to just sit my ass down and really annoy her but figure I ought to ease into things.
“I know you’re waiting. Amalia.”
Thisgets her attention.
“Who the hell are you? I told you, I’m waiting for someone. I’m not interested. And how did you know my name, anyway? They told you at the hostess stand, didn’t they? Well, I’ll have to have a talk with them about giving out women’s names to strange men. That shit is not cool. Now, please be on your way.”
She waves me off like an annoying fly.
Damn, she’s hard-core. Just like the guys said. And I’m loving it.
“Uh, Amalia, I’mDorothy.”
She squints. “Huh?”
“I couldn’t tell you who I was over email, so just signed off as Dorothy. That was my grandmother’s name and it was the first thing that came to mind. Sorry about that.”
She looks me up and down, like she’s trying to figure out if I’m really a dude or a Dorothy, then purses her lips.
“Oh. I see. That was a crappy thing to do, but have a seat then. And what is your name, since you sure don’t look like a Dorothy?”
Fuck, she’s beautiful, her nipples hard and pointed under her strappy top. When I’m closer, finally in the intimate booth seat she chose for us, I find she smells amazing, like a mixture of roses and something spicy. She’s definitely not the type togo overly sweet with scents, and her selection of fragrance is perfection.
I extend my hand over the table. “I’m Wyatt. Wyatt Zimmerman. I sent the story to your company. There is no Ryder Night. The email address you used was designed to protect the writer’s identity.”
The innocent, as it were.
12
WYATT
I takea sip of my beer while Amalia sticks with her ice water, having declined to order anything as if she’s not decided whether she’s sticking around or bolting.
“Could you say that again, please?” she asks.
I slow it down. “I sent the book on behalf of another person. I probably shouldn’t have, but there we are.”
She sits back in the booth, arms crossed, nodding slowly. “I see. Well, I’m assuming that since you sent it, you’d like to see it published. Right?”
This is where things might go south.
“You see, Amalia,” I say after ordering a us bottle of red wine. I’m hoping this will help pry her fingers off her water glass. “I can’t say whether or not it should be published becauseIdidn’t actually write it.”
