Beauty Mark

Chapter 5

I lived on caffeine and spent every waking moment writing as I pushed to finish my rough draft. I'd grossly underestimated how long it would take me to write a novel, and in the process of researching where to go with it once I had finished, I had found that not only was the writing process longer, but securing an editor had been a challenge. Then there was the need for a cover. And I debated whether I wanted to query an agent in an effort to obtain a contract with a publishing house or self-publish.

The needs were on a mile-long list, and every time I thought I had one issue figured out, three more arose. This process was not for the faint at heart, nor the sleep deprived.

My savings were dwindling, my social life was non-existent, and my reality laid in the pages of a book that had yet to make it on actual paper.

"Callie, rent is due. I need your half so we don't get charged with a late fee," Hayden called.

With my yoga pants and a tank top on and my hair twisted into a knot on top of my head, I met her in front of the fridge. "I'll stop by the bank today and get cash. I'm out of checks."

Reaching into the fridge, I grabbed the creamer and poured myself a cup of coffee before going to my makeshift office at Starbucks. I'd long since quit buying their coffee and just preferred to utilize their space and Wi-Fi.

"You've got to be running out of cash. At what point are you going to give up this pipe dream and get a job?" She didn't mean to be hurtful; she simply didn't understand.

"I have plenty of money." Lie. "And I'm not giving up." Truth. I wouldn't quit. I'd had a taste of freedom-to be able to work at my own pace, to enjoy life outside of a cubicle-and I couldn't ever go back.

Making eye contact, Hayden raised her brows in question. Yes, she was calling my bullshit, but I refused to give in.

"What?" I asked in a high-pitched squeal.

"I'm not stupid, Callie. You think I can't hear you on the phone or don't know you never spend a penny unnecessarily. I know things are tight, so why don't you get a job and do this on the side?" It was a legitimate question, just not one I could answer.

I shrugged. "I'm not there yet. I'd rather struggle and keep doing this than go back to nine-to-five."

Hayden didn't know what to say. She'd quit arguing and had tried to be supportive. So much so that she'd helped me set up social media sites for my book. My best friend was doing promotional work for me, although it was all as new to her as it was to me. She didn't know anything about marketing a romance novel. It was hard to push a product that didn't yet exist. There was nothing tangible to offer anyone.

I hadn't told her about the enormous outlay of money going to an editor in the next week or the cost of a cover designer. If she had any idea what I was really putting into this, she would flip her lid. I didn't mention any of it because it just gave her more fuel for her fire, and right now, it was a blazing inferno that didn't need any more gasoline. Between my not working for three months, living expenses, and the cost of this book, my savings were depleting at more than twice the rate I had anticipated.

We left the apartment at the same time. Hayden headed off to her fantastic job as a graphic designer-her life's dream-and I, to Starbucks to live mine. I realized as I stepped out of the car and into the parking lot, I'd left my coffee sitting on the counter. I let out a long sigh as I reached back into my console to count change for a cup of coffee. I desperately needed the caffeine kick to push through today, and hopefully, finish the manuscript.

Once I reached the patio, I put my backpack in my assigned seat and continued into the store to stand in line behind Brainiac. Spreadsheet Girl was already at her table, and I hadn't seen Muscle Man in days. I wondered if his girlfriend had finally put an end to his charade on the patio, or maybe he needed to move on for new clientele. It was weird to think I'd been coming here daily for over three months and saw the same people all the time, the same baristas, the same regulars, but none of us ever spoke.

Brainiac retrieved his drink before stepping outside, and I sidled up to the counter. The girl at the register couldn't be more than nineteen, pretty little thing, but uninterested in quality customer service and bored with the task at hand.

"What can I get for you?" Her voice was almost as peppy as the way she chomped her gum and popped it in her mouth; I watched her chew on that gum for a solid three blinks of the eye before I responded.

With my attention on my wallet, I ordered. "Venti sugar-free, non-fat, vanilla soy, double shot, no foam, extra hot, peppermint white chocolate mocha with light whip and extra syrup. Please." I looked up just in time to see the girl roll her eyes.

I held her stare slightly longer than necessary, and the little heifer puckered her lips and raised her eyebrows, daring me to say something back. A guy-another worker-walked behind her at the same time our silent exchange took place, and he popped her on the ass. Turning to him, she winked, then grinned back at me with this eat-s**t, I'm-untouchable look. I laughed at her arrogance, which appeared to irritate her more than my original order.

I handed her a pile of change to pay for the drink when she sneered, "What's your name?"

I should've been the bigger person, but I couldn't help it. That little twit, working as a cashier at Starbucks thought she was better than me. "Callie. Do you need me to spell that for you?" I didn't wait for her response before I slowly drew out each letter in painful enunciation. "That's C-A-L-L-I-E."

She wrote my name on the cup, slid it down the counter, and then handed me my receipt. Silently. I took note of her nametag. "Have a great day, Trish."

She squinted, barely shaking her head. I beamed a bright smile back and scooted down to collect my coffee at the other end of the bar.

I couldn't stop the mental ranting that took place in my head as I made my way back outside to my table with my pretentious drink in hand. Hell, everyone who got coffee at Starbucks was buying hoity-toity s**t. I didn't know why she cared what I ordered.

As I pulled out my chair, I sensed someone staring before I saw him, and the hairs on the back of my neck rose. I turned in alarm to see Brainiac's pastel-green eyes gazing in my direction. Without his glasses, the contrast was even more striking than I'd realized. I couldn't stop staring. My lips parted, knowing I needed to say something, but words escaped me.

The world tilted on its axis, and time slowed as he stood to extend his hand. "Hey. I'm Davis."

Still standing there like a daft cow, I nodded. No words, just a goofy grin. I realized that I still wasn't moving, and I desperately to say something to avoid looking like a moron, but nothing came. I was lost in his eyes, mesmerized by their beauty; the color was the most satisfying thing I'd ever seen. They could calm the most vicious of storms and make the darkest day bright.

Then he smiled-a quirky smile. He appeared to think it was cute that I couldn't formulate words. I'd seen this guy every day for months, and he'd never struck me the way I saw him in this moment. The chemistry was undeniable.

He grabbed my hand still hanging by my side to shake it. "And your name is?" His teeth were almost as stunning as his eyes-perfectly white and straight-all but one. It was just a hint of crooked and somehow made his smile all that much more.

As if he'd smacked me, I finally came to my senses and shook my head. "Gah. Sorry. I'm Callie. It's nice to meet you."

I waited for him to release my hand, but he stood in front of me without letting go. The chemistry was undeniable-it was written all over his expression, hidden in his eyes, and evident in the fact that he was still touching me. When he finally released his grasp on my fingers, it was as if a great wind had just swept through and took something that didn't belong to it. I glanced around, looking for what was missing, only to realize it was just his touch. I grazed the nape of my neck, a habit I'd formulated in college when I was nervous.

"Would you like to join me, Callie?"

"Oh, I'm not sure. I have to finish this today. I'm down to the wire before it's due to my editor." The words tumbled from my mouth, sounding more like an excuse than the truth.

His expression changed, mirroring his surprise. "You're a writer?"

I shrugged as I blew off the question, unsure of how to answer it. I didn't believe I could claim writing as a profession since I hadn't published anything and hadn't made any money. "Meh, more like a starving artist."

Davis pulled out my seat and then joined me at my table. "Aren't we all?"

"Are you a writer?" It would make sense; he looked the part.

"Something like that."

Not wanting to pry, I didn't ask further questions. He'd evaded the initial one as much as I had, so I left it at that. His gaze caught mine as we sat in what should have been uncomfortable silence, yet strangely seemed as natural as the sun rising in the morning. I took in every detail from the way his hair curled at the ends to his thick dark eyelashes surrounding his pale-green eyes. His features were strong, his nose perfectly straight, just right for his face, his jawline chiseled but not overly so. I didn't know for sure, but it appeared he'd gained a little weight since I first noticed him.

I'd been rendered stupid and speechless as I stared at his forearms and detailed every inch of his body. His skin had darkened, sitting in the sun day after day, and the veins running the length of his arms were sexy as hell. Even the way his fingers wrapped around his coffee cup was entrancing, and when the man's arm flexed as he brought the cup to his mouth, I nearly groaned out loud. Davis's lips parted just before they reached the rim, his tongue peeked through the slit, and then quickly escaped my view.

I was in deep s**t. My lady parts had warmed at the sight of his mouth, his lips, his tongue. The visual in my head was more than I could handle. Without thought, I fanned my face to calm my arousal.

"Are you hot?" He eyed me with concern, which I found endearing, but I wasn't unsure why.

Instantly, I stopped waving my hand around, as if his noticing had doused my s*x drive with cold water. "Hot flash, I guess. I'm fine."

He tilted his head, changing his perception and altering his view of me. It made me uncomfortable, and I found myself needing to exit the situation immediately. With no viable excuse to leave, I blurted out, "I really need to get to work."

He nodded and backed his chair away from the table. "Maybe we could talk sometime after your deadline?"

I'd hurt his feelings. It was quick, and I almost missed the change in his tone. He didn't wait for an answer to his question as he moved back to his seat. I sucked at this kind of thing. I didn't do strangers well because I was self-conscious and awkward until I got to know someone. Unfortunately, that also meant someone had to really want to get to know me for me to ever move past my insecurities.

I opened my mouth to apologize but decided against it. Instead, I took out my laptop, opened the lid, and stared at the screen. His watchful eye shifted from me back to his own computer before I lost sight of him and homed in on my manuscript.

There weren't many days I lost myself in the words, a few hours yes, but never entire days. My wrists would hurt, my fingers would get tired, and my brain normally refused to function. Today was one of those rare days that everything came together, and it was amazing to type the final words in the manuscript I'd been working on for so long. Torn was a story that had rolled around in my head for so long I could hardly remember a time it wasn't milling about. Now my characters had life. My view on the screen changed as my cheeks lifted, and my lips turned up into a smile.

His voice startled me. "You look happy."

When I focused on him, I noticed the sun had started to set, and the day was completely gone. "Yeah, I guess I am. There's nothing like typing the end."

"So you write stories?" He spoke from across the aisle as he sat at his table. He'd left enough distance for me to feel safe, so I engaged.

"Novels." I thought about it and corrected myself. "Novel. This is my first."

"Yeah? That's pretty amazing."

It was amazing, but I didn't want to sound like a jackass, so I just responded with a grin.

"What do you write about?"

Heat crept up my cheeks, and I knew they were blistery red. No one, not even Hayden, had asked me what I was writing. I hesitated to answer, but the grimace on my face must have given me away.

The right side of his mouth lifted into a half-smile that melted my insides. "Romance, I take it?"

I didn't know what the hell was with this guy today. In the months I'd sat here, he had never once turned me on. Take off his glasses and I suddenly wanted to strip for him and mount him. f**k. Thinking about riding him didn't help the color of my embarrassment.

"E.L. James romance, or Nicholas Sparks?"

My eyes went wide, and my jaw dropped just slightly. "I'm not sure whether I should be impressed at your ability to reference authors by genre or appalled you know their names." I laughed the words as I spoke.

"I wouldn't be either if I were you. I told you I'm a writer of sorts myself. I'm a lover of all literature from the classics to New York Times bestsellers. I read a lot."

"Any favorites?"

"Authors?" he responded.

"Yeah. If you have a spare day to pick up a read by your favorite author, who would you chose first?"

"Depends, am I reading alone or with someone?"

I giggled. "Isn't reading a solitary activity?"

"It doesn't have to be. You can read to children who don't know how, elderly who can't see, or a lover to express emotion."

I tried not to show my shock, but I was sure it was abundantly clear. I swallowed hard, having no clue where to go with this information.

"Have you never read to anyone?" His pale-green eyes twinkled, and I wanted to get drunk on the glitter.

I tried to remember ever sharing my favorite books or poems with anyone, but couldn't for the life of me recall a time I had anyone to share them with. Not verbally. I'd had friends at Sarah Lawrence I would make suggestions to for good reads, and we would discuss literature, but we never read to each other. "Of course I have, but not in years and never to anyone who could read themselves-unless it was in class, but that doesn't count."

"You're missing out, Callie. It can be very intimate." His light tone made me wonder if this was his hitting on me.

I desperately needed to normalize the conversation before I ended up begging Davis to take me home to have his way with me. "What do you write?"

"Depends. I do a lot of freelance work, so I write copy for websites, marketing firms, financial garb, but I also write fiction. I have a deep love of history, so it's usually the theme of my work. I wish I had more time to work on my own manuscripts, but my days seem to be filled with work for other people that pays the bills."

I nodded, wondering if that's what would end up happening to me. I'd quit my job to be able to write, but if I couldn't make a living, I'd have to do what Davis does and take on jobs that cut me a check. That thought sobered me. It wasn't a solution I had considered before now. I'd always assumed I would succeed, but hell, everyone thought that. Not to mention, artists failed daily.

"You okay? It looks like I lost you in that pretty little head of yours?"

"What?" I stumbled out of my thoughts and back to the present. "Oh, sorry." The truth came falling out of my mouth before I could stop it. "I've never considered not succeeding at this." I stared at the words illuminated before me.

His voice turned my focus back to him. "What do you mean?"

"Nothing." I waved him off. "You don't want to hear this."

The sky continued to lose color as the night began to steal the day.

"I do. Tell me. There's not much you could be considering I haven't faced. I have to have at least ten years on you."

"Wait. What? How old are you?" Suddenly his age held more interest than his wisdom.

He laughed, and oh, what a sweet sound. Melodic but not overly deep, just comforting. "Forty."

"There's no way."

Davis pulled his wallet from his back pocket and extracted his driver's license. Sure enough. Davis Wright Inman. Forty years old.

"What about you?"

"Twenty-nine."

I pushed out the chair he'd sat in earlier today with my foot, offering him a place to park, which he accepted.

"So tell me, Callie, what did you mean you never imagined not succeeding?"

Leaning back in the chair, I crossed my right leg over my left and picked the pilling off my leggings. His hand covered mine, and I lifted my eyes to meet his. "I don't know. When I quit my job to chase...this...." I waved my hands around in circles, indicating my computer and notebooks. "I never considered failure. I assumed I'd be successful. I assumed I'd make money, but when you said you have to do freelance work, it dawned on me how many writers or artists, in general, are never able to make a living on their craft. I made no provision for that in my plan."

He casually assessed the words I'd just uttered. "Failure's relative, Callie. I love what I do. Is it exactly what I envisioned when I left grad school? No, but I'd rather have freedom than a cubicle. I still write every day. I make a living writing. It's just not the novels I anticipated it would be. It's not the poetry that lines countless notebooks in my house. But my words are all over the world, and countless people read them on some pretty high-powered sites and marketing materials."

"But does that really fulfill the fantasy? Because it wouldn't for me. I don't want to write copy for other people. I want to narrate the stories in my head. I want fans to know my characters, hear the voices, see the images. I want to create those for other people."

"Ahh. So if you can't do it the way you envisioned, then you've failed?"

I shrugged. I needed far more time than the two minutes that had just passed to contemplate the notion. "Maybe. Maybe not. Like I said, it just isn't something I've considered." I watched the sky over his head as darkness erased the day.

"Maybe it's just your perspective. It's possible to touch people in ways you never imagined your gift would."

I could've listened to him talk for hours. His voice was smooth, elegant. The way he enunciated his words demonstrated a worldly knowledge I didn't have. It was proper. Few people ever made me feel inferior, but this guy held that power in spades. Suddenly, I was in awe of his intellect and experience. "How so?"

"I have a love of history. I write historical fiction. Having studied history has provided me insight to be able to write medical copy, comparing old and new, writing verbiage to convince someone to try a solution new to the market that could revolutionize their life. While it's not historical fiction, it still embraces history and my desire to reach people. I don't consider that failure...adapting maybe, but certainly not failing."

Studying his face, I searched for signs of bullshit but found nothing. "At what point did you give up writing what you wanted to?"

His chest rumbled with laughter again, but this time, I felt ignorant...like I'd missed the punch line to a joke. "Who said I gave up?"

"Refocused then."

"No, Callie. I still write historical fiction. I still publish. I have eight novels out with a small press. I make decent money doing it. I could survive off it, but just not in the way I want to live. I want to travel, to see the history I've studied. Doing the freelance frequently enables that by providing me trips to places I could never have afforded. I get to do a job for someone else while being able to research my own work. It's a win-win. A compromise of sorts, but certainly not a failure."

He allowed me to absorb his words while he took in my face. I wondered what thoughts ran through his head, but I didn't dare ask. He'd likely answer, and his reply might scare me. I just wanted to soak in his time, his experience. I wanted to engage him in conversation but worried my feeble thoughts might be substandard to his intellectual mind.

When Davis smiled-that one tooth slightly out of place-I returned the sentiment.

"Would you like to get some dinner?" he asked.

I glanced at my watch, realizing I hadn't eaten all day, and it was nearly eight o'clock. It was funny how my body wouldn't remind me to eat when I was busy, but the moment it stilled, my stomach rumbled...loudly. Biting my lip, I knew I needed to refuse. I didn't have the money to go out to eat, and hell, I didn't know this guy.

As if he could read my mind, he said, "My treat. We can go right down the sidewalk to the Chinese place. We don't even have to ride in the same car." He eyed me closely. His voice changed with the next sentence, a sadness of sorts taking over. "I'd just like the chance to get to know you. I promise, nothing more."

"Okay."

I loved Chinese food, but something in the tone of his voice called to my heart, directly to my soul. It screamed at me, begged me to notice he needed help, he was hurting. He was damaged at the core. I was fooling myself to think I could be the salve he needed, but I couldn't bring myself to walk away without finding out.

This was going to end horribly. I had no business being with a man who was almost eleven years my senior. He was class, and I was casual. His education extended beyond a lecture hall. Something about him was so far out of my league, but I couldn't put a finger on what it was.

I packed my things and put them in my car before returning to meet him in front of Starbucks. He extended his hand, and I readily accepted his invitation to hold it. The warmth of his fingers wrapped around mine, calming my spirit and soothing my soul. As we walked down the sidewalk, I was well aware that Davis Inman would forever change my life.