Authors: Amber L. Johnson
Maybe
Maybe
By
Amber L. Johnson
First published by The Writer’s Coffee Shop, 2015
Copyright © Amber L. Johnson, 2015
The right of Amber L. Johnson to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her under the
Copyright Amendment (Moral Rights) Act 2000
This work is copyright. Apart from any use as permitted under the Copyright Act 1968, no part may be reproduced, copied, scanned, stored in a retrieval system, recorded or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
All characters and events in this Book – even those sharing the same name as (or based on) real people – are entirely fictional. No person, brand, or corporation mentioned in this Book should be taken to have endorsed this Book nor should the events surrounding them be considered in any way factual.
This Book is a work of fiction and should be read as such.
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(Australia)
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(USA)
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Paperback ISBN- 978-1-61213-370-6
E-book ISBN- 978-1-61213-371-3
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the US Congress Library.
Cover Image ©
Jennifer Accinelli / Four Smiles Photography
Cover design by Jennifer McGuire | JEMBookDesigns.com
www.thewriterscoffeeshop.com/AJohnson
Dedication
For Aaron, who used a marker on my hand to tell me he loved me seventeen years ago, for saying the three words that started this entire thing before he left on tour
—
“
Come with me.
”
I
’
m sorry I said I couldn
’
t go.
Thank you for all the backstage passes, for the songs you
’
ve written, and for the memories of late nights watching you onstage living out your dream.
My muse lies in you and your beats.
And I
’
ll always be your biggest fan.
PART 1
Chapter One
There are a lot of reasons why I’m in Texas.
To confirm the “talent.” To make sure they get enough attention to start their journey to rock stardom. To work my ass off and prove to my boss that it’s time for a promotion.
The list of things I’m
not
here for is just as long.
I’m not here to party. I’m not here to let a wannabe rock star get into my pants, which is why I travel with a married couple. And I am most certainly not here for . . .
“Looks like fun, Emily.” Laura tips her chin toward the ruckus on 6th Street while we wait for her husband to return from finding a parking place.
Fun.
“Five weeks. No fun. Work, work, work.” I have reminded her of this before. “Plus, every time you party, you get mouthy and handsy, and not with your husband.” I like to tease her because their relationship is so solid. She could probably shoot down the moon and he’d tell her she had good aim.
“I wish we could have seen the bats.” She’s pouting because she wanted to see them fly out from beneath the Congress Street Bridge, but we’re a few weeks early. In mid-March, they all emerge in a giant cloud, and it’s become a tourist attraction. Since our stay is only five weeks long, I’m not sure she’ll be able to see it before we leave.
At the moment, I’m more interested in settling and getting a good night’s sleep. The bats? Not so much.
The five-story building in front of us is off-white and pretty, standing in stark contrast to the bars that line 6th Street. It’s nothing like the last place I lived. I assume the company got a good deal on this one, because the apartment in Little Five Points was pretty much a rathole. I loved it, though.
There was a time when I lived in a really nice place, but this new life of mine is a constantly changing adventure. I just wish I wasn’t getting burnt out on this job I used to adore.
The door is locked so I try the buzzer. There’s no answer. Knocking gets me nowhere, and Laura tries banging on the window; inside, the building is silent, but outside the people on the street are loud as hell. Grier, now that he’s here, is smarter than us both and calls the landlord on his cell.
Before he can say a word, the door opens and we’re met with the icy glare of an irritated man. He has a Blow Pop stick peeking out of his mouth, and when he pulls it out, it clicks against his teeth. His lips are red, and my eyes zone in on the candy. Cherry is my favorite.
“What?” His eyes wander over all three of us, landing for a second on my face.
I point to the name plates. “We’re your new tenants.”
The hard angles of his features soften, and he backs away to hold the door open. A flush of embarrassment settles across the lower portion of his jaw. “I’m sorry. I had no idea you were showing up tonight. I was told tomorrow.”
Grier clears his throat. “Early flight.”
“My mistake, then. Come in. I’ll help you with your bags.”
I used to live in New York, so this act of kindness catches me off guard. In the foyer, he rolls the larger bags toward the elevator and then turns to speak once again.
“Did you catch which floors you’re on?”
“I’m on the second, and they’re on the fourth.”
Inside the elevator, I’m almost pressed against his worn denim, and I keep my head down to stop from staring because his eyebrow piercing keeps catching in the light. The urge to look up and check it out is something I have to push back, so I ask a question instead. “Are you the landlord?”
That stick is back in his mouth, and he winces when he removes it again. “No. I was hired to help with the renovations.” It’s like he finally realizes that we don’t know who the hell he is, and he shakes his head a little before pointing at his chest. “I’m Tyler. I should have told you that earlier.”
“Emily.” I jerk my thumb toward the other two. “Laura and Grier.”
The pleasantries end there. We start to ascend, but we’re moving slower than any other elevator I’ve been on before. “This is what I was working on when you showed up. It’s a piece of shit. We have to go up to the fifth floor, then it opens on every single floor on the way down. I have no idea why.”
Sure enough, it stops, and we all stare out into the darkened hallway until the doors close again. On the fourth floor, my coworkers get out. Tyler holds the door again, but with his foot this time. He rolls their luggage as far as he can and hands them a set of keys from his pocket. Laura glances down and back up like she’s wondering why he had the keys in the first place.
“Plumbing,” he says, like it’s the most obvious answer in the world.
The elevator is crawling past the third floor when he addresses me. “I assume your last name is Portman. That was what the paperwork said for the buzzer cards.”
I glance at him again, avoiding the blue eyes that are staring at my face. “That’s me.”
We stop on the second floor, and he holds the doors and produces my key. Before I can ask, he offers an answer. “Your plumbing is fine. I was in there setting up that mirror and whatever that thing is that you shipped over.”
I smile, my chest flushing from embarrassment. “It’s a ballet barre.”
He leans against the door and extends his foot to prop it open. “Wasn’t there a movie with Natalie Portman in it about a ballerina? Are you related?”
I know the question is a jab, but the teasing makes me relax. I like teasing. Teasing, I’m good at.
His long fingers move from the back of his neck, up and over his head until he’s flattened the hair in the front. The brown tresses pop back up when his hand drops. I can tell it’s a nervous habit.
“
Black Swan
? Yeah, it was pretty good, but no, we’re not related. I hope you’re not disappointed.” I laugh, but I’m becoming tense again.
His eyes travel from my hands, which are clutching my bag, all the way up to my face before he grins. “Yeah, I’m not disappointed.” The elevator buzzes again, and he relents, stepping back inside. “Let me know if you need anything. By the way, I like your shirt.”
He’s descending before I have the chance to ask where I can find him, and I’m left wondering why he was staring at the Georgia peach on my chest. The T-shirt is old and worn, almost threadbare, and it hardly has any shape left to it. I’m not wearing a bra, though. The thought makes my cheeks burn red. Instead of letting it get to me, I unlock my new front door for the very first time.
The apartment is nice—fully furnished and filled with the barest amenities. Not that I need more. My stay will be short, and I’ll be so busy that I’ll only have about six hours to sleep every night, if I’m lucky.
It takes no time to unpack my little bag, but the tube I’ve been carrying for the past two years is something I take my time with. It’s a ritual of sorts, pulling the map from the container and splaying it across my new bed. My eyes wander over the little stickers that are stuck above each state in which I’ve worked since starting this job. On New York, there is an apple. Atlanta has a peach, but there’s also a red heart bleeding through the paper because it’s my favorite city and I was most successful there.
I wonder for a second whether I can find a bat sticker to mark Austin, and the thought makes me chuckle a little.
The new sheets are cool and the blanket is soft when I finally get to use them. My head hits the pillow just moments before I fall into a deep, fitful sleep. The dream makes my entire body tense. I’m on an island, and the natives have me tied to a tree while a steady drum beat thrums around us. When they approach, I try to scream, but there’s no sound to it. My feet don’t work. They’re leading me to a fire, and I think maybe they’re going to burn me alive. The beating drums are relentless. Right before they push me toward the flames, I break through the haze and sit straight up in the bed, my muscles coiled and my throat dry from my trapped scream. Sweat is rolling down the back of my neck, and my chest is soaked. It’s been a while since I’ve had an episode of sleep paralysis, but it scares the shit out of me every time.
