The Last Writer Adriane Leigh (story reading TXT) 📖

me shooting to what must have been the rooftop apartment of the library. A croaky ding sounded as the box of hell came to a thudding stop, and relieved, I slid the lever open and nearly fell out of the doors when the panels opened.

“Well, hey there.”

A pair of arms caught me by the elbows, righting me on my sneakers.

“Are you number two?”

“Excuse me?”

“The other writer?” The arms spun me, a pair of dark-ocean eyes settling on mine. He smiled. “Are you her?”

“Her?” I pushed a hand over my face, backing away from his overly powerful cologne. “I guess. I’m the other writer-in-residence, yes. Did I miss anything?”

He shook his head, then turned back into the foyer. He tucked his hands into his jean pockets, then walked on worn leather boots to the windows. He finally replied, “I’ve been wondering if I missed something.”

“How long have you been here?” I followed him. “I’m Ryn Weaver, by the way.”

He smiled once. “Thax Bristol, nice to meet you.”

“Thax Bristol…the poet?”

“At your service.” He bowed, a charming grin crossing his boyish features. He was within my age range, maybe thirty at the very high end. “Have you read my work?”

“Not really,” I admitted. “I write fiction, and read it.”

“A one genre only kind of girl, huh? How much you must miss limiting your reading horizons like that.”

“I feel perfectly content, actually.”

His cheeks turned up higher with his grin. “I like you, Ryn Weaver. More than I thought I would.”

I mock-curtsied. “Glad to be of service.”

He laughed out loud then.

“Oh, the sound of laughter always sets my teeth on edge.” I heard the voice before I saw her. Thick and throaty, like she’d smoked cigarettes and sipped gin and tonics every night for the last forty years. “My new writers.”

I swallowed when her shadow evaporated into reality, a wave of dark curtains shrouding a hidden doorway seemingly her entry point.

“Hello, I’m Ryn Weaver.”

“Thax Bristol.” Thax waved, then shoved his hands back into his pockets.

I cleared my voice, stepping forward, hand outstretched.

The woman waved me off, elegant form tall and imposing with the presence of a prima ballerina. Only this one shrouded in layers of black satin and dark beaded lace. Her aura was more widow in mourning than bestselling author. Could this really be Yara Thornberry?

“Let’s see, where to start. Has Yarrow shown you to your rooms yet?” She settled herself in a captain’s chair in the corner before running her hands over the dark fabric of her skirt.

“No, m’am, I haven’t seen anyone until now,” Thax answered.

“I met someone downstairs, he showed me the elevator from the spiral stairwell.”

“I see.” She arched an eyebrow, eyes shrewd on my form. “Long silver hair?”

I nodded, tongue stuck in my throat.

“That’s my twin, he should be here any moment to show you where you’ll be sleeping. A few things before he gets here, the walls of this institution are sacred, please treat them as such. My approach is very unconventional, creativity flows from the unexpected, my aim is to keep you on your toes. You may not see me every day, but the writing sprints will keep you busy. Now, what’s a writer without a composition book?”

She stood, turning to an armoire in the corner. It creaked open noisily, and she grabbed a stack of a few black and white composition books in her hand and tossed them on the velvet settee between her and us. “When you need more—which you will—help yourself to them here.”

The familiar shuffling sounded again, and then the elevator door swept open to reveal the aging caricature of the man I’d seen earlier. I heard Thax make a small noise in his throat, before shuffling an inch closer to me. “Beware the walking dead up in here.”

I shot him a glare, but couldn't help the smile that twitched at my lips. At least Mr. Leather Boots had a sense of humor.

“Dinner,” the woman cleared her throat, eagle eyes slicing from across the room, “is on the third floor, there’s a small dining room near the stairwell. The cafe leaves leftovers on the buffet, help yourself to what’s left any time after nine.”

“Nine?” I asked before thinking.

“Do you need hearing aids, Ryn Weaver? I won’t be repeating myself.”

I shook my head, one last question burning on my lips.

“Yarrow, can you show them to their quarters, please?”

“Excuse me, pardon my question, but are you Yara Thornberry?” Thax, bold and brave, spoke up, and my inner cheerleader went wild.

Her eyebrows arched, lips twitching before she cast her eyes out to the window, which I could now see overlooked Bryant Park. “I am. Are you familiar with my work?”

“Who isn’t?” Thax’s eager eyes shot back and forth from Yara to her brother, Yarrow. “I’m a fan, the screenplay adaptation of your book last year wasn’t the best it could have been, but it was amazing to watch the Central Park mist chasing down its victims one-by-one.”

I shook my head, more confused and wishing I’d done my reading homework beforehand. Yara Thornberry had authored hundreds of books over her career, choosing one to start with had felt like an impossible task so I’d opted to subvert them all in favor of interviews she’d given over the years instead.

“There was a horrible screenwriter attached to that project, the director owed a favor and it was out of my hands.” She seemed genuinely annoyed still. “That's what you get with Hollywood, all smoke and mirrors. It’s rarely about the story. That’s why I’ve chosen to only write books moving forward. I’ve refused to sell the film rights to any of my titles since because of it.”

Thax stood motionless, probably as unsure of what to say as I was.

“Do we have any assignments tonight?” I offered, to break the silence.

She only shook her head, mouth a thin line. “Overachiever, are we Ryn Weaver? You’ll know when the time is right.”

And with that, Yara Thornberry nodded once at Yarrow, and then disappeared behind the velvet curtain she’d appeared from, a