Alice Close Your Eyes by Averil Dean Read Free Book Online

place,
sniffing around. What did you learn?”
    “Not much. I wasn’t there very long. I found the ships, the
blueprints. Are you an architect?”
    “Used to be.”
    “So what are you now?”
    “A carpenter.”
    I frown. “That’s kind of a step down, isn’t it?”
    “You could say that.”
    “Did one of your buildings collapse or something?”
    He smokes the last hit and tosses the roach overboard.
    “No, actually I was a very good architect. Everything I
designed is still standing, as far as I know.”
    “Then what—”
    “Curiosity killed the cat,” he says. “Something you might want
to consider.”
    “She had eight more lives if I remember right.”
    I get up and move to the end of the rail, letting the buzz wash
over me. The waves slosh languidly against the side of the boat.
    “I looked you up,” he says. “Alice Croft, author of Zebra Crossing . ‘A beguiling, gripping read.’ ‘Dark
and dazzling.’ Very impressive.”
    I shrug. I hate talking about my work, and especially about
reviews of my work. No one ever asks the right questions, and my answers always
seem stilted and inadequate. As soon as the books come out, I stash my copies in
the closet and try to forget about them.
    The Zebra series was a fluke as far
as I’m concerned. Something about the motley collection of boys—albino, meth
addict, freerunner, clairvoyant, all trapped inside a Scottish neo-Gothic
boarding school—captured the public’s attention. So much so that Gus Shiroff has
signed not only the foreign rights but film and TV, as well. Nothing has been
done with them so far, but there is talk of a cable series and wild speculation
about who might be cast in the lead roles.
    For me the whole thing is bewildering. Before the Zebra books I had never written for anyone but myself.
I sent out my original queries on a whim, expecting a much longer apprenticeship
before any of my writing became publishable. But Gus liked the first book right
away, and suddenly I found myself with a career and what seems like a
never-ending procession of deadlines—all good things, but for a loner with a
serious lack of business sense, it’s a bit much. On Gus’s advice, I’ve tried to
isolate myself as much as possible and concentrate on finishing the series.
    “A lot of loneliness in those books,” Jack says.
    I accept this in silence. It’s a common observation.
    “What about your family?”
    “Dead.” The word seems flat, so I keep talking to fill the
silence. “My grandmother died when I was nine, and my mom a year and a half
later.”
    “And your dad?”
    “Don’t know him.”
    “So who do you hang out with, then? What do you do?”
    “Write.”
    “That’s it?”
    “Pretty much. Very glamorous, this lifestyle.”
    “No boyfriend?”
    “Not at the moment.”
    He is quiet, looking at me. When he speaks, his voice sounds
different, lower in pitch.
    “Not at the moment,” he repeats, as if to himself.
    He gets to his feet and moves toward me, hands in his pockets,
his face lost in shadow. For a second I forget what he looks like. His features
won’t come together in my mind.
    He stops, leaning against the rail.
    “Last night you had a knife in your hand. Now look at you.”
    I glance around at the deserted docks, where rows of boats bob
silently in the inky water.
    I don’t like this, I want to say. Take me home, I want to go home.
    My empty fingers curl into a fist, pressed to my thigh.
    “You wish you had one now,” he says softly. “Don’t you.”
    He closes the distance between us, lifts his hand and traces
the column of my neck, down the front of my T-shirt—the barest brush with the
tip of his forefinger.
    A bone-deep shiver breaks inside me, as though my gears have
slipped and are juddering for purchase.
    He turns away and disappears through the cabin door. I close my
eyes, waiting. A minute later, a familiar song seeps into the cool night air, a
haunting, languid groove, and he’s back, his hand