It was a snowy Wednesday morning in Manhattan, and the temperature was a bit unseasonably chilly, just cold enough for the rain to freeze into oversized, individual flakes.
Vinsetta’s flight had just arrived at John F. Kennedy Airport. As she exited through the sliding glass doors, she felt the familiar chill against her face, wrapped a scarf around her neck, and took a deep breath.
She was about to embark upon the biggest acting job of her career.
With cash in hand, Vin hailed a taxi, deciding not to take an Uber. The driver, a man with an Indian accent, made small talk, and she bantered back politely in one- or two-sentence replies.
Although she was a well-known, B-list Hollywood actress, the guy didn’t recognize Vin, which was of instant comfort to her. She felt her stomach tie itself into a knot as they drove through the upscale neighborhoods she once gallivanted in as a young girl.
X X X
They arrived at the flat that had been arranged as her rental for the next week, which was situated in the center of the West Village. As Vin hoisted herself from the right-side door onto the city sidewalk, she grinned. She pulled her magenta overnight bag and light pink carry-on from the back seat, handed the driver the $67.00 fare, and turned to look up at the building where she knew she was going to make someone — no, everyone — exceptionally happy.
Vin walked, with her unusually light luggage in tow, up to the stairs, where she was all set to meet the Airbnb host. As she waited, she grabbed her phone and checked in with Mary.
Hey, just arrived, she typed. Waiting for Lark to show up.
Ok, great. Let me know if there are any issues.
Will do.
Vin stood and waited for nearly fifteen minutes while the snow encircled her. It felt like the entire world passed her by as people scurried through the streets around her.
She was scrolling through the most recent comments she’d received on Instagram when she felt a presence nearby and looked up from her phone. A strikingly handsome, rugged man walked around the corner a mere fifty or so feet from her. He didn’t have the cliché appearance of a New York City resident: he wasn’t slick or sleek with his hair or his wardrobe.
His six-foot-two frame approached the stoop with a seemingly less-than-confident attitude. His light brown hair, sprinkled with salt-and-pepper strands, was tousled, much like that of a stereotypical hockey player. He had deep, brown eyes that, although they looked nearly yellow in this light, didn’t unsettle her. He looked at her with a gaze that was reminiscent of a soldier returning home from war to set eyes on his beautiful wife for the first time in a year.
Vin quickly recognized him: Larkland Rozsak. The guy was a well-known, NYC-Times-best-selling author, whose works were published at-large by a major local book company. He penned mostly thriller and mystery fiction novels and was known to live “under the radar” so much that his fans, and peers, never knew who he really was. He managed to keep his private life exactly that — private.
As such, Vin didn’t let on that she’d figured out his identity. Not even a little bit.
Larkland stopped directly in front of her, almost towering over her five-foot-five, 130-pound frame.
“Hey, I’m Lark,” he said — ever so humbly, yet with a slight touch of arrogance. “You ready to see the place? It’s pretty badass.”
He knew who Vin was. She was sure of it.
She gazed up at Larkland, flashing him a quirky smile.
“You bet. I’m Vinsetta, by the way. And I’m kinda ‘badass’ myself.”
Even if he does know, she reminded herself, I can’t let it get to me.
They went up the seven steps together, side-by-side, which Vin found to be a bit odd. Typically, she’d follow closely behind the other person. Larkland hadn’t offered to take her bags, either. Maybe he was trying to make it clear that he wasn’t interested in being a gentleman, for fear he’d come across as expressing a more-than-cordial interest in her.
After walking through the main corridor and up two flights of stairs, they walked into the 900-square-foot apartment, which Larkland had called his “author loft” in his correspondence with Mary.
The place was unbelievable. It had 20-foot ceilings with exposed brick and ducts, and floors splashed with drips of paint — no doubt from their being left carelessly uncovered during redecorating. It was a beautiful disaster, almost. The windows were uncovered, too — odd for an apartment on the second floor. Nearly anyone walking by could see clear into the space: the one large, open room divided into a bedroom, kitchen and living room, all of which were within just a few feet of each other.
It was perfect for an author. Cozy black-and-white chairs and writing nooks were nestled up in several places, set out as if moving just a few feet would take him to an entirely new country. Vin also noticed journals everywhere and writing pads with pens shoved inside them scattered about in random spots.
A true writer’s life, she supposed. Were all authors this messy? It was clean, no doubt; but she could immediately tell this was where Larkland would get lost in his own words and stories.
Intrigued by her – no, his – surroundings, Vin was more than ready to be part of his next story — one that was likely going to be majorly fucked up from this day forward.
