Page 1 of Finding Michael

Chapter One

“I’m so stuck it’s not even funny.” Tristan stared at his computer screen and groaned. He hadn’t written a word in more than a week. Writer’s block wasn’t his enemy and the occasional day without writing wasn’t the end of the world. But he hadn’t been able to work out an idea or even sketch a thin plot for anything.

He glanced over at the doorway. He hadn’t seen his butler in a while and didn’t like talking to himself. “Dennis?” He drummed his fingers on the desk top. “Are you there?”

The dry spells in his writing were getting closer together. He hadn’t produced a bestselling novel in the last two years. His last three books were well reviewed and had sold a good number of copies, but none were the fourth breakout book he needed. If he didn’t come up with a novel that sold well, he’d lose his contract with his publisher.

Part of him wanted to be angry. How dare they dump him? He’d sold over a million copies of his first three books and made the expected lists with all four. His publisher should have been grateful to have him on the roster.

Then there was the other part of him that never could quite come to terms with his ability to write. Throughout his life, all he’d wanted to do was make stories seem real. He could spin a yarn with the best storytellers, but he tended to downplay his talents. All the people who’d told him writing a book was easy would come to mind and he’d give in to his fears that he’d never produce another great work.

God, he needed a drink, a vacation and a good fuck. Unfortunately, he didn’t have any booze in the apartment, hadn’t gone away in a year and wasn’t in a relationship.

He’d have to settle for his hand and porn later.Damn it.

Then there was his muse…the uncooperative asshole. The muse wasn’t talking to him, which meant the characters weren’t either. Once he went down the rabbit hole of thinking about his inspiration, or lack thereof… That was when he got himself into trouble. If he didn’t write the next big thing, he’d have to dip into his trust fund to finance his career. He snorted. Most people wouldn’t think twice. If they were in his shoes, they’d use the money his parents had set aside for him and have a life. Not him. He’d prefer not to touch the surplus he’d saved up until it was necessary. But if he didn’t bring in cash soon, he’d have no choice.

Dennis strolled into the room and nodded. “Yes, sir.” He placed a stack of letters onto the desk, then clasped his hands together. “Did you need me?” If nothing else, his butler had great timing. Another minute longer and Tristan would’ve given in to another bout of depression.

“Thank you.” Tristan flipped through his correspondence. Dennis had been the father-figure Tristan hadn’t had often as a teenager. He knew Tristan better than anyone and tended to keep him on course. “Denny, I don’t know what to do about this writer’s block.” He scanned the return addresses on the letters. One from his publisher, one from a former boyfriend and three bills. He sighed. Bills sucked. He noticed the blank space on one of the envelopes. His address had been typed. “What’s this?” He turned the letter around. “I don’t remember signing up for mailing lists or anything that wouldn’t put a return address on it.”

“I saw that. Perhaps it’s one of the letters from a neighbor for one of the local fundraising groups.” Dennis cleared the empty takeout boxes from the coffee table. “I’ll be right back.”

Tristan waited for his butler to leave the room, then opened the odd letter. His chest tightened as he read the words. He should’ve guessed the plain envelope would contain a letter from his stalker-slash-fan.

Write about my town—Lewiston. I’m waiting.

He sank back in his seat and tossed the letter onto the desk. All of his stories were based in small towns. He’d picked the states at random and made up the names of his towns, but each was based on little burgs and crossroads he’d passed through during his various travels. He stated in the acknowledgments of each novel that the towns were fictitious representations of many places…never anywhere in particular.

He should turn the damn letter over to the police. But what would they do? He hadn’t been threatened. He’d been asked rather bluntly, yes. Threats? No. And he had no idea who the letter-writer was. How could he inform the cops if he had no leads?

Tristan closed his laptop, then scrubbed the back of his hand across his mouth. He couldn’t seem to put a foot right of late. Everything seemed to be disastrous—he’d lost his last boyfriend to another man, he couldn’t write for shit, if he didn’t write he’d be dropped, he had a bitching fan…what else could go wrong?

“Sir?” Dennis returned to the room. “This letter just arrived certified. I believe it’s from a lawyer. A Jamie Meyer. According to the accompanying letter, it concerns your Uncle Al.” He offered up the thick envelope.

“Uncle Al? Jamie Meyer?” He hadn’t heard from his mother’s brother in ages. “Hang on, I don’t know what this is about.” He opened the envelope, then withdrew the stack of pages. He barely read the words beyond the first two sentences. His uncle, his last link to his mother’s side of the family, had died and Tristan needed to collect his inheritance.Died. Uncle Al?The man might have been in his early eighties, but he was strong and healthy…wasn’t he?He turned back to his laptop and searched online for the lawyer. After the directive from the reader to write about a specific town, would that person be devious enough to cook up a false letter to get him to come to…?Nah.Sullavan wasn’t called Lewiston—that he knew. His thoughts were running away with him. Still, he wanted to make sure the lawyer was real.

The website for Jamie Meyer came up in the search. He clicked on the page. The photo stopped him short. Jamie Meyer was a darn good-looking man. Perfect hair, perfect teeth…a perfect suit based on what he could see from the shoulders-up pose. Tristan wondered what his voice was like.Christ.He needed to get laid so he’d stop wasting time with pictures on the screen and considering the guys as possible dates.

“Sir?”

He glanced up at Dennis.Shit.He needed direction. “My uncle has passed. I’ve got an inheritance coming and I need to sort it out with the lawyer.”

“Mr. Meyer?”

“Yes.” He opened a new tab on his internet browser. He had to get his act together and plan his last-minute trip.Well, fuck.“I’ll need changes of clothes for at least a week. I doubt this will be a quick process.” Maybe he’d get a story out of the situation and a better understanding of the uncle he hadn’t seen in forever. The last thing he needed was to get mixed up with the lawyer handling his uncle’s estate.

“Do you want me to secure flights and accommodation?” Dennis asked. “I can look in to renting a private jet. I know how you hate crowds.”

“You’re right, I hate going out into crowds.” But he had to do this himself. He couldn’t rely on servants forever. “Just give me an hour and I’ll have you help me pack.”

“I see.” Dennis didn’t sound convinced.

Tristan logged in to his email, then paused. “If my agent calls, I’m writing. I’m going to email her in a moment, but she can be persistent. If Jordan calls, just take a message. We’re not together, but he doesn’t seem to know that.” His ex had been the one to call off the relationship, yet he’d show up when he wanted something—a place to crash, money, sex… Tristan didn’t have the time for him any longer. “If any more of those strange letters come without a return address, just put them aside. I don’t want to be bothered.”

“Why? Is that reader still writing to you?” Dennis folded his arms. For a man of sixty, he didn’t look his age. He kept his salt-and-pepper hair trimmed and stayed in shape. If the age gap hadn’t been so wide, Tristan might have made a play for him.

“Yeah. I’m not scared, but I don’t trust him or her.”

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