Envy Mass Market

“Thanks, but I’m still too wasted to stand.”

“And jealous.”

Roark used one arm to brace himself against the exterior wall of the cabin. “Huh?”

“You’re jealous.”

Roark shrugged. “Maybe.” He gave a weak grin. “Okay, a little.”

“More than a little, Roark. More than a little.” Todd raised the rum bottle to his eye like a telescope and peered down the length of it at Roark. “Admit it, you thought you’d be the first to sell.”

Roark’s stomach was queasy. The horizon was seesawing. He was also uncomfortable with the direction the conversation had taken. “Todd, I couldn’t be happier.”

“Oh, yeah, you could. If you’d sold your book today, you’d be a hell of a lot happier. So would Hadley. I think he probably jacks off over your manuscripts. Your work makes him positively giddy, doesn’t it? What was that he said about it being an honor and privilege to review your work?” He took a swig of rum. “Something like that.”

“You read his letter to me?”

“Clever of you to get that post office box, but careless of you to leave his letter in the pocket of your jeans. I was short the cash to pay for a pizza delivery and saw your jeans lying on the floor where you’d stepped out of them. Raided the pockets looking for money, and… pulled out a plum.”

“You shouldn’t have read my mail.”

“You shouldn’t have lied to me about Hadley’s enthusiasm for your work and his lack of it for mine.”

“What do you care what Hadley thinks of your work?”

“I don’t. Last laugh is on him and you. I’ve sold. You haven’t.”

“So fine. Let’s just drop it.”

“No. I don’t believe I will.”

Todd stood up slowly. He was steadier on his feet than he should have been, leaving Roark to question if he had drunk as much as he had pretended to. He moved along the deck with a predatory, malevolent tread.

“What’s eating you, Todd? You won. Hadley was wrong.”

“Maybe about my writing. Not about the other.”

“Other?”

“My character. Remember how flawed I am? Driven by greed and jealousy and envy. Those undesirable character traits about which Hadley waxed poetic.”

Roark’s stomach heaved and he swallowed a throatful of sour bile. “That’s all bullshit. I didn’t pay any attention to it.”

“Well, I did.”

He didn’t see it coming. Moving sinuously only a second before, Todd now lunged at him and took a vicious swing at his head with the liquor bottle. Roark caught it on the temple, and if it had been a sledgehammer, it couldn’t have hurt any worse. He roared in pain and outrage.

But he had enough wits to see the bottle arcing once again above his head. He dodged it just in time to spare himself another concussion. Instead it shattered against the wall of the cabin, showering them with broken glass and rum.

Todd attacked with a fury then, throwing blows one right after the other aimed at Roark’s face and head. Most of them connected, crunching cartilage and splitting skin. Dazed but fueled by anger, Roark struck back. He landed a fist against Todd’s mouth and felt the scrape of teeth against his knuckles. It hurt, but it hurt Todd more. His mouth gushed blood.

The drawing of blood was a primal and powerful exhilaration. At any other time Roark would have been astonished over how much satisfaction he derived from making Todd bleed. Propelled by jealousy, he wanted to see more of Todd’s blood on his hands. He wanted to punish him for succeeding first and making him feel like a failure.

But his hot rage was tepid compared to Todd’s. Todd’s bloodlust had escalated into savagery. With feral growls, he came at Roark, clawing and pounding.

Roark’s temper was soon spent. He was ready to back off, cool down, and call a truce.

Todd was beyond that. He didn’t let up, not even when Roark stopped being aggressive and only deflected blows in order to protect himself.