I forced my transformation, letting him view my true face for just a second. Before the waitress could notice, I shook it off.

“Holy Christ, you’re not Movement, are you?” He reached into his jacket.

“No, I’m not, so leave that stake where it is.” I looked up to make sure his friend wasn’t prepping for a slaughter, either. “But you should be ashamed of yourself!”

His eyes bugged. “Why?”

“I know what you were doing! You were going to try and charm your way into my pants, and then you were going to eat me. It’s disgusting!” I smacked my palm down on the table, and my coffee cup jumped.

This time, the waitress did look up. “Don’t let him bother you, honey. He’s been trying his same tired act on every gal what come in here tonight. And I do mean all night, Mr. Free Refill.”

“Thank you, Ruby,” C.K. muttered through clenched teeth. “For your flawless critique of my wooing style.”

She cracked her gum. “Whatever.”

I grabbed him by the front of his T-shirt and pulled him forward. “So, what’s your game? Why are you really out here?”

With a look of pure disgust, he wrenched his clothing from my grasp. “For your information, I wasn’t lying. I am a writer.”

“Bullshit.”

“No, really. Perhaps you’ve heard of me. George Gordon. More commonly referred to as Lord Byron?” He puffed up his chest like an ostrich doing a mating dance.

“Bullshit.” I leaned back in the booth and gave him the glare I used to reserve for kids in the E.R. who swore they hadn’t seen their overdosing friend using recreational drugs.

“No.” Guiltily, he held up his hands. “I’m not deliberately seeking trouble to serve as its cause. I’m looking for inspiration.”

“Inspiration?” I echoed sarcastically. “I’m supposed to believe Lord Byron has writer’s block?”

“You try writing nonstop for centuries and not need a little help getting the creative juices flowing now and then.” He reached into his jacket. “I’m just going for my cigarettes.”

“I haven’t seen any new work from you. Of course, I’m not a big reader.” I watched him closely, ready to leap into self-defense mode at the least suspicion.

“Well, of course you haven’t. Can’t exactly go by George Gordon, can I?” He produced a package covered with dramatic artwork, and pulled a cigarette made with black paper from it. He held the pack toward me. “Clove?”

I shook my head. “Do you have any idea what those do to your lungs? You’re better off smoking regular cigarettes. So, what have you been writing?”

“My last release was Blood Heat. My pseudonym is Sharon Ekard.” He reached into his pocket, slowly again, and withdrew a glossy bookmark. “You can keep this.”