Free Destroy by Jason Myers Page B

she says again.
    Click.
    I scramble to my feet and leave my place immediately. I love this girl. I have never been in such a hurry in my entire life. Never. Ever. Ever. I fucking love this girl.
    I spot a cab right away and flag it down and hop in. “Laguna and Hayes,” I tell the driver.
    â€œYes, sir.”
    Breathing heavily, I try and relax for a minute and rest my head against the window, closing my eyes after telling the driver, “Tell me when we’re there.”
    A wave of calmness washes over me. My mind drains all the way out, and soon it feels empty. There is nothing but the blackness of my eyelids as I feel the cab slowing down for a stop.
    And then something happens.
    BOOM!
    An orgy of bright lights emerge in a flash. It’s like this circuit board with thin sheets in front of it and my mind takes off, my body pounds forward, but my eyes are still closed. They feel locked down. I cannot open them even though I’m trying to.
    And then the sheets part and it’s so beautiful.
    It’s the entire outline of a novel. My second novel. It’s all right there as one page flips to another. Character names. Plot points. Subplots. Resolution.
    And when the cab begins to accelerate again, my eyes snap open and sweat is pouring out of me.
    And the driver goes, “Are you okay, sir?”
    And I go, “Take me back.”
    â€œBut we’re almost there.”
    â€œI don’t care,” I tell him. “Take me back now.”
    â€œYes, sir.” The driver flips the car around and takes me home.
    Back inside my place, I grab a brand-new notebook, notebook number forty-eight, and I start writing the outline down. Ten, twenty, thirty pages get ripped before I wipe the sweat off my face, and then I go right back into it. Line after line, page after page, I fucking nail it. It’s all there. As clear as it’s ever been.
    And then it’s over.
    I finish the damn thing.
    A forty-five-page outline with everything I need in it.
    This is my second novel: DickPig: Confessions of a Heavy Metal Groupie.
    Jumping to my feet, I let out this massive scream and do a dance around the room and then check my phone.
    Seven missed calls from Nina, with one voice mail stating, “You really blew it this time. I hate you, James Morgan. I really do hate you.”
    But honestly, I haven’t blown shit. Nothing. This is what’s really important. My writing. This is really the only thing I have that I can control, that I’m absolutely obsessed with. And now I’m moving it forward again.
    This is by far the most important thing in my life.
    After I pour myself another drink, I chop myself another rail from what I have left, slam it, light a cigarette, and then I get a text message from Daniel that says: Just left Amoeba with a Pyramid record. Going home. Puttin’ it on. And passing the fuck out.
    Shaking my head, a huge smile on my face, I type back the only thing I can think of. The only thing that makes sense right now.
    Laughing out loud, I type: Destroy, man! Fucking destroy!

D ON’T MISS J ASON M YERS’S NEWEST NOVEL —

    R EAD ON TO GET A LOOK AT HOW THE STORY BEGINS . . . .

1.
    â€œWHY ARE YOU SO ANGRY?” she asked me.
    We were sitting on a green park bench, and she looked so anxious and so pretty. I’d known her for three weeks.
    â€œThat guy is so fake,” I said. “He’s a phony. How can you like that? He looks so generic and he’s not cool and he never will be. He’ll never like good music or good books. Who cares if he has a fucking car? He’s not real. He doesn’t have a soul.”
    â€œI wasn’t just talking about right now, Jaime,” she said. “I was asking why you’re so angry all the time?”
    â€œI’m not.”
    She threw her arms into the air. “Oh my god! Yes, you are! You are an amazing boy. You’re cute and so talented and so fucking sweet. But