Mr. Write Page 13

  The proverbial light bulb flashes as I take her suggestion on board.

  “I was joking,” she says with a laugh, but I raise my finger, shaking my head.

  Words, images, scenarios come to mind. Fuck me. “No, no, this is genius. The context would work. But it would have to be fiction.” My heart begins racing, the blood whooshing through my veins, and it has nothing to do with the whiskey.

  “So what are you suggesting?” She reaches for the bottle sitting limply in my hand.

  “This writer’s block is because I have been so shut off from life these past six months, but what better way to beat it than by experiencing life in ways I never have?”

  She curls her lip in humor, certain I’ve gone mad.

  “All this time, I’ve been looking in all the wrong places. I thought sleeping with random women would give me the inspiration I sought, but that theory had a major plot hole. To write romance, I need to experience the romance instead of counting how many orgasms I can have in a week.”

  She tugs at her lip while the apple of her cheeks turns a deep crimson.

  “And to do that, what better way than experiencing romance in its purest form.” Oh, my fuck. I jump up, unable to sit still. I can’t believe I didn’t think of this sooner. I have been lacking inspiration because yes, I’m a physical being, but at heart, I want my happily ever after. I’m a writer, for fuck’s sake. Give me my soppy ending and I can go home one happy man.

  “What, are you planning on being a voyeur or something, peeping in on other people’s relationships in hopes that their love, passion, and lust rub off on you?” she asks, tongue in cheek. But that’s exactly what I plan to do.

  “Yes,” I reply, ceasing my pacing as I turn to look at her. “But not any relationship will do. I need something fresh. New. I need to relearn the basics because I’ve forgotten what the butterflies feel like. And to get that back…I need to go back to the beginning.” I’m talking a mile a minute, vocalizing everything in my head before I forget.

  I can see the moment when she pieces together what I’m proposing. She sips the whiskey, her cheeks bellowed as she swallows the liquor in thought. Once it’s down, she smirks. “You’re going to spy on people having their first dates, aren’t you?”

  Not only is she beautiful, but she’s a true genius as well.

  “Yes,” I reply, running a hand through my hair as I blow out a breath.

  When she’s quiet, I look over my shoulder at her, wondering what’s going through her mind. “Let me help you,” she says, throwing me for a complete loop.

  My curiosity is piqued.

  Taking another mouthful of whiskey as if she needs the Dutch courage, she finally explains, “You told me that you haven’t been able to write a single word…that is, until meeting me. So”—she lowers her eyes, toying with the frayed hole in her jeans—“let me come with you. I can detail what I’m seeing from the woman’s point of view while you do the same for the man’s. I don’t want to be sexist, but it might help to have a different perspective. I could give you insight into what the women are thinking and hopefully help…” She leaves the sentence unfinished because I’m completely on the same page, the same line as she is.

  This is brilliant; not to mention, she is offering to spend more time with me. Where do I sign up?

  “You can help me understand how women think, so I can write a convincing heroine?”

  “Exactly,” she says, raising her eyes. They glimmer in exhilaration. “And maybe down the line, I can use your expertise to find my Mr. Right.”

  I almost choke on the wheeze that escapes. I have no desire to help her find a Mr. anything. Shoving a pineapple head first where the sun don’t shine sounds far more appealing than that. But who am I to stop her from finding her HEA?

  “So this little experiment will benefit us both,” she states, coming to a stand. “You did say this book needs to be groundbreaking. I will be brutally honest, steering you clear of clichés.” The moment she says those words no author wants to hear, she chews the corner of her mouth while I check my pulse.

  “Clichés? What makes you think I write anything that’s remotely clichéd?” Asking her this question just affirms her point, but I want to know her reasoning.

  Now she’s chewing her lip for an entirely different reason, and that’s to hold in her amused giggle. “No woman wants to read a sentence involving the words throbbing member. That may have worked back in Fabio’s days but not now.”

  I blink once. “Are you calling me…old?” I ask, horrified.

  “Well…” she replies with a lopsided grin and a slight shrug before guzzling down the whiskey.

  That cheeky little minx. Two can play that game.

  Gently ensnaring the bottle from her lips, I watch in utter interest as the brown liquid spills down her parted lips. She goes to wipe away the fallen drops, but I beat her to it. Using my thumb, I swipe along her bottom lip, taking the whiskey and her essence with me.

  Her eyes widen, and she gulps loudly when I place my thumb into my mouth, sucking slow. Who knew a Carrie laced whiskey could taste this good? “You have yourself a deal.” Her taste lingers on my tongue, and it takes all my willpower not to go in for another sip.

  The rise and fall of her chest reveals that the next few weeks will be interesting. And her sassy comment confirms we’re both in wickedly grave danger. “Just so you know, I’m not going to sleep with you.” Dear lord, visions of Carrie writhing naked beneath me assault me from every angle, but I pull it together.

  “Good,” I reply before taking a long sip of whiskey. “Just so you know, I don’t want to sleep with you. I’m a reformed man slut.”

  She bursts into magical laughter. “When do we start?”

  “Tomorrow,” I counter without thought. Thinking back to our conversation earlier today, she mentioned art school. “Or whenever works for you. You said you were in school?”

  She nods nervously, reaching for the bottle of whiskey, but we’ve drained it dry. “Yes, I am. My passion is photography. I hope to make a career of it one day, but I don’t know.” That explains her taking the photo of us. “The beauty in the unseen is what I attempt to capture. It’s the imperfections that make life beautiful,” she confesses sadly. I wonder why.

  “So it would appear we’re both hopeless romantics at heart.”

  She nods, appearing a little off balance. I know it’s the whiskey. It takes a lot for me, but her hooded eyes and shallow breathing all point to her being intoxicated. Her bag sits innocently by the door. “Do you want to stay here? I’ll take the couch,” I quickly add, not wanting to sound like a hypocrite after my earlier comment.

  She sways when she stands, and I wrap my hand around her bicep to stop her from falling. “Holy shit. I think I’m a little drunk. So much for my no booze rule.” She finishes her comment with a giggle that turns into a hiccup, then slaps her hand over her mouth, horrified. “I wouldn’t want to impose.”

  “There is no imposition,” I reply. “You look beat, so if you want to crash, please be my guest. I have some work I want to do anyway.”

  There is no way I can sleep. I need to draft out all my ideas and brainstorm possible storylines. Carrie peers over at the bed, which looks like a mammoth cloud. In the end, the thought of sleeping on a cushy mattress wins her over. “Thank you so much. I might freshen up and change.”

  “Of course. The bathroom is over there.” I point in the direction of where it’s located, which is absurd as it’s fairly obvious, but I’m suddenly nervous.

  Carrie nods, and it must be all the whiskey going to her head because she too appears a little flustered. Before I can question it further, she quickly turns her back and practically runs into the bathroom. I exhale, but that breath is taken in vain because the door opens a second later, and Carrie emerges looking a little sheepish.

  “I forgot my bag,” she explains, making a beeline for it. I watch as she shoulders it, her fingers toying with the strap. She appears to want
to say something but changes her mind. Why is she so nervous?

  The bathroom door closes, putting an end to further discussion. Not that I’d know what to say.

  Blowing out a breath, I toss the empty bottle in the trash and decide to get a start on brainstorming my new book. As I take a seat at the desk, my eyes wander to the bathroom door. The sound of the shower running evokes images of Carrie naked, standing under the misted spray.

  My body is telling me to man the fuck up and tell her how I feel, but her comment about not sleeping with me or her eventually finding her Mr. Right hint at the fact she doesn’t see me in the same light. Just because I have a schoolgirl crush doesn’t mean she does. This insta-love nonsense is stuff you only read about in books. I really need to get a grip.

  When the water switches off, I get my head back into the game and open my laptop. Deciding to start a new document, I peer at the blinking cursor, wondering what exactly to call my WIP. For the moment, I decide to name it the obvious—Mr. Right.

  My fingers type frantically as I take all the ideas I expressed aloud to Carrie and put them in words. I keep circling back to the notion that this story should be completely different from my other novels. Maybe Carrie is right. My formula has worked for so long, but should I break away from what I’m used to and delve into the unknown?

  This might work, especially if I take Gerry up on his offer.

  Leaning back in the seat, I tap a pen on the edge of the desk, deep in thought. Seeing as this is my first book after Liz, I toy with the idea of writing under a different pseudonym. I want to distance myself from her because she comes with bad juju.

  “That’s the face of a man who has the ability to change the world.” I glance over my shoulder to see Carrie emerge from the bathroom towel drying her hair. She’s in sleep shorts and a T-shirt with a large banana printed on it. How appropriate.

  When her pearled nipples push against the tight fabric, I almost moan aloud. But thinking of my ninety-five-year-old neighbor, Agnes, naked stops me from poking Carrie’s eye out. “I was just toying with the idea of writing under a different name,” I explain, curling my fists so I don’t accidentally reach out and run my fingers down the curve of her neck.

  She saunters over to where I sit, rigid and counting sheep. I know that’s supposed to work for falling asleep, and that’s what I’m hoping—for my raging hard-on to fall into a comatose slumber. “You’ve worked so hard for that name, though. It seems a shame. You’re a brand now,” she says, her scent of strawberries and cream amplified tenfold.

  Talking about work helps an iota, and I nod. “You’re right, but that name makes me want to maim myself.” She bursts into laughter, which doesn’t help the predicament in my pants.

  She peers over my shoulder, looking at what I’ve written. “Mr. Right. I like it,” she says while I measure my breathing and don’t inhale too deeply for fear I’ll overdose on her fragrance. “You want to steer away from your typical formula of boy meets girl, they fall in love, there is conflict, a misunderstanding, but eventually they find their way back to one another and live happily ever after?”

  “Maybe,” I reply, eyes focused on the screen.

  “Hmm.”

  Such a noncommittal word but it leaves me questioning my decision. After all I’ve been through these past six months, writing something like that seems so…unrealistic. I know fiction is just that, but in the real world, the good guy doesn’t always get the girl. I want to connect with my readers and write a story that is gritty, raw, and real.

  By watching new love flourish, I have a beginning. The middle and the end—I’ll be able to fill in the blanks. “I want to write a story that encompasses the trials and tribulations of what being in a relationship is truly like. And what better way to connect with my readers than by stripping back the bullshit fluff and writing what we all want to read. The highs and lows, the good times and the bad. How love can turn to hate. Or how love can lead to obsession. Love in its purest form is what I intend to capture. Love isn’t always smooth sailing. It’s hard work, and most times, it fucking sucks, but when you find it—true love, I mean—you’ll do anything to keep it. That’s the type of story I want to write. Something real and relatable and by starting from the very beginning, I can map out where things went wrong or right. Not everyone has a happily ever after. And I want to detail that. I want my readers to know that it’s okay if you fail because love is a battlefield. Whoever said all you need is love is a fucking twat.”

  Carrie’s silence hints that I’ve just vocalized all this out loud. The idea may be rough, but I like it. I like that after being surrounded by superficial bullshit, I can finally shed my skin and write something that will hopefully be cathartic for both the reader and the writer.

  Risking a look over my shoulder, I’m uncertain what I’ll see. Carrie stands behind me with the towel hanging limply by her side. It’s clear she’s deep in thought, but when she meets my eyes, I can see it—I’m onto something.

  “Jayden.” My name has never sounded so wicked. “This is brilliant. But may I suggest something?”

  Spinning in my seat, I raise my brows and gesture that I’m listening.

  “Instead of only observing first dates, how about we people watch? Watch people not only in love, but watch people hate. Get every angle of a relationship and write about that. That’s the only way you can comprehend every side to love. I’m sure you’re able to write from experience on that too.”

  Steepling my fingers in front of my lips, I ponder her suggestion. She’s right. For this to be real and raw, I need to understand the good and bad side to love because let’s face it, you can’t have one without the other. I can definitely write from experience, but seeing it from all different sides will give me a broader understanding and not conclude my story with the hero being a reclusive drunk. If I only wrote from my experience, that was where my Mr. Right would end up.

  She shifts from foot to foot, drawing my attention to her supple legs. I’ve been good thus far, but holy shit, she is perfection. “You hate it?” she finally says, breaking my trance.

  “No, on the contrary. I love it.”

  “You do?”

  I nod and stand.

  I want nothing more than to step closer, but I don’t trust myself if I do. “Thank you. I haven’t felt this…inspired in so long.”

  She brushes a piece of damp hair behind her ear. “I’m glad I can help.”

  That undeniable pull bounces between us once again, and I know Carrie senses it too. Our pheromones are ready to perform a strip tease, enticing the other to the dark side, but for this to work, I need to keep my head in check.

  I value Carrie, and yes, she is fucking delectable, but neither of us has the best track record with the opposite sex. I won’t ruin this feeling by giving into a night of wanton passion—no matter how badly I want to because that’s all I can offer her. I come with baggage, lots of it, mainly named Elizabeth Evans. Until I can rid myself of her memory, I won’t drag Carrie down with me. She’s had her fair share of assholes, so I won’t add my name to the shit list. Long story short—she deserves someone better than me.

  “I’m going to get back to it.” I hook my thumb toward my laptop, and Carrie nods quickly.

  “Are you sure it’s okay for me to take the bed? I’m happy with the sofa.”

  “Take the bed,” I insist as there is no way I’ll have her sleeping on the couch.

  “Okay, well, good night.” A static lingers over our heads, and as Carrie stalls, I wonder what exactly she’s thinking.

  “Good night.” She smiles shyly and makes her way over to the bed. When she pulls back the covers and settles in, an urge to join her sideswipes me, but I remember why that can’t happen. “Merry Christmas, dove.”

  She turns on her side to face me with a sleepy smile touching her lips. “Merry Christmas, Jayden.”

  Her soft breathing is the lullaby which inspires me well into the night, determined to start anew.

>   Stuck in the middle with you (pronoun)

  I wake to the most delicious scent—strawberries and cream.

  Cracking open an eye, I find myself topless and sprawled out on the leather sofa. The sweet fragrance reveals Carrie is close by. That thought has me opening both eyes, blinking quickly to adjust to the morning light.

  I have no idea of the time or when exactly I collapsed face first, but I do remember my fingers being possessed as I wrote out a storyline I didn’t hate. It detailed a couple from their very first meeting to their last breath. I intend to delve deep and show the many sides of love.

  Running a hand through my snarled hair, I sit upright, searching the room for Carrie. I want to run my ideas by her because she does seem to get my creative juices flowing.

  Sweet holy fuck…speaking of juices.

  She emerges from the bathroom looking freshly showered and dressed. Her auburn hair tumbles in soft waves around her face, which seems to be dusted in a light coat of makeup. I like that she’s a natural beauty. She’s in white jeans and a baby pink fluffy sweater.

  When she sees me sitting upright, she smiles. What a way to start the day. “Good morning.”

  “Mornin’. What time is it?” I ask, yawning.

  “A little past nine. What time did you go to sleep?”

  Shrugging, I come to a stand, stretching my arms over my head. “I have no idea. The last I looked, it was about four a.m.”

  “How’d it go?”

  “Good. I have the idea down pat. Maybe we can discuss it over breakfast?” I suggest, scratching over my tattoo absentmindedly. “I’m famished.”

  Lost in the vision of fried eggs and golden hash browns, I don’t realize Carrie is staring until a breathy sigh leaves her. This happened yesterday when she tended to my wounds. And just like yesterday, my body was the subject of her clear appreciation.

  Everything below the belt is screaming at me to throw her over my shoulder and toss her onto that unmade bed, but I silence that voice. However, a small part of me is fucking victorious that she doesn’t find me a repulsive troll.