It was…pretty. Like the candy house of the old witch from “Hansel and Gretel.”
You should never judge a person by their home. It was the moral I must’ve missed when my mom read me and Mir the fairy tale when we were young.
I had no idea what Emily had done to con my grandmother into thinking she was a respectable lady. Even gotten invited for free food a few times.
But I knew her true colors. And I was going to teach her a lesson as payback for the ice cream, beer…and lying to an elderly woman.
Chapter Four
Emily
I rolled out of bed the moment my eyes opened. Unfortunately, the bedside clock informed me it was four in the morning. Damn it, overslept. I’d meant to get a four-hour nap, not five.
After splashing some cold water on my face, I put a pair of pink-rimmed glasses on and headed downstairs. Crunch time meant glasses, since I needed to write as much as I could, then nap whenever I absolutely had to rest. Contacts got in the way of naps. Besides, it was a pain if I forgot to take them out every so often. I’d gotten an eye infection from that last year, and never would I put myself through that suffering again.
I got the coffeemaker going, then scooped two big mounds of Bouncy Bare Monkeys into a bowl. Nothing could beat that combo for breakfast. The cold and creamy sensation mingled with the hot coffee in my mouth and somehow produced a repast for the gods. The gears in my head started churning faster and more smoothly.
Once that was done, I took some water and a raspberry beer from the fridge and sat down in front of my laptop. The moment I flipped the lid open, the cursor blinked on the Word doc.
Write, write, baby.
I popped open the beer and took a long swallow. Then, after linking my fingers and stretching them, I started to type up the scenes that had come to me yesterday.
“You go, girl,” I muttered to myself as my heroine Molly sassed the hero. I loved Ryan, but he needed to learn his lesson. He was a bit of an ass.
It’s unfair. I never wanted to be an ass. You made me an ass! Ryan whined in my head.
“Yeah, yeah. If you don’t like it, write your own book,” I whispered as my fingers moved across the keyboard. The tapping clicks sounded a little like rain on a roof…
The only break I took was to go to the bathroom. And to grab more beer and water because I needed to lubricate my brain and hydrate myself.
After about five thousand words, finally Molly and Ryan were about to have sex for the first time, and I needed to make it not only scorching, but funny and emotional. No mere “his penis drove into her vagina” sex for my couple.
Let’s see… “His tongue stroked mine,” I murmured as I typed. “An urgent, irresistible heat began in my—”
A loud banging shattered my train of thought. What the hell? I jumped up, knocking over the bag of Animal Crackers. Shit! Two lions and a lot of crumbs ended up on the floor under the table, rather than—thankfully—on my laptop. Getting my keyboard gunked up would not be good.
After putting the lions next to my beer, I looked up, wondering where the noise was coming from. I’d bought a detached single home for a very specific reason: to not hear noise from my neighbors. Mrs. Axelrod had been quiet. And not overly nosy compared to others in town.
But the silence returned. I shook my head. Part of me was curious what it was about, but I slapped myself mentally. No time to procrastinate! Got to refocus. Molly and Ryan had some banging of their own to do.
Bang bang clang!
There it was again! The muscles in my shoulders and neck tightened up, and I growled under my breath. How could my couple have hot, funny, emotional sex when there was this clanging ruckus outside?
Not just clanging, I thought as I jumped to my feet. Some asshole was banging on a drum set. Didn’t they know what time it was?
I glared at the clock on my laptop. Ten thirty. Early enough for this to be noise pollution. What if somebody wanted to sleep in?
Actually, this was a cul-de-sac with only two homes. Mine and Mrs. Axelrod’s, and she’d passed away last year. So, okay, nobody wanted to sleep in, but somebody—me!—wanted to work!
The mannerless jerk was banging around like he was a drummer at a rock concert. I had to admit—grudgingly—that he was pretty good. Okay, really good. But that didn’t mean the noise was any less irritating.
I shoved my feet into flip-flops and marched out, determined to get the noise polluter to stop. The racket was coming from the late Mrs. Axelrod’s home. I stormed over, hands in tight fists. As I got closer, I noted the windows were all open. Totally inconsiderate. Just who the hell bought this house? I hadn’t seen a For Sale sign outside. If I had…and if I’d known some drum-banging jerk would be moving in, I would’ve bought the damn place myself!
I beat on the door. The drumming continued. The turd-brain was either ignoring me or couldn’t hear over his own ear-destroying sound. I beat harder, using both fists. I imagined the door was actually an extension of the drummer. I should’ve put on boots so I could kick it, too!
The noise finally stopped. A moment later, the door opened.
I glared up at the offending man. Wait… Was this…? Yes, it was! That sexy-looking, sexy-sounding asshole who’d tried to steal my ice cream the night before.
“You!” I gasped.
He was still sexy-looking, his dark hair slightly messy, and a night’s worth of stubble shadowing his jaw, adding to his masculine good looks. His blue shirt brought out his eyes, and he’d pulled the sleeves up, showing off those lean, tattooed forearms.
The sight of them was hot. And it annoyed me that I found any part of him hot. I was too smart and levelheaded to think anybody who wasn’t a perfect gentleman was hot.
“Yes, it’s me.” He gave me a slow once-over. “So you do own clothes without holes.”
“What?” I looked down. I was in a pink T-shirt and white boxer shorts with red hearts.
“Interesting shirt.” His voice was dry.
So the Neanderthal could read. The front of the T-shirt said, CUN CRUD IS REAL, across the chest. On the back it said, SO DRINK MORE ALCOHOL, which this jerk couldn’t see. It was a custom shirt my friends and I had made when we’d all come down with a hellish flu after a writers’ conference two years ago. We’d been so sick that we’d misspelled “CON,” and none of us had caught it until the shirts had been delivered. We’d all laughed about it, though, and worn our shirts proudly, especially at conferences.
I put my hands on my hips. The first thing out of his mouth should have been “I’m sorry for being a loud dick.”
“I like the placement of the heart right there, too.” He pointed.
Huh? I checked, then rolled my eyes. Of course he was referring to the lopsided heart over my crotch. Pig.
“Look, can you keep the noise down? I’m trying to work here,” I said.
“You are?”
“Yes. Is that so hard to imagine?”
“You smell like beer.”
I guessed he thought that would shame me. “So? I do my best work when I’m drinking.”
That wasn’t actually true. I did my best work when I was inspired and ready to go. But a little bit of alcohol was the muse’s great helper, especially when it was Hop Hop Hooray’s raspberry brew.