“It won’t fit.” I cringe. Those words came out on total instinct. “I mean … no, I don’t have lube. Freya, just go to sleep. Don’t you have to work tomorrow?”
She rolls her eyes and walks toward me. “Yes, but it’s only nine thirty. I wonder if something like olive oil would work.”
“Whoa!” I snatch the bottle by the stove before she grabs it. “No. I bought this. I don’t mind you using it for cooking, but I’m not letting you take it into the bedroom.”
“I’ll buy you a new bottle.”
I continue to hug the olive oil to my chest. “What if it’s not safe? What if it reacts with the latex condom and weakens it?”
Her brow furrows. “You think we should use a condom? We’ve both been tested. We’re done with …” She rubs her lips together and somewhat indiscreetly points her finger toward south. “The front hole.”
Shoving the bottle toward her, I grimace. “Take it, just stop talking about it. And you owe me a new bottle. Same brand. No cheap shit.”
“Thanks, Anna. You’re the best!” She scurries off with the bottle.
Within minutes, the apartment is filled with a new chant—oh … ow … god … slower.
Thankfully, I don’t have to work tomorrow. Snatching my purse from the counter, I head to the bar across the street next to the pizza place where I had my first official date with jackass neighbor guy.
“Anna Black, what can I get you?” Travis asks me from behind the bar as he flips a white towel over his shoulder.
“Let’s see … Freya just took my expensive bottle of olive oil to her bedroom to use as lube …” I tap my finger on my chin.
Travis laughs. “Tequila it is.”
After two shots, I forget about my olive oil, and my relaxed gaze starts to wander around the bar, snagging on the couple toward the back by the restrooms.
Jackass neighbor has a beer in one hand and the ass of some girl in his other hand while they stand in a circle chatting with another couple I’ve never seen before.
When Eric’s gaze lifts to the television for a few seconds then makes its own casual sweep of the room, I can’t avert my gaze fast enough. And once he notices me, I find it impossible to move any part of my body.
I hate him.
He’s pure evil.
If the devil walked the earth in human form, it would be Eric Steinmann, looking like sin, fucking women in public restrooms, and eyeing them in bars like he’s doing to me right now.
He’s right. I should write another book. He’ll be the villain, and the heroine will kill him, but not before removing his balls with toenail clippers and his dick with a nail file.
I have a mani-pedi tomorrow … they’re the first weapons that come to mind.
My phone chimes, bringing me out of my murderous trance. It’s a text from my mom.
Just finished The Last Person. It was okay. Don’t be mad. I’m not sure it’s the best book I’ve ever read. Some areas of the story were a bit wordy, and I’m surprised I found so many typos in a published book. Did you see the new miniseries released on Hulu? Night.
My heart sinks into the pit of my stomach. There it is. The person who should be the most biased about me and my writing is my mom. And she would be … if she knew I wrote the book.
She doesn’t. I never told anyone because I didn’t want to see their faces if I failed. This makes my mom the most accurate example of unbiased honesty. The best constructive criticism. A reality check I didn’t see coming.
I take down another shot of tequila … then another. Then I have to pee. Lucky for me, I have just enough alcohol in my body to not care that Eric and his new girl are blocking the way to the toilet.
Swaying a bit as I stand, I gather my bearings and worm my way through the crowd, feeling a little numb while the room spins. “Excuse me. Pardon me.” I have my own chant. As I approach Eric, he eyes me with a worried brow and pitiful frown.
“Excuse me. I need through to pee.” I share a stiff grin.
Blond girl on his arm and the other couple smile and part the sea for me to pee. I giggle as I realize my brain rhymed. Maybe I’m not a novelist. Maybe I’m a poet like Eric’s grandma.
I take a few wobbly steps, and Eric’s hand moves from blond girl’s ass to my arm, steadying me.
“Anna, I think you should go home,” he says.
My hands fly out to the side like a cat preparing to land on its feet. “I’m good. I just need to pee. I can’t go home until anal is over.” I continue forward as Eric’s friends snigger behind me.
“You know her?” One of the girls asks him.
“Sort of. Just a sec,” he replies as I reach for the door handle.
“That’s the men’s room.” His hand covers mine, peeling my grip from the handle and redirecting me to the next door, a few more feet down the hallway.
It’s locked.
I sigh rolling to the side, pressing my back against the wall and closing my eyes so things stop moving on me. “Go,” I mumble. “Blond girl’s ass is probably missing your hand. Can’t blame her … I remember what that feels like.”
“You’re so drunk. I didn’t have my hand on her ass. It’s called her lower back. What are you doing here? By yourself? Getting wasted?”
I rub my temples. “My mom didn’t love the book. Freya has a dick up her ass, and she’s being loud about it. And my chances of finding a publisher are nearly zero. I think I deserve a few shots.”
Eric glances down the hallway to his friends. “Can you get home by yourself?”
The door to the bathroom opens. The woman coming out gives us a quick smile and turns the corner.
I laugh. “You have a date. I have to pee.”
He shrugs. “It’s not a date. I just met her here. I … we …”
I rest my hand on his chest. “You…” my head tries to spin again “…slept with her. She’s not a psycho author. You ran into her and she seemed like a good distraction. I get it.” I turn and flip on the light to the bathroom. “I used to be a good distraction until you ruined it.”
Closing the door, I lock it and find the toilet before I wet my pants. When I emerge, he’s gone. His friends are gone. And I’m oddly disappointed. It has to be the tequila.
I take my inebriated self home. The loft is quiet. Thank you, god. After erasing my mom’s text without responding, I resist my normal urge to jump online and see how my book is selling on digital retailers. I wouldn’t call ten copies a day something that will pay rent. Tequila, Mom, and Eric mix into a potent cocktail of self-doubt. I decide to face the truth.
I’m not a writer.
The next morning, I wake with a nasty hangover, but a new lease on life. I’m not a writer. This means I can figure out what I am good at. For now, it’s marketing at the bouldering gym.
“Morning,” Finn says as I arrive for my morning java.
“Good morning.”
“Usual?”
I nod.
“So I heard you’re an author.”
I peer up from my phone. “Um …”
He nods behind me. I glance over my shoulder to Eric sitting at a table with his coffee and a stack of papers.