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How is the book coming along?
Zayden Kingsley and I debuted in the same year, and we’ve been commiserating about the highs and lows of publishing ever since. His background in ethical hacking has contributed to the accuracy of his bestselling thrillers and has been a skill of his I’ve exploited once or twice.
Alas, my agent may have been right about this one. Still no progress.
Give it more time. You just got there. Surround yourself with creative minds and focus on refilling the well. I bet your muse is right around the corner.
A chair at my small table screeches as a woman sits down beside me with a latte clutched in her hands, a milky fern decorating the liquid’s surface. She’s pretty enough. Wide smile, blunt bangs, and fuck-me eyes.
I’m well aware of my effect on women, even when I’m not in my S.T. Nicholson mask and they’re unaware of the magnitude of success I’ve experienced in my career.
“Are you a screenwriter?” She bats her eyelashes.
I don’t bother with a smile. I’m not here to entertain the desires of twenty-one-year-olds with a starving artist fetish. “Novelist.”
She grabs my notebook before I can stop her, ripping off a corner from a perfectly pristine sheet of paper. I grind my teeth, but before I can tell her to fuck off, she scribbles on it with my pen and pushes the scrap of paper toward me.
“You should include a woman named Rachel in your novel.” The paper features her name and number in loopy, careful writing.
“My girlfriend wouldn’t like that very much.”
She shrugs, not at all bothered. “A girlfriend isn’t a wife.”
So that’s the kind of woman I’m dealing with. I clench my jaw, pull out my phone, flick through a few photos, and show her the screen.
The most gorgeous woman I’ve ever seen, with her thick mocha hair and ocean-blue eyes. A black dress that clings to her every curve and that dazzling smile outlined with ruby lipstick from a night out with friends.
I only saved a few of the photos from Briar’s social media. Enough to satiate me whenever my fingers itch to visit her profile. To hit Follow and find out how she’d react to her favorite author’s interest in her.
“A girlfriend who will become my wife. You can’t compete with my biggest fan.”
The woman’s lips purse and relief flows through me the second she leaves. But now my mind has latched onto Briar. This insatiable urge to know where she is, what she’s doing, what she’s thinking right now. Maybe she’s at home, reading one of my books. Maybe she’s masturbating to the explicit sex scenes I write exactly for readers like her. God, I’d love to see that.
Then it occurs to me: I can.
CHAPTER FIVE
BRIAR
When I get home,I furiously type five pages before I’ve calmed down enough to swipe on dating apps at Mack’s instruction. She wants to video chat tonight so we can discuss my options, of which I’m sure there will be few.
I’m tempted to call Mom to bitch about my job, but I’ve stopped venting to her about Dr. Barrett because it horrifies her every time and all she does is repeat that I need to report him. As if I didn’t go to the administration the first time it happened when we started working together in preparation for the new semester. Only to suffer through the provost’s soliloquy about how men can’t even compliment a woman these days without being accused of sexual harassment and how men are the real victims. I stomped out of the room before he could finish his rant, well aware that my rudeness could cost me my job but better that than going to prison for gouging his eyes out.
As an assistant professor, my job duties do not include coffee runs or getting groped by my sixty-five-year-old boss. But when he asks for a cappuccino, I happily waltz my little ass to thecoffee shop on campus so I can escape his lecherous eyes and wandering hands.
The second time Dr. Barrett stroked my arm during class today, I wanted to snap at him to stop touching me, but this job is too important for me to risk. He has my dream job—a tenured professor at the most reputable creative writing MFA program in the nation. There’s only one thing I love as much as writing and that’s working with other writers, sharing feedback and advice and support, watching them flourish and grow. I won’t let some old creep ruin that for me.
Now, I flick on the TV and a true crime docuseries while Cookie settles onto my lap. A wine glass and bottle are both within reach because I know I’ll need them tonight to get through all the photos of men holding up fish and dead deer heads.
I swipe through profile after profile—Mack would be scolding me for swiping left on so many—until I get a message from a guy named Austin. He’s handsome, though his look leans too frat-boy for me. But he’s one of the few options who isn’t proudly displaying a dead animal in his photos, so I respond to his dullHeywith an equally uninteresting,How are you?
Good. You’re gorgeous. I don’t like to waste too much time on this app. Can I buy you dinner?
My brows lift. He’s direct, but I like that. I wish more people wouldn’t waste time beating around the bush. If you want a date, say that. If you want to fuck, tell me. Let’s figure out if we’re on the same page before we waste our time.
The hairs on the back of my neck stand up. I scan the room and the dark windows. I’m alone except for Cookie purring in my lap, but I feel like I’m being watched.
Probably because the true crime docuseries is loudly narrating the stalking and murder of a twenty-seven-year-old woman.
