The Write Stuff

The Write Stuff Page 2

"Whatever, skank. I tried to tell you I couldn't come, but you freaking said you needed me, like right now," I said, mocking her desperate tone from our phone conversation earlier.

"I didn't mean you couldn't take two minutes to change your clothes."

I held up my hand, stopping her before she could say another word. "Just remember, paybacks are an uberbitch." I tried to dust off and smooth out my clothes, but the attempt was futile. The only thing that would improve my appearance at the moment would be a genie popping out of a magic lamp.

Looking around, I noticed every female eye on the beach was still glued to the man candy show. For good reason. He was pure sex on a damn lollipop stick. Water glistened and rolled down his lean, muscular body in a way that I would have believed had been Photoshopped if I wasn't seeing it with my own eyes.

Unfortunately, Mr. Sex on a Stick took full notice of my appearance, but not for the reasons I would have preferred. Messy clothes or windblown hair would have been better than why his eyes had momentarily fixated on my chest. A slight gust of wind had blown across the beach at just the right angle, cluing me in that I had forgotten to put on a bra before leaving my apartment.

Yep, I was going to bury Olivia in a shallow grave. I wished I hadn't left my phone in the jeep because I would have asked Siri where the best place was to dump Olivia's body. Siri would help. Siri would have never led me blind into an embarrassing situation like this.

Chapter Two

The unfortunate timing of the gust of wind and my body's reaction had caught Olivia's attention as well. She stepped in front of me like a Secret Service agent protecting the president. I'm sure her intention was to be more discreet, but all she did was draw more attention to my hard nipples that suddenly had a mind of their own. What was it about a woman's nipples that made them want to stand at attention at the worst possible moment?

"You know Natasha, of course. Alec, this is my best friend, and author of the book we're trying to shoot the cover for. That is, if we can get these bitch-ass waves to cooperate—Nicole Blake, or N.S. Blake to her readers. Obviously, fashion isn't her strong point."

I looked aghast at Liv before shaking Alec's hand awkwardly. "Nicole is fine," I said, folding my arms across my chest.

"Nicole, this is Alec Petropoulos."

"Nice to meet you, Nicole. I hope I'm what you were looking for."

"Huh? I—" His comment took me by surprise and I began choking on my own saliva. Either I was really that obvious, or he could read my mind. Olivia's eyes sparkled with laughter. I was so glad my grief could be a source of great delight for her. It was all fun and games until my next book, when I would write her in as a character and kill her off by dropping a meteor on her head. After something completely humiliating happened to her first, of course. Maybe she'd forgotten we'd been friends since middle school and there was plenty of good material I could use. She wouldn't look so smug then.

I glared at her one last time as I tried to recover from my sudden coughing fit. Pulling myself together, I pasted a bright smile on my face just as it occurred to me I'd also forgotten to brush my teeth. I could only imagine how my teeth looked considering my cheese puff-covered pants. I wanted to bury my head in the sand.

"Whoa, you okay?" Alec returned the smile and placed his hand on my shoulder. My knees shook slightly like the ground was moving beneath my feet. I seriously needed to get a grip. I was acting like some sixteen-year-old virgin from Dorkville. Which, if I had to be completely honest, was partially true. Not the age part, but technically you could say I was still a virgin. It wasn't a conscious decision I had made. The timing just never seemed to be right. Story of my life, so far. There was a groping session gone awry sophomore year in high school when Mitch Klein couldn't figure out how to unclasp my bra. Then his parents came home, putting the brakes on the attempt. We broke up before we could try again. The only other time I came close was on prom night, senior year, but Paul Dent got a little too ahead of himself before we could do the deed, ending things prematurely—if you get my drift. By the time I started college, my plan was to wait for the right guy. I was still waiting.

Standing on the beach, Alec's hand felt like something more than a simple gesture. It was something delicious and toe curling that made my dormant body parts come to life with a roar.

The sound of Olivia chuckling broke my reverie. As if I hadn't mortified myself enough, I suddenly realized I had grasped Alec's hand from my shoulder and continued to shake it like a goober. "Sorry," I said, dropping his hand like it was a snake ready to strike. This was why I usually remained holed up in my apartment when I wasn't in class. I was a total introvert who did not belong in public. It was my service to everyone.

Trying to regain an ounce of dignity, I turned to Natasha, but completely overcompensated, throwing my arms around her like we hadn't seen each other in years. Unfortunately, I didn't consider the fact that we were standing on uneven sand in ankle-deep water. If I had, maybe we wouldn't have tumbled backward into the oncoming waves. Considering how my morning had gone, I shouldn't have been surprised.

"Well, there goes my shot," Olivia muttered as Natasha and I came up sputtering saltwater.

Natasha 's shocked expression would have been hilarious had the circumstances been different, but now I just felt terrible. "Shit, Natasha. I am so sorry," I groaned, taking in her soaked hair.

"Don't worry about it. You just caught me off guard, that's all," she said, trying to regain her balance in the waves. Alec reached out to help us up. At least he was gentlemanly enough to contain his laughter until we were on our feet.

Olivia, on the other hand, didn't have that kind of tact. She pulled me to the side and hissed quietly so Alec and Natasha wouldn't hear our exchange. "I called you down here to help me get the shot right. Not to totally sabotage it." If anything, Olivia was always professional. She tugged me toward her by the shirt. "And since when are you a hugger? I thought they made you feel awkward."

"Obviously. Look what happened when I tried," I whispered. "Don't forget this is all your damn fault. You dragged me from my apartment looking like this. I didn't even have a chance to brush my teeth." She had a lot of nerve trying to blame me for this fiasco.

"Don't forget about the bra," she deadpanned, blatantly eyeing my chest.

Now that I was soaking wet from cold water, I may as well have not been wearing a shirt. There wasn't much of my bosom left to the imagination. "I'm going to murder you in your sleep," I said, folding my arms across my chest. Her quiet whispers turned into hard laughter. I knew it was time to throw in the towel, or in my case, my wet T-shirt.

My departure was as awkward as my arrival had been, but I didn't allow myself to dwell on my performance until I was on my way home. Natasha and Alec had both been gracious, though I could tell they were amused. I groaned out loud in my jeep as I thought about my nipple peepshow. I could have used a Scooby-Doo do-over for the whole morning.

At least Severus was happy to see me when I got home. He wouldn't judge me for my shameful behavior.

"It wasn't my finest moment," I muttered to him as I headed for my bathroom.

Thirty minutes later, I was showered, had squeaky clean teeth, and was dressed in clothes that were actually acceptable to wear in public. Of course, that didn't mean I had anywhere to go or anything in particular to do. My writing zone had fled somewhere between my fluorescent orange smile and my dip in the ocean. Any other time I would have called Olivia to hang out during the brief respite between writing marathon sessions, but I was still pissed at her.

Instead, I decided to give my apartment the kind of cleaning it deserved. I wasn't an overly messy person, but I was a stacker. Rather than put things away, I had a tendency to build small piles. It was mostly junk mail, magazines and books. Only when the piles began to take up too much counter space would I shove things in drawers or closets to get them out of sight. At least cleaning up gave me an excuse to work off my nervous energy. I set to work on my linen closet, which was where many of my stacks ended up. My towels and sheets took up the first three shelves, while games and any of the textbooks I'd been too lazy to sell back to the college bookstore sat on the bottom two shelves.

Most of the books spilled out onto the floor when I opened the door because of my typical uneven stacking method. Once again, I debated taking them to the campus bookstore, but from what I'd heard, they didn't pay you squat anyway. I shoved them back into the closet again, figuring it wouldn't be worth my time and effort.

After the linen closet, I moved to the kitchen. I usually ate takeout more often than I cooked for myself, but the kitchen still remained the drop-off point for everything I brought into the house. Scattered within the mounds of junk mail and various types of book swag I'd collected, I found some bills that needed to be taken care of.

Sliding into one of the high back barstools at my counter, I absentmindedly reorganized the bowl of fruit Olivia had forced on me a couple weeks ago. She had convinced herself that if she placed it within sight, I would be compelled to ignore my junk food in lieu of eating an orange or banana. The untouched fruit now looked even less appealing covered in fuzz. Not to mention the smell. I tried to tell her she was wasting her money, but Olivia was as stubborn as I was. It was a vicious cycle. Eventually one of us was bound to break. Better her than me.

I sat the empty bowl on the counter after dumping the fruit in the trash can. My thoughts drifted to my short time at the beach as I attempted to categorize what had happened earlier. There was no excuse for the way I acted. I'd always been a bit of a "shy mouse" as Olivia liked to say, but I was capable of acting like a normal human in social circumstances. I'd been around my fair share of good-looking guys. Hell, I sat behind Chip Price in English class my entire junior year in high school wrapped in a cologne haze and waiting for him to turn around to flash me one of his panty-dropping grins. So what if the only time he ever really turned around was to hand back papers from the teacher? What mattered was how each and every one of those grins made me feel special and caused my toes to curl.

Today, though, was a different story. Alec was drop-dead gorgeous, and his abs should be put on display in some sex god museum, but I wrote romance for crap's sake. I could describe a sex scene in a way that would make a biker blush, but throw me in a situation with a hot guy, and I acted like I'd found my first crush. One thing was certain: at twenty-two I was way past the age for a schoolgirl crush.

The thoughts continued to filter through my head as I sat at the counter in limbo. I knew I needed to get back to writing. Wicked Lovely was supposed to release at the end of next month, and I still had another twenty thousand words to wrap up the story. My editor was expecting the manuscript in two weeks, which meant I really had no time to mess around. I just couldn't get my mind into writing mode again today. I debated spending some time on Facebook and Twitter, but even that held little appeal. Facebook especially was a complete time suck. I knew from previous experience that a minute would turn into five minutes, which would slide easily into an hour.

I grabbed my phone and debated asking Siri for advice on where to stash a body before deciding I'd been mad at Olivia long enough. That was how our friendship worked. Neither of us had ever been able to stay mad at one another for longer than an hour or two. Right now I needed the sanity of my friend to show me how ridiculous I was being, so I tapped the screen to dial her number.

Olivia answered on the first ring, like she had been expecting me to call. "Took you long enough."

I rolled my eyes. Nothing like being predictable. "Psh, you're lucky you're not buried in some swamp. How could you do that to me?"

Her laugh fluttered through the phone. "How was I supposed to know you'd show up looking like one of those bad Wal-Mart customer pictures people post on Facebook? Believe me, if I would have known that was the look you were going for, I would have shielded the eyes of the kids on the beach. That was a train wreck."

"Screw you, whore. That's your last warning." I debated hanging up. Maybe I didn't need her after all.

"Okay, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry," she said swiftly. "I'm just teasing. Come on, don't be a sourpuss. I'll treat you to lunch," she cajoled. "I found a new Mexican restaurant I want us to try."

"Another one?" Olivia was on a perpetual quest to find a decent Mexican restaurant in central Florida. Every month or so, she'd stumble across a new one. Personally, I didn't think any of the previous restaurants had been that bad, but she deemed them all crap. Olivia had lived in California at one time and boasted that you didn't know good Mexican food until you'd tried some of the restaurants just north of the border.

"I'm bound and determined to find a place that makes authentic-tasting taquitos. Not something you pulled out of your freezer and nuked," she said, taking a dig at me. It was common knowledge between us that I would starve if not for my microwave and my obsession with cereal. If something couldn't be nuked or poured into a bowl with milk, it didn't belong in my kitchen. Olivia liked to tease that if I ever made it big with my writing, the first thing I should do is hire a cook. It was a nice pipe dream. I wasn't exactly killing it with my books, but the income had already far exceeded what I ever thought I would make. When I started college, I knew I wanted an English degree. I had harbored hopes that it would be a springboard to nurturing my love of writing, but realistically I had planned to use the degree to become a teacher. Now in my final year of school, I was beginning to think maybe this writing thing could become permanent. Maybe I would never make enough to hire my own cook, but I would like to travel the world someday. Truthfully, just the idea that I was doing what I loved and that I was able to do it full-time was all I could ever ask for. I was living my dream at twenty-two. No one needed to tell me how lucky I was.

Chapter Three

Olivia was already halfway into a margarita when I joined her for lunch an hour later.

"Thanks for waiting for me," I joked, pulling on my hoodie. It was a gazillion degrees outside, but the restaurant had the air inside blasting at an arctic level. Not that I would complain. I'd rather be cold than sweat my ass off, but living in Florida all my life had taught me to bring a jacket or sweater anytime I ate out.

Olivia slurped up the last of her strawberry-flavored drink. "Never fear. I plan on ordering another. After this morning, I think we could both use a few."