Page 5 of Reckless

“Nope, I don’t have anyone to answer to. Not anymore.”

When I frown, she lowers her leg and crosses it over the other one instead.

“I used to be traditionally published, but the restraints and the demands they put on me were killing my creativity, so I went indie.”

Am I still passed out on the ground beneath the stars? How else is this woman real?

It’s like she has stepped inside my warped head, telling me how to fix everything. As she continues talking, I look over at the RV. It’s never appealed to me to do something like this, probably because I spend so much time on the road, but this is different.

This is on her terms.

“Now no one can tell me they don’t like my characters, or I need to change the ending. Or that the whole process is so slow, I can only put out two books a year. Because of that, my creativity is flowing and some of the things I see while I’m out here, the fresh air, who knows, it makes me want to write.”

“Sounds amazing,” I say, turning back to face her and drinking more coffee. “You left your drink inside?”

“Couldn’t carry yours, my weapon and my drink at the same time. I weighed it up and decided I could finish my coffee after I’ve ensured you won’t kill me.”

I run a hand along my jaw line, feeling the scratch of stubble as I look back towards the lake. She shifts a little in her seat but doesn’t make any move to get up. The long night of walking is catching up with me. I’m exhausted.

“What are you going to do?”

“About what?” I ask.

“You really are delirious, huh,” she tilts her head again and her hair falls over her shoulder like a waterfall. “What makes you not want to tell your friends about how you’re feeling?”

The sudden change of subject jolts my focus back to her face. Staring into her eyes, the desire to be honest overtakes me again.

“The people back there don’t care.”

“Hate to break it to you, but they don’t sound like good friends.”

“They’re not really friends. The one guy I was with last night, he’s been a bit of an ass about how I've been feeling lately.”

“So you ran?”

“I guess I did.”

“And what do you plan to do now that you ran?”

“Well, like you said, it’s five miles to a rest stop, or seven back to that life.”

“Are they really that bad?”

I can’t answer. My band mates are fine. We get on and they’ve stood by me. But they're not here. For the most part, Cody is an okay manager. He’s more concerned about losing money with us not performing than the way it's been affecting me.

“Maybe you need to run further,” she suggests.

“Maybe.”

"But in a safer way," she adds.

We stare at each other again. I’ve no idea what the fuck is happening right now, or if it’s all in my head. We’re not moving, not speaking, just drinking each other in.

A few months ago, I would have offered to rock her world in ways other than via music. It’s not that I’m changing as a person that stops me from asking. Somehow I know it would be the wrong move to make with this woman.

The more I stare at her, the more my mind works. Hearing her talk about her own ways of coping with the stresses of everyday life has opened my eyes to something unintended.

“Are you hungry?” she breaks the silence.

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