Page 7 of Out of Focus

“What am I doing? Oh, that’s rich. You’re completely wasted and were about to get sloppy with that department store mannequin, but yeah, ask me what I’m doing.”

His hands are on his hips and I’m pretty sure I’ve never taken notice of just how good he smells before. Fresh and citrusy. Probably because we’ve never been this physically close before. Probably because we don’t like each other.

“I thought he looked more like a Ken doll, but mannequin works, too.” I lean against the tree, letting my head fall back so I can look him in the eyes briefly. “And I was trying to get laid, in case it wasn’t obvious. Thanks for ruining that for me.” His breath warms my cheek, and the heat in his eyes is almost too much for me to bear. “Now, if you’ll excuse me.” I make a move to swerve around him, but he stops me with a giant palm landing on my forehead, pushing me back against the tree. “Owww!”

“Not tonight, Ginger Spice. You’ve had way too much to drink to be going home with anyone, let alone that leather-skinned dumbass out there.” He lowers his hand, and I stay put, once again shocked by the physical contact and the sheer size of him.

“Oh, stop. You’re not on duty, Machado. And you’re not my bloody bodyguard.” Heat rushes to my cheeks as it always does when I get into a tiff with Rafael. “What’s it to you, anyway? You shag a different girl every other night. What happened to the one that was just hanging off you? It’s positively appalling how you?—”

“Are you about to slut shame me? Because I thought you were better than that.” He crosses his insanely tanned and tattooed arms, and the way his muscles bunch up only distracts me for a moment.

“What? No! Of course not. I don’t care about your sex life enough to bother trying to shame you for it. But why do you get to sleep around, and when I try to get busy with a guy one time you think you can stop me?” With my arms over my chest, mimicking his stance, I do my best to stand up straight, but I can feel my upper body swaying. I’m so bloody wankered.

“Get busy? You don’t get busy.” He air quotes annoyingly. “I know you.” I’m hit with a waft of his cologne again, and I hold my breath to keep myself from breathing in deeper.

“You know nothing about me.” My voice is shaky, and suddenly, I don’t feel like I’ve had nearly enough drinks to be this close to him.

“Oh no? But you know so much about me that you can talk about who I sleep with?” He quirks up an eyebrow, and I want to drop-kick it. I want to smack that eyebrow right off his unreasonably handsome face.

“I know enough.”

He steps forward, and the air becomes instantly thicker. Hotter. It’s hard to breathe, move, think.

“Is that so?” He smirks, and I scowl up at him. It’s a look I know he’s used to seeing from me. “Why do you fight with me so much? What is it you think you know about me that makes you hate me?”

“I don’t… I never said that I…” I can’t look at him now, but I can feel his gaze is steady on me.

“You don’t have to say it, red. You avoid every room I’m in. When you see me, you scowl. Every time I smile at you, you roll your eyes and walk the other way.” He leans in closer and pulls my chin up, so I have to look at him. “Is it because you’re the proper British girl who’s never had a real man make her scream his name before? Or is it that you’re so attracted to me that you get jealous of the women who take me to their beds?” The flush hits my cheeks before he even finishes the question. The jerk chuckles. “So that’s it then. You want to know what all the fuss is about. Want to find out for yourself if you’d melt in my hands, too.” It’s not even a question, and the pompous jerk raises one eyebrow with all the confidence in the world. “How did I do, Princess Charlotte?”

Anger rises from my chest to my temples. I push my hands as hard as I can against his chest, but he doesn’t budge. “Screw you, Machado. And don’t ever call me that again. You really want to know what I think about you?”

He licks his lips and lowers his chin, urging me on. I keep my eyes locked on his nose, avoiding his eyes while refusing to be distracted by the lip-licking. If it weren’t for the fact that I’ve thought about these words before, I would be frozen right now, completely unable to retort. But I’ve defended myself against his picture-perfect smile laced with taunts in the comfort of my own mind before. I’m ready now.

“You probably peaked in high school, and that’s why you feel you need to keep up this little charade now. Let me guess… you were some sort of sports star who got away with doing bugger all, not having to actually try at anything. Your little girlfriends probably did all your homework for you because you were too dense to figure it out yourself, and all that charm that oozes out of your pores allowed you to get away with it. You wear your conquests like a badge of honor because you have nothing else to be proud of.” I’m panting as the words I’ve thought about so many times explode out of me. “How did I do, big guy?”

I look up long enough to notice that the glimmer in his eyes is gone, and his jaw is clenched. I should feel guilty about what I said, but I’m too drunk and angry to care, and still far too unsettled by him calling me out on my curiosity about his sexual prowess—because damn it, I am curious.

He steps back, and if I hadn’t been staring at him unblinkingly, I might have missed it. He looks down at his shoes before looking back up at me. “You got it, Chuck. You got it just right.”

But I don’t feel like I got anything right. I feel like I got it all wrong, but I can’t take anything back now because before I can apologize, I’m throwing up into a bush. And it is violent. Maeve is going to throw a wobbler when she finds out about this.

5/

the story is about my sad, dehydrated vagina.

charlie

now

“You can do this,” I mumble to myself as I try to prevent myself from throwing my laptop out a window for the seventh time this writing session. “Think about kissing. What do you feel when you kiss someone for the first time? Come on, then. Think about the anticipation. The tingly feelings in your… wait… where is one supposed to feel tingly when kissing? Aaaah!”

A weird pang in my chest hits me as I think about the book I’ve started writing. Things don’t feel as clear as they did before, and I’m really struggling with writing any of the romantic scenes. Don’t even get me started on having to write about sex. Sure, I’ve had sex before, and, of course, I know what an orgasm feels like. I’m thirty, and I’m not dead.

I’ve never felt the passion I read or write about in romance novels, and now that I’m writing my tenth one, I feel like I should really have more experience in the field. That, and the pressure from Robert for us to officially be in a monogamous relationship with one another, has me wondering how I can prepare myself for true intimacy with someone if I’ve never experienced it.

While he’s been actively dating in London for years, I’ve been writing about it. My personal experience with relationships is… well… I don’t have any. It makes me feel very inadequate and unprepared, and I’m not comfortable being either of those things. It’s messing with my writing and my head.

Feeling like I’m about to crawl out of my skin, I plop myself down on my bed, careful not to hit my still-sore arm, and scream into the pillow so loudly I hardly register the buzzing of my phone. I roll over and read the screen before picking up with a groan.

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