Page 17 of Smut

It’s Blake Motherfucking Crawford.

He’s got his sunglasses on, aviators like all assholes wear, and is walking up the sidewalk with a neon yellow tote bag that says Crawford’s Books. For some reason I’m focusing on the tote, which doesn’t exactly go with his Converse shoes, black jeans, grey T-shirt, and black leather jacket. And as he walks toward me, seeming not to notice that I’m almost standing in his way, I’m putting two and two together. Is he somehow involved with the bookstore around the corner?

And there it is, the slight flash of recognition in his brows as they dart up, lines in his forehead deepening. Yet he keeps walking.

“Um, hello?” I practically yell at him, throwing my arms out to the side.

“Amanda,” he says, stopping but taking two steps back. He clears his throat. “Nice morning.” He says this so warily, like the sky is about to fall on us. Given the weather here, he’s probably not that far off.

“Yeah,” I say, wanting to bring up the email, but my eyes drift back to the tote. “You aren’t by any chance related to Crawford’s Books?”

“What?” He looks down at the bag and winces. “Oh yes. Yes I am. And I work there. That’s my father who incongruously ordered neon yellow tote bags because he thought they would be more eye-catching.”

“Hate to say it worked,” I tell him, and part of me wants to chalk up the fact that his father owns one of my favorite bookstores as a plus to his character (also the fact that he dropped incongruously in a sentence), but my innate dislike of him won’t allow it. Even though our conversation is going okay so far, I automatically lean back and fold my arms across my chest, on the defensive.

He nods quickly, and even though I can’t see his eyes, I know they’re darting all over the place. His hand goes to the back of his neck, rubbing at it, and he clears his throat, all signs of being uncomfortable. I would have thought if I ran into Blake outside of class he would have free douchebag rein with me, but maybe I’ve misjudged him.

“Did you get my email?” he asks quietly.

So he did respond. I nod, totally lying. “Yup.”

His brows pull together. “Really?”

“So uh, where did you want to meet again?” I ask, taking a guess at what he could have possibly said in response.

He’s still frowning, his head tilting slightly like he’s appraising me. “The library…tonight…seven p.m.”

“Right,” I say, forcing a smile on my face. “Luckily I’m free.”

“Yeah…well. I’m going to head to the store.” He starts to walk off and then looks back at me over his shoulder. “So, you’re sure about tonight?”

I give him a look. “I want to get this project over with as much as you do.”

He licks his lips and nods. “Gotcha. See you then.”

“Yeah, see you,” I say, watching him walk off, my eyes briefly resting on his ass before I tear them away. Okay, so that was weird. He was the last person I expected to see and the last person I wanted to see, and yet he was acting like he was afraid of me. No jabs, no nicknames, no snide remarks. If it wasn’t for the fact that he was acting so cagey, I would have said he was almost polite.

I’m not sure how I feel about it. Is it possible that I’m wrong about Blake? Maybe my email made him realize how much I mean business. I might have intimidated congeniality into him.

What I do know is I need to read that email, and so even though my legs and lungs are protesting, I start running back home.

Luckily it doesn’t take long for my phone to boot up and for me to access my emails.

I click on Blake’s reply without much thought.

I wish I hadn’t.

Hey Sugar Tits,

I admit I didn’t understand most of your email since you used all them big words and all. But heck, I like a woman who knows her right from her left. I can’t promise I’ll be a brilliant writer but I will promise to annoy the ever living fuck out of you every opportunity that I get. Seeing that I’ll be monopolizing most of your time, because no I don’t believe we should work on this separately, you better get used to my handsome face real quick. I can’t promise you’ll love it, but I certainly will. Maybe you can start doing me a favor and bringing a roll of duct tape to our meetings. I know you’re probably too prudish to be tied up but it could come in real handy across your mouth when you start spewing all your high and mighty garbage. Then again, you are a girl and I’ve been programmed to tune most of your words out. We’ll see.

Anyway, no need to use your pretty little brain as I already have several story ideas that I’m working on that you might like.

Cum for the T-Rex (a zany story about dinosaur sex and the women who go back in time to seek them)

Death by Farts (people die by hiccupping all the time and it makes the news, so why not this? Could be an investigative journalism piece)

Ms. Know-it-all and Her Lonely Life (could be your autobiography but I won’t get presumptuous. Oh look, I know what that word means).

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