Page 19 of Smut

I head to my room and think about texting Rio, but she’ll just tell me to pull up my big girl panties, put on some gangsta rap, and deal with it. I then think about writing the appropriate rebuttal to Blake, but I stop myself. He’ll get an earful tonight at the library, and if he refuses to apologize or budge an inch, then I’m taking it to Marie with that email as proof.

Emboldened with my new resolve, I shower and get dressed and head to school to catch my back to back classes of Early American Literature and Journalism, even though I can’t concentrate on a goddamn thing. When they’re over, I’ve got two hours before I have to meet with Blake, and there’s really no point in going home and coming back, so I take the time to get to the library early and do some writing of my own, on something that actually counts.

The Land of Tears and Bone is my fantasy novel, the secret pride and joy of my life, and a world where I’d rather spend ninety-nine percent of my days. I say secret because even though my family knows I’m writing it, they don’t ask any questions about it and basically pretend it doesn’t exist. Well, that’s not true. The other day my mother asked if I was still writing about the occult. My mom goes a little nuts with her Christianity and thinks all fantasy novels must be derived from Satan somehow. Yeah, she’s one of those people who thinks Harry Potter should be banned (and not because JKR is a garbage person).

My sister, Dahlia, has a little more interest, but she’s busy living on a farm somewhere in the British Columbian interior, rarely has access to the internet, and she doesn’t have a cell phone for various reasons, some of which I totally get. She’s a bit of a nomad and a hippie, and honestly always has been, but don’t think my parents weren’t disappointed in her when she announced she wasn’t going to university and instead running off with her tree-planting boyfriend I call “El Beardo.” I’m still not sure what his real name is, but he does have one hell of a beard.

It doesn’t really matter in the end. Most people I talk to don’t take writing seriously. If I tell them I’m an aspiring author, they get that “yeah right” look on their face, which is usually followed by “good luck with that.” Then there are the people I went to high school with, the kids I grew up with, family, friends, anyone from that crowd. Writing isn’t seen as something respectable, and that’s something they, and my parents, still firmly believe in. So, when I can, I don’t mention anything about my work-in-progress and I gloss over the creative writing part of my degree.

Thank god for the people in my program because I can talk to any of them about writing and they get it. Maybe our aspirations are all different—Rio thinks it will be a hobby for her and wants to teach English overseas when her degree is over—but our fears are all the same.

Except for Blake. Blake is the enigma, the person who doesn’t quite fit in. I feel comfortable baring my soul through the written word with anyone in that class except for him. It’s like he’s an intruder, someone to watch and spy and pass judgement without offering up anything of himself. That’s not to say he hasn’t written anything, but I truly doubt it comes from anywhere genuine. His work carries none of his soul.

The minute I step into the library, I exhale, closing my eyes for a moment to take in the familiar smell. There’s a twinge of regret in my gut, and I wish Blake hadn’t chosen one of my sacred writing places for our meeting, but I push on and ignore it. I go and find a table tucked away in the corner on the second level, and set myself up, opening my laptop, plus my one notebook for plotting and the other for world-building. The world-building one is a hell of a lot thicker than the plotting one. I get extremely carried away with the research aspect of the novel, and I have been filling up the tome for many years.

I haven’t written for the last week, and while I’m eager to get back into it, I also stopped at a difficult part. I’ve written forty percent of the book and have hit a bit of a block. My character, Luthwen, is in the middle of his quest, and his ragtag group of characters, including a beautiful half-bird woman named Phenolope, are becoming integral to his journey…but I’m bored. There’s a few scenes I have to go through before the first battle, and it’s lagging. I know it’s common for the middle of a book, but I haven’t figured out how to keep my interest or the readers’ that may one day read it, even though I’ve peppered the middle with exciting chapters.

Part of me thinks that maybe a romance between Phenelope and Luthwen could happen. It certainly feels natural, despite the characters butting heads. But I swore I wouldn’t inject romance into this novel. First of all, far too many fantasies have them and they feel poorly written and unnatural, like they’re thrown in there to keep the readers happy and not the author, or the authors think it will attract a whole new set of readers to their genre when it won’t. Romance readers want romance, they don’t want it with a plot about bird women and wizards and monsters that look like a giant ant crossed with a spider. They might not want it with a plot at all, so let’s not pretend.

So I do what I always do when I’m stuck—research. That’s probably why I’ve been writing this beast for two years. Every time I hit a road block I throw myself into something I can depend on. In this case, I get books about Greek mythology, the history of the Druids, and a Piers Anthony novel and bury my nose in them, getting as much inspiration and detail as possible while munching on garlicky kale chips and chocolate-covered espresso beans for sustenance (not at the same time).

I guess I’m so engrossed in reading rather than writing that time slips away from me. I don’t even notice Blake until it’s too late.

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CHAPTER 4

Blake

Iwake up with a brain full of drying cement, completely hung over, every pore in my body smelling like beer. I blink into the dim light, relieved that I managed to pull my shades shut before I passed out. Beneath my sour mouth and pounding head, there’s this curious feeling, like a residue of guilt lingering deep inside me. This guilt is the manifestation of a hundred pins being stuck into a voodoo doll.

It comes back to me. Heath and I at the Bard and Banker, drinking our faces off and composing an email to Amanda. And I know I hit send. That’s where the guilt comes in.

Fuck. What the hell did I say? What did we say? I know Heath was an accomplice.

Even though I’m hurting, I roll over and grab my phone, clumsily getting my passcode wrong a few times before it clicks. I check my email, and before I even see the message in the sent folder, it all comes back to me.

You know what would make a billion dollars? Some kind of electronic retrieval system that will pull your impulsive and highly regretful texts and emails before anyone gets a chance to read them. If I were smart enough, I’d invent it, or at least be an early investor in said company because I think everyone everywhere has sent something they regretted. Usually while drinking.

I cringe as I read my email over, and I know, I know that this is bad news. If it were any other girl, she would maybe laugh it off—maybe—but since this is Amanda (and hence why I sent it to begin with), I’m giving her something she can take up with the school itself. The worst part, she hasn’t even responded, so I don’t know if she’s not seen it yet or is just stewing on it and plotting a million ways to ruin me.

You’re a grade-A wanker, I tell myself as I make my way into the kitchen. It’s times like these that I wish I had a roommate, someone to bitch to in person, someone enabling who would pat me on the back and tell me everything’s going to be fine. But I’m alone, which works most of the time, especially when I’m bringing chicks back here at night. No one wants a meddlesome roommate to interrupt the fun, and because most of the girls live in dorm rooms surrounded by people, having this level of privacy wins me extra points in their books.

Although I’m not completely alone. Down the hall, in the study, I have what seems to be a permanent houseguest—Fluffy. Luckily Fluffy is a low-maintenance boarder who only requires food, water, and shelter. Of course, Kevin mentioned there should be some cuddling involved, but I know where to draw the line. Love and cuddling don’t work for me with humans, let alone pets—at least not anymore.

I pour myself a glass of water at the sink and slam back two Advil, a B-vitamin, and then chase it all with a Five Hour Energy drink just as my dad sends me a text asking me to bring some of the books I borrowed back to the store. I’m not supposed to, but if we have more than two copies of something, I usually take it home to read. I know my dad wishes they weren’t science fiction novels about space and doomsday prophecies, but I honestly couldn’t give a shit what he thinks sometimes. He’s still my dad though and I feel obligated to help—it’s my future after all—so after a quick shower, I slip on my clothes and dark shades and head out into the cobblestone streets of downtown Victoria.

My apartment, overlooking a colorful colony of floating homes, is located just beyond the ferries that head south to Washington State. If it wasn’t for the fact that Angelica owns the apartment as an investment, there’s no way I would be able to afford it on my own. All the money I saved back in England, the money I thought would see me on an around-the-world trip or two, is starting to run out, and there’s no chance for me to get a part-time job when I spend so many hours working for my dad for free.

I head out into the gloom of the day, something that makes me feel at home along with the gardens (which, unlike back home, start blooming here in February), horse-drawn carriages, and high tea at the Empress Hotel.

It’s actually just as I’m passing the massive façade of the ivy-covered hotel that I’m sure I’ve started hallucinating, because there’s Amanda leaning back against the railing overlooking the marina.

I freeze for a moment like a panicked deer, unsure what to do and where to go. For one, it’s her, and after that email, I should fear for my life, or at least find some way to protect my groin. For two, she looks bloody hot. I’m frozen in both fear and this shameful kind of desire because my dick is twitching and my limbs are growing heavy all because she’s wearing these shiny blue skin tight leggings adorned with pink cherry blossoms that seem to accentuate every curve and muscle in her legs, hips, and arse. Then there’s her breasts, impossibly firm in a sleek white tank top. It’s like until this moment, I wasn’t even aware that Amanda had much of a body, but fuck, there it is. And I’m going to have to figure out how to quickly forget it.

Before I know what I’m doing, my feet are moving and I’m hiding behind my sunglasses, hoping I can just walk past her and she won’t see me.

But oh, oh shit. She does.

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