Page 97 of Smut

“Both.”

“I’m okay with that,” I tell her, flattered that she wants me on the cover. I flip her computer back open. “Let’s leave Ford Titan and Shasta Black in the past for now. Our new hero and heroine need names.”

Let the brainstorming begin.

CHAPTER 16

Amanda

Iused to think one of the more compelling reasons authors write together is because they have someone else to cheer them on, someone to be accountable for besides themselves. If you slack off, you have someone to tell you to pick up the pace, to hit you upside the head, to force you to work. After all, it’s harder to let two people down rather than just one, especially if you’re used to disappointing yourself all the time.

But the more I write with Blake, the less I get done. Somehow when we hated each other we were able to get a lot more writing done. Now that we’ve tried to actually make this a career, now that we’re actually making fucking money, the words have stopped flowing and writer’s block is forever rearing its ugly head in my life once again.

Oh, who am I kidding? I can’t pretend I don’t know why we’ve been slacking. It’s not the pressure of trying to top Falling for the Secret Male Stripper (not entirely). It’s the challenge of choosing writing over fucking. Because, Jesus, for once in my life I’ve got every single sexual fantasy I’ve ever wanted, everything that my ex never was, all at my fingertips. It’s instant access to an orgasm whenever Blake is around, and when he isn’t around, I’m getting hand cramps from masturbating so furiously. It’s not just the smut that we’re writing. It’s the smut that we’re doing.

Every spare second.

Obviously the only solution is to avoid each other and try and write separately. That was my plan anyway, and I knew just the place to do it. My parents have a cottage on a nearby island that’s been in the family for at least fifty years. It’s small, nothing fancy, though some of my fondest memories were being young and running amok there with my sister. Usually our nanny Karen would take us there when my parents wanted peace and quiet in the house, but sometimes, some lucky weeks during the dog days of summer, it would be the four of us—Dahlia, me, Mom and Dad. For once I could actually feel what it was like to have a family, and since the cottage is small, we really got to know each other. Even my mother, who never drinks anything other than wine now, would drink beer on the porch, wear flip-flops and no makeup, and take us for walks along the beach while I entertained her with stories.

The minute that I told my parents I wanted to use the cottage for a few days to “relax,” the more I realized I wanted Blake there with me. It’s a completely stupid idea to invite the very reason why your work ethic is non-existent. But I can’t really explain it. It’s not that I want his company, I mean the guy drives me crazy outside of the bedroom, but some tiny part of me wants to show him something of my past. Besides, a change of scenery will probably do us some good, and even though it’s scary to take the two of us and remove us from the world we’re used to, I think it will work out.

If it doesn’t completely blow up in our faces.

But we’ll see.

First, though, I have to work up the nerve to ask him. And the fact that I have to work up the nerve, that I’m actually nervous, that I’m actually worried, says a lot of things I don’t want about me. Mainly that I care what Blake Crawford thinks of me.

Because, shit. I do care.

A lot.

On Wednesday night I send him a text. I’d just seen him yesterday for another writing session turned sex romp, and I’d casually mentioned that the next time we saw each other we had to get something done besides each other.

Totally fine if you say no, but did you want to get away for a few days to write? I was going to go to my parents’ cabin on Salt Spring Island this weekend for inspiration. Thought it might help.

I stare at the phone and lie back in bed.

Just staring.

Waiting.

I spy on a few Facebook profiles.

Still waiting.

Paint my nails emerald green.

Still waiting.

I hear Ana opening the fridge so I scamper out into the kitchen, looking for a distraction.

“Busy writing?” she asks me before pulling out a jar of mayonnaise and closing the fridge door with her ass. I watch, mystified, as she unscrews the lid and then dips a spoon inside of the jar. She leans back against the counter, that dollop of mayo resting on the spoon, her dark purple gel nails like dinosaur claws.

God, I hope she doesn’t eat that.

“Uh, no,” I say. “I’m having a hard time concentrating.”

“It’s all that penis you’re getting,” she says, the spoon going to her other hand.

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