Page 7 of Second Draft

“Why?”

“You intrigue me. And I want to know more about you.”

Her brows are tightly drawn down and she’s watching me like she can’t figure out the game I’m playing. But the truth is, it isn’t a game. I’m genuinely interested to know what makes her tick.

She glances down at the book in her hand, suddenly looking extremely vulnerable. “I write.”

“Really?”

“I wrote a book.” Her cheeks flame at the admission.

“Impressive.”

“Not really. It never got published.” Her tongue darts out across her soft, pink lips, and I can’t help the filthy thoughts that fill my mind. Her on her knees in front of me, lips stretched around my cock.

Holy hell, when was the last time I’d had this reaction to a woman? Maybe never.

I clear my throat. “What’s it about? The book.”

A small grin plays at her lips. “You know, the whole good girl meets the bad boy in a bar, they fall in love instantly, and live happily ever after.”

I pause, something stirring in my chest.

“Really?”

She laughs and shakes her head. “No. I’m kidding. Butthatwould probably get published. Because that’s what people want.”

“Bad boys?”

“Yeah.” She nods. “And happily ever afters.”

“Ah the stuff of fairytales.” I take a swig of my beer.

“Exactly.”

“So, write that story.”

She shrugs. “I can’t write what I don’t believe.”

Interesting.

“You don’t believe in happy endings?”

She shrugs. “Life is just so much messier. Think about it. How many people do you know who are living their dream? Or who’ve foundthe one.”

I open my mouth, then shut it, because she’s right. I can’t think of one. Except maybe my parents. They had the marriage books are written about, but then bam. One drunk driver, and both of their lives, were snuffed out too soon.

My chest tightens at the memory. Four years has done little to dull the pain.

“Maybe that’s why people want to read that stuff.”

“Why?”

“A way to forget the shittiness of life. To believe in something that will fill the gaping wound in their chests.”

“You’re probably right.” She tilts her head, studying me, like she can see right to my core.

It’s unnerving, and yet so fucking tempting. To remove the detachment I usually carry around with me like a shield, and let her see the darkest, most tainted parts of me. Maybe it’s because I see it in her too. Secrets and demons that haunt those beautiful eyes.

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