Page 12 of Red Flags Only

Jove is a rare, elusive type of confident – the quiet kind. Sure, one could say that flipping Chrissy’s grandpa’s truck wasn’t exactly quiet behavior,butJove did that and then just… went home? He didn’t stick around to make sure Chrissy’s grandpa saw. He didn’t yell at the old man. He went there, did what he went to do, and then left. Justice served, moving on. Justice, of course, being relative. Still.

I bet that if someone were to actually figure out what code it is that he lives by, he’d be an easy enough guy to get along with. The problem is in the mystery of it, not the nature of it. In my opinion, anyway. The rest of the town? Well… I’m sure they would not quite agree with me. Mostly on account of him having deliveredjusticeupon roughly 40% of the town, and the other 60% being related to that 40%. Hard to respect a man who lit your aunt’s barn on fire after she honked at his brother for using his right of way rights on his bicycle at a stoplight. Or something.

While I don’t agree with basicallyanyof his actions, I can respect his commitment to being the town baddie. I’m not sure what he does for work that affords him seemingly endless amounts of time to terrorize – drug trade? Harvesting illegal organs? Black market art broker? – but I really can appreciate his complete and utter dedication to it. He’s big, he’s bad, and he’s not bothered about anybody knowing it.

Hm.

I could… do two of those things. At 5’4”, I’m never going to accomplishbigin the way that his shoulders do, but I could be bad. I could be unbothered.

My chair keens what sounds suspiciously like a laugh as it swings gently under my weight. I tilt my head backand glare at the wicker braiding above my head. “I can be bad,” I tell it, ignoring the soft, gauzy weight of my dress skirt as it sways below me. “I can be unbothered,” I hiss, eyes narrowing in a glare.

The chair does not respond.

I tip my head back down, huffing. What does it know anyway? It’s not even sentient.

My legs uncross, slipping out from under me to land on the floor, and the giant egg swings behind me, protesting as I stand. “I’mgoingto be bad,” I say. “And unbothered.” I spin, pointing a finger at the still-swaying wicker. “You’ll see!”

Satisfied with my plan, I nod, then stomp through the greenhouse. I pause long enough to lock up before following my fairytale path home, where I open a girl’s best friend – the internet.

“Baddie… inspo… outfits…” I mutter, grabbing letter making supplies to match the images showing up on my screen. I have a reply to write to Jupiter, and I know just what the theme will be.

Chapter Seven

Bad boys drink milk with their carrot cake.

Jove

This isflagging garbage.

I highlight a section of my current work-in-progress and smash the delete button. Then I do it again for good measure. I resist the urge to trash the entire document, even though I know that’s where it belongs. In the dumpster. In an incinerator. In the middle of the Atlantic ocean, eaten up by sharks.

I do all of thisresearch, even going so far as to buy an ax to cut down a tree because I saw lumberjacks were trending in romance, and I wanted to see how much damage it would do to Mrs. Beverly’s shed roof so that I’d know how much damage to inflict on my main female character’s home when her dark, broody, possessive love interest plays lumberjack to remind her that no, actually, she cannot let another man sleep in her bed. That’shisand his alone.

Unfortunately, ruining Mrs. Beverly’s shed was driven by a need to right a wrong,notby the fiery passion of a jealous lover protecting his space in his dear love’s bed. So instead of getting passionate romantic fodder to use for my story, I watcheddispassionately as the tree fell, a sense of balance settling in my gut as the branches tore through hershingles, much like she tore through Mars’ garden path on her ATV last spring. His carrots wereruined. Just like my career when my deadline hits and I have nothing to give Mars to edit.

Speaking of Mars…

“I’m fine,” I mutter, sliding my laptop back on my desk and spinning toward the door to my office.

Mars is there, leaning against the door frame holding a small dessert plate while an elementary school-style box of milk dangles beneath it from his pinky. His other hand seemingly holds his attention as he flips a playing card over his fingers.

Seemingly.

“Seriously,” I say, louder. “I’m fine. You don’t have to check in on me.”

His eyes flick to me before returning to his card. “You’re sounding pretty defensive for someone who’sfine, Jovey. ‘Fine’ people don’t lock themselves in their offices for days on end, last I checked, which was recent. Excellent fact checker, me.”

I groan. “I’m writing. You know, that thing that authors do? I’m trying out the recluse-lock-yourself-in-a-room author archetype. Much better than my usual slop-things-on-a-page-and-leave-my-brother-to-deal-with-the-mess archetype. Ten out of ten, probably recommend.”

My stomach grumbles, calling me a liar. Not eating for three days in the name of method acting the idea of a successful author – as if I am not already a successful author – has not exactly done me well. I’m a big guy. I need calories.

Like, for instance, the calories in the carrot cake that Mars is approaching my desk with, card now tucked away. I eye the plate, salivating, then whimper as he holds it just out of my reaching hands’ range.

Eyes firm on mine, he says, “Take a break. Eat something. It’s a real problem for me that all the people I love seem averse to basic self-care, you know?”

My lower lip sneaks out, pouting.

“I know. Wild that I want you to stay alive. Here.” Somehow, a deep, blood-red envelope appears between his fingers. “Cake. Card. Alliteration. Authors love that.” I reach for it. Mine, mine, mine, but he moves it away. Mean. Rude. Hates me. “Promise me you’ll take a break? We can’t both be out of commission right now. One of us must maintain minimal levels of mental stability, ’kay?”

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