J—

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The next few days are a blur. I need to move past this. I need to move past her. However, I don't need to hear Rosé's sex chants the second I open the apartment door. I gave them plenty of time alone to work that shit out, but she has no self-control. Dare I knock on the door and ask Adrian to shove a pillow over her face?

Thank you, God.

Her bedroom door opens, so I stay hidden in the kitchen. Last night I got to see all of Adrian, which I never want to see again.

Little man. Big dick. It's too weird.

"Jennie?"

Thankfully it's Rosé. I close the fridge and face her robe-wrapped body, red hair a mess.

"Yes?"

Her nose wrinkles. "Do you …"

"Do I?"

"Have any lube?"

I blink several times.

"We wanna try something."

"It won't fit." I cringe. Those words come out of total instinct. "I mean … no, I don't have lube. Rosé, just go to sleep. Don't you have to work tomorrow?"

She rolls her eyes and walks toward me. "Yes, but it's only nine-thirty. I wonder if something like olive oil would work."

"Whoa!" I snatch the bottle by the stove before she grabs it. "No. I bought this. I don't mind you using it for cooking, but I'm not letting you take it into the bedroom."

"I'll buy you a new bottle."

I continue to hug the olive oil to my chest. "What if it's not safe? What if it reacts with the latex condom and weakens it?"

Her brow furrows. "You think we should use a condom? We've both been tested, and we're done with …" She rubs her lips together and somewhat indiscreetly points her finger south. "The front hole."

Shoving the bottle toward her, I grimace. "Take it; just stop talking about it. And you owe me a new bottle. Same brand, and no cheap shit."

"Thanks, Jennie. You're the best!" She scurries off with the bottle.

Within minutes, the apartment is filled with a new chant—oh … ow … god … slower.

Thankfully, I don't have to work tomorrow. Snatching my purse from the counter, I head to the bar across the street next to the pizza place where I had my first official date with the jackass neighbor girl.

"Jennie Kim, what can I get you?" Travis asks me from behind the bar as he flips a white towel over his shoulder.

"Let's see … Rosé just took my expensive bottle of olive oil to her bedroom to use as lube …" I tap my finger on my chin.

Travis laughs. "Tequila it is."

After two shots, I forget about my olive oil, and my relaxed gaze starts to wander around the bar, snagging on the couple toward the back by the restrooms.

Lisa Fucking Manoban has a beer in one hand and the ass of some girl in her other hand while they stand in a circle chatting with another couple I've never seen before.

When Lisa's attention shifts to the television for a few seconds and then makes its casual sweep of the room, I can't avert my gaze fast enough. And once she notices me, I find moving any part of my body impossible.

I hate her.

She's pure evil.

If the devil walked the earth in human form, it would be Lisa Manoban, looking like sin, fucking women in public restrooms, and eyeing them in bars like she's doing to me.

She's right. I should write another book. She'll be the villain, and the heroine will kill her, but not before removing her balls with toenail clippers and her dick with a nail file.

I have a mani-pedi tomorrow … they're the first weapons that come to mind.

My phone chimes, bringing me out of my murderous trance. It's a text from my mom.

I just finished The Last Person. It was okay. Don't be mad. I'm not sure it's the best book I've ever read. Some areas of the story were a bit wordy, and I'm surprised I found so many typos in a published book. Sidenote: Did you see the new miniseries released on Hulu? Good night.

My heart sinks into the pit of my stomach. There it is. The person who should be the most biased about me and my writing is my mom. And she would be … if she knew I wrote the book.

She doesn't. I never told anyone because I didn't want to see their faces if I failed. This makes my mom the most authentic example of unbiased honesty—the best constructive criticism and a reality check I didn't see coming.

I take down another shot of tequila … then another. Then I have to pee. Luckily, I have just enough alcohol in my body not to care that Lisa and her new girl are blocking the way to the toilet.

Swaying a bit as I stand, I gather my bearings and worm through the crowd, feeling slightly numb while the room spins. "Excuse me. Pardon me," I mumble. As I approach Lisa, she eyes me with a worried brow and pitiful frown.

"Excuse me. I need through to pee." I offer a stiff grin.

The blond girl on her arm and the other couple smile and part the sea for me to pee. I giggle when I realize my brain rhymed. Maybe I'm not a novelist. Perhaps I'm a poet like Lisa's grandma.

I take a few wobbly steps, and Lisa's hand moves from the blond girl's ass to my arm, steadying me.

"Jennie, I think you should go home," she says.

My hands fly out to the side like a cat preparing to land on its feet. "I'm good. I just need to pee and can't go home until anal is over." I continue forward as Lisa's friends snigger behind me.

"You know her?" One of them asks.

"Sort of. Just a sec," Lisa replies as I reach for the door handle.

"That's the men's room." Her hand covers mine, peeling my grip from the handle and redirecting me to the next door, a few more feet down the hallway.

It's locked.

I sigh, rolling to the side, pressing my back against the wall, and closing my eyes so things stop moving on me. "You 'sort of' know me? Well, that's just fantastic. Go," I mumble. "Blond girl's ass is probably missing your hand. Can't blame her … I remember what that feels like."

"You're drunk, and I didn't have my hand on her ass. It's called her lower back. What are you doing here by yourself getting wasted?"

I rub my temples. "My mom didn't love the book. Rosé has a dick up her ass, and she's being loud about it. And my chances of finding a publisher are nearly zero, so I think I deserve a few shots."

Lisa glances down the hallway to her friends. "Can you get home by yourself?"

The door to the bathroom opens. The woman coming out gives us a quick smile and turns the corner.

I laugh. "You have a date, and I have to pee."

She shrugs. "It's not a date. I just met her here. I … we …"

I rest my hand on her chest. "You…" my head tries to spin again "…will sleep with her. She's not a psycho-author. She seems like a good distraction. I get it." I turn and flip on the light to the bathroom. "I used to be a good distraction until you ruined it." Closing the door, I lock it and find the toilet before I wet my pants.

When I emerge, she's gone. Her friends are gone. And I'm oddly disappointed. It has to be the tequila.

I take my inebriated self home. The apartment is quiet. After erasing my mom's text without responding, I resist my usual urge to jump online and check my book sales. I wouldn't call four copies a day something that will pay the rent. Tequila, Mom, and Lisa mix into a potent cocktail of self-doubt. I decide to face the truth.

I'm not a writer.

..

The following day, I awaken with a nasty hangover but a new lease on life. I'm not a writer, and this means I can figure out what I am good at. For now, it's marketing at the bouldering gym.

"Morning," Kai says as I arrive for my morning java.

"Good morning."

"Usual?"

I nod.

"So I heard you're an author."

I peer up from my phone. "Um …"

He nods behind me. I glance over my shoulder to Lisa sitting at a table with her coffee and a stack of papers.

She smiles, much like she did the day we met.

I turn back to Kai. "I'm not." How nice of Lisa to blab it to everyone, and I can only imagine what she said about my subpar abilities to pen something worthy of a spot on someone's bookshelf.

Grabbing my coffee, I march toward the door, keeping my gaze away from Lisa.

"Do you want it?" Her voice stops me.

"Want what?" I ask, both words lined with exasperation.

"Your manuscript."

I glance to the side as she digs into her messenger bag, pulls out another pile of papers, and plops them on the table.

I squint at it while inching a little closer. "I didn't send a physical copy."

"They print it. I'm old school like my parents, and I like to make physical notes the first time through."

I pick it up, the slew of red marks from the second page bleeding through to the title page. "Did you edit it? Why edit something you don't intend to publish?"

"As a favor to you."

"How kind. Maybe you'll also critique the cellulite on my legs and my small boobs as a favor."

"I haven't noticed your cellulite, and your boobs are fine. What is it they say … anything more than a mouthful is a waste?"

"You're a dick." I hug the manuscript to my chest and bring my coffee to my mouth with my other hand.

"Maybe." She shrugs. "Just so you know…" she nods to the manuscript, "…I wasn't in a good place when I made the edits, which means I mentioned every little thing and used many exclamation points in my notes, which was very unprofessional. My bad."

My bad?

How did I let myself get entangled with this girl?

Dropping the manuscript on top of the other manuscript in front of her, my lips pull into a firm line, and I set my coffee down before removing the lid to her large coffee and dumping it all over both manuscripts.

Lisa jerks back in her chair, attempting to avoid it spilling onto her lap. "What the hell?"

"Sorry. My bad." I grab my coffee, pivot, and don't look back.

"Get your stubborn ass back here!" She grabs her bag and gathers the wet manuscripts, depositing them in the garbage as she follows me out the door.

I lengthen my strides. "Screw you, Lisa Manoban!"

"You did! That's just it. And it was so goddamn unforgettable that I felt angry that you lied to me, that you let a book ruin it. So I took it out on your manuscript." She grabs my shoulder and forces me to stop, placing herself in front of me like an angry roadblock.

"Oh, gosh … I'm so sorry. I'm sure the blond girl from last night can spread her legs just as wide as I can spread mine. So save 'the sex was goddamn unforgettable' story for someone else."

"It was more than the sex, and you know it." She steals my coffee and struts in the other direction.

"Hey!" I chase her.

Fishing a key from her pocket, she opens the door to her T-shirt shop. I reach for the handle before it shuts.

She pivots and glares at me, but I don't flinch. She's done making me feel bad about myself and intimidating me. Reaching past me, she locks the door and takes my coffee to her office.

"If it were more than sex, you would not have made me feel bad about myself."

She sets the coffee on the desk and looks up at me with total disbelief. "I DIDN'T KNOW IT WAS YOUR BOOK!"

I jump, heart racing.

She blows out a long breath, the expression on her red face softening into regret. "I didn't know …"

"What would you have done … had you known?" I whisper.

She shakes her head. "I don't know. I … I would have lied. And maybe it wouldn't have felt like a total lie, and maybe I wouldn't have been able to read it through clear glasses. A blinding desire."

"I'm done. I will pull the book from retailers, and I'm just … done."

Lisa's forehead wrinkles, and she nods slowly.

"That's it?" I cough for a second in disbelief. "A nod? Are you not going to tell me not to give up? To write another book?"

She eases into her chair and folds her hands over her red T-shirt-clad chest. "Successful people have one thing in common—they're self-motivated. If I have to tell you not to give up, to write another book, and fight for your dreams … you'll never be a published author. Period."

I thought my world was crumbling when she told me her parents owned Roseland Publishing and she had my manuscript. I felt the same when my mom texted me with her lukewarm opinion of my book.

I was wrong.

Right now … I feel like a massive failure because part of me needs outside approval, a pat on the back, and words of encouragement. This is my lowest point.

Picking up my knocked-out ego, I slide it into my pocket and smile at Lisa while I close the distance between us with hesitant steps. She sits up straight, spreading her knees wide to accommodate my body to stand between them. My hands press to her cheeks, and she leans into my touch. It makes things so much harder, but I do it anyway. I love her. I will never say those words, but I love her. Despite everything … I love her.

But I'm broken.

I'm lost.

I'm hurt.

My lips press to hers in a slow kiss. Her initial hesitation tells me she's not expecting this. Not now. Maybe not ever again. Pulling back, I hold her gaze, admiring the wonder in her eyes. She's trying to figure out what's happening, what it means.

"Thank you," I whisper.

Snagging my coffee from her desk, I leave her store and her life.

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