by Jillian Dodd
Which is what has me looking around online for local writing groups. Not to sound snobby or anything, but I’m not looking for amateurs. I want to find people who’ve already been published or who at least have agents on their team. People who are serious about their writing, who have a career path in mind.
Unfortunately, as I scroll through one description after another, it seems like that’s all I can find. People who write short stories or who need feedback on an excerpt or single chapter.
Which is fine for people who don’t already have a career. But not so fine for me.
I decide to pare down my search by adding the word professional to the keywords. Hopefully, that will narrow things down and keep me from wasting too much time.
Bingo.
I lean closer to the screen to read more. There’s a group that meets up weekly in a coffee shop on the other side of the park to talk about their latest projects and to compare notes. Twice a month, an industry professional pays a visit—agents, editors, publicists—and they answer questions or give a presentation on changing trends. This sounds perfect for me.
It looks like they meet on Wednesdays, which works. Then again, just about any day of the week works for me. It’s worth a try, so I shoot a message to the group’s admin to ask if I can stop over and sit in on a meeting. I’m not trying to invade their space. Plus, my introverted self won’t let me barge right on in without making sure I’m welcome.
Okay, so that’s done. I can actually say I tried. And if I never hear back from them, I can always try again.
Maybe it’s the conversation with Rafe the other night—all this talk about craft and honing it and being as good as he can be—but it now seems silly that I’ve never done this before. How thoughtless of me. Maybe a little prideful too. I mean, having my first book purchased and published right out of the gate is hardly anything to complain about, but it sort of helped me skip the steps most writers go through. Getting to know other writers, critiquing their work, having my work critiqued.
Nobody wants to have their work critiqued, but it’s something we all have to go through.
With that in mind, I go back to what I started writing after Rafe left the apartment. I was horny as all get-out, putting it mildly, so I launched straight into a scene reminiscent of what had just taken place.
Ryder slid his hand over Fiona’s jean-clad thigh, an inch at a time, and her skin practically sizzled, even with a layer of denim between her aching flesh and his skillful fingers. More. She wanted more. She needed more.
Watching him onstage was one thing, but having him between her thighs was something miraculous. This man—the one so many women in the audience had sighed over when he performed—he was hers for now, only hers.
And he was doing things to her that nobody had done in a long time. Waking up parts of her that had been asleep for ages, to the point where she couldn’t remember just when they had been awake in the first place.
“Do you like it when I touch you?” he breathed between kisses, his breath hot against her already-heated skin. “Tell me how much you like it.”
If she hadn’t already been flushed all over, she definitely would have reddened at this request. “I like it,” she whispered, straining upward so their mouths could meet again.
He pulled back, teasing. “You can do better than that,” he whispered.
She groaned, frustrated, every inch of her body desperate for more of what they’d only started to explore together. “It feels good. I want more.”
“Where does it feel good?” His hand started to slide upward again, and she closed her eyes as fresh waves of pleasure radiated from that point of contact. “Here, in this moment. Feel your body. Experience it. Breathe deep, be present.”
She hadn’t signed up for an acting lesson, had she? Something told her if she didn’t do what he said, he would take his hand away along with the rest of him, and she would just die if he did that. She needed him too badly, with all her body. “It feels so good where you touch me.”
“Good. But how does it feel? Tell me more.”
His fingers pressed harder, digging into her flesh, and she bit down on her lip to hold back a whimper. This was torture, the most exquisite torture.
“It’s like, wherever you touch me, I feel it deep inside. And I want more. Like my skin is on fire and I want it to keep burning.”
He rewarded her by allowing his hand to slide over the curve of her ass, and she thought she might die from the excruciating, sweet ache between her legs. When she cried out, her head falling back, he lowered his head to taste the skin of her neck.
Okay, so my imagination ran away with me a little. I would like to think that if we had gone further, it would have been like this. No, Rafe would not turn our playtime into an acting lesson—at least, I sure hope he wouldn’t.
Something chimes on my computer, making me jump. I have so many stinking tabs open; it’s hard to keep track of which one the sound came from. Thankfully, one of the tabs in my browser is blinking, indicating the site.
The writing group? Did somebody get back to me this quickly?
No, as it turns out, it’s a message from Ashley. I’m smiling when I open it.
Sadly, my smile dies soon after.
Did you go out with Rafe? Just the two of you?
The hostility comes at me in waves. The girl doesn’t even need to be in front of me for me to feel what’s behind her question. My knee-jerk reaction is to ask how she even knows we were out together, but I’ll let that go for now. There’s no reason to be secretive or defensive.
Yes, I did. He gave me a lot of insight for my next book. Acting is sort of like writing, I guess. People don’t give nearly enough credit to actors for all the work they put into their craft.
Are you sure that’s it?
Okay, now, my irritation is starting to bubble up. There are several directions in which I could take this, most of which would end up with us fighting. Granted, I don’t know this girl, but that doesn’t mean I want to fight. Besides, sad but true, there’s something to be said for not earning myself a reputation with fans. All I need is for her to start spreading stories about me being nasty.
I’m not sure I understand what you’re asking, I reply. Is there something I should know? Did I step on toes? I didn’t mean to.
It takes a while for her to submit a response. All I can tell from the little ellipsis that keeps popping in and out of the chat window is that she is trying to formulate a response but keeps going back and forth with what to say. Finally, a lengthy message comes back.
It’s just that you should know he’s sort of a man-whore. He’s pretty much stuck it in most of the girls in our group and some of their roommates. I don’t want to see you get hurt by him. You don’t know him very well, so you don’t know how he is.
I lean back in my chair, reading it again and again. Are we in college or something? Or even worse, high school? I sure hope the writing group isn’t like this because I don’t think I could handle that level of drama.
I think you have the wrong idea, I reply. Rafe reached out to me and asked if I would like to go to dinner and, I accepted. We talked a lot about acting and what it takes to craft a solid performance. Anything beyond that is between Rafe and myself. I appreciate your concern. I really do.
I mean, what else am I going to say? I knew there would end up being some sort of drama, didn’t I? Which is why I made a point to ask whether he was involved with anybody from that group of actors. Not only do I not want to hurt anybody’s feelings, but again, I also can’t afford to create an image where I’m swooping in and stealing men from other women.
Just watch your back with him, she warns. You seem like a nice person, and nobody wants to see you get hurt.
I hate to say it, but it’s like she thinks I was born yesterday. Like I can’t see through this concern of hers. She has a crush on him and doesn’t want me to get in the way of that. If I knew her better, I’d even say that. I might ask if she had fee
lings for him and apologize if I came off as a threat of some sort.
Thank you for looking out for me, I decide to reply.
Honestly, this is why I spend so much time by myself. It’s so hard to navigate situations like this, to make sure everybody’s happy and nobody gets hurt. Not to sound like I’m sitting too high on my horse, but facts are facts: when I’m all up in my feelings and trying to deal with drama like this, it takes away from my ability to work.
So, are you going to go out with him again?
I have to get up and walk around the room, shaking out my hands. It would be so easy to tell her to mind her own business, and that’s exactly what I want to do. Because it’s my business, not hers. If I decide to hump Rafe half to death in the middle of Central Park, that’s what I’ll do.
One thing is for sure: I can’t tell her the truth. I’m going to his group with the more professional actors over the weekend. He already texted me the information, and I’m looking forward to it. But she’s not supposed to know about that, and it isn’t my business to spill the beans.
I don’t mean any offense, I type, standing in front of the laptop, but that’s between Rafe and me. Please, don’t take that the wrong way. I’m not trying to ruin anybody’s life or anything. But I didn’t know he was off-limits for dinner or a drink. If there’s something I don’t know, please tell me. I don’t want to hurt anybody.
She comes back right away this time. I’m just warning you. He’s been around. Don’t fall for his lines. You seem like a nice person, and it would be a shame if he got under your skin like he does with everybody else.
At least I can openly roll my eyes without her seeing. Thank you for reaching out. I appreciate it. And I would love to hang out sometime if you’re free. Let me know, and we can meet up someplace, okay?
I don’t get a response to that.
What did she expect me to say? Did she want me to pretend like I had never seen Rafe and never would again?
“See?” I ask my otherwise empty apartment. “This is why I keep to myself.”
I then pick up the phone to send a quick message to Rafe, the subject of all this drama. Are you free tonight? Nothing important or time-consuming, but I wanted to tell you about a conversation I just had.
It’s not until after I send the text that I remember his normal schedule. He doesn’t usually get up early in the day. Neither do I, but I did this morning. I felt so bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.
A few hours pass before he gets back to me.
I’m working tonight, but it would be nice if you stopped in. I always have time to chat. Is everything okay?
I can’t help but smile, knowing he wants to see me, that he would take time out of what’s sure to be a busy night.
Everything’s fine, really. I just want to bounce something off you.
Because honestly, I can’t take much more of this nonsense. I didn’t sign on for the entire group to monitor my every move.
And I hate to tell them, but if I have my way, things between Rafe and me are going to heat up. I don’t want to make his life any more complicated either. He deserves to know what might be waiting on the horizon.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Okay, I have no idea what he was talking about when he said there would be time for us to chat.
It’s Thursday night, which everybody knows became the new Friday a long time ago. And Friday is now Saturday, though I don’t know what that makes Saturday. Sunday? Saturday Part Two? Either way, the place is hopping, and I’m nearly swallowed up by the crowd around the bar when I try to get anywhere close enough for Rafe to notice me.
I wish I had thought to ask Hayley to join me, but she’s too busy anyway. I just know that if she were here, she would get these people out of the way without so much as an apology. Then again, she tends to part a crowd without trying. She has that way about her.
But no, it’s just little old me, getting jostled back and forth as people try to elbow their way closer to the bar.
Good thing I’m not in any hurry.
What’s also good is the eye candy working behind the bar. There are three bartenders in all, which still hardly seems to be enough to handle the absolutely insane amount of people in this place. The other two are girls, dressed in tight shirts cut low enough to leave nothing to the imagination, but it’s Rafe who captures my attention and holds it.
He moves with an effortless sort of grace—gliding back and forth, quick and efficient—but he’s also devastatingly charming as he fixes drinks and makes small talk with the customers. His smile is warm, friendly, without so much as a hint of fatigue or strain. Frankly, I don’t know how he does it because if I had a hundred people demanding something from me all at once, my head would explode.
It takes me around ten minutes of watching him before I can finally get close enough for him to see me.
“There you are!” he calls out, and his smile widens from ear to ear.
The man is magic, I swear, because that alone is enough to light me up inside. He’s truly happy to see me.
“I managed to keep from being trampled!” I call out, and a few people nearby hear me and laugh in understanding.
“I think you’ve earned yourself a drink. What will it be?”
“A dirty martini,” I decide. “Vodka. Extra olives.”
“What did you want to talk about?” he asks as he pours, though there isn’t time for me to tell him before one of the other bartenders slides up behind him and gestures to a customer at the other end of the bar. He shoots me an apologetic glance, leaving the drink for me before hustling over to deal with whatever’s going on.
Honestly, I don’t know what he was thinking by encouraging me to come in. There’s no way this place is going to quiet down anytime soon. It’s past eight o’clock and well after happy hour, but there are still more and more people streaming in all the time. It’s not even a play-off or anything like that—I don’t follow sports, I admit, but there aren’t any games playing on the TVs sprinkled throughout the establishment.
A few minutes pass before I see him again, and he shrugs in a helpless sort of way while gesturing to the next customer and the next. It’s not hard to notice the way the girls lean over the bar, practically putting their boobs out for him to examine. I can’t help but roll my eyes either.
My drink is almost finished before he manages to find me again. “I go on break in a few minutes. Sorry, I really didn’t expect it to explode like this tonight.”
“It’s no problem.”
Besides, he makes a good drink. He gestures for me to meet him near the kitchen. Good thing he gave me advance warning since it takes me forever to make it back there. I’m not a very pushy person by nature, so it’s not easy for me to cut through the dense crowd.
He pulls me in for a quick hug when I reach him. “I’m really sorry,” he murmurs in my ear, leaning in close so I can hear him.
“It’s okay. Honestly, we can always talk some other time.” It doesn’t even seem that important anymore, which is a funny sort of conclusion to come to after I practically got trampled back there.
“No, I’ve been looking forward to seeing you all night.” He takes me by the hand and leads me farther back until we reach a door marked Employees Only. It doesn’t matter to him what the sign says since he opens the door and pulls me into a dimly lit storage room.
“Is this where you normally take your breaks?” I ask with a soft laugh.
“On nights like this, honestly, yeah. I just need to get away from all those people for a minute.” He removes the elastic from his hair, letting it fall around his shoulders before running his fingers through it until it looks like a lion’s mane. “All that energy pressing in on me, it’s draining. I need to guard my own.”
“Sure, sure. I get it.” I don’t really, though I think I understand. It’s never easy for me to be around big groups of people for a long time. Maybe that’s why … the energy of all those people affects mine. Huh, never thought of it like that.
He paces the small, square space, rolling his head back and forth on his shoulders, shaking out his arms and hands. He takes deep breaths in through the nose, out through the mouth. It’s sort of fascinating to watch him do it, though I can’t help but feel like I’m intruding. I hang back near a rack of wine bottles and let him do his thing.
A few minutes later, he seems a lot more relaxed and loose. “Okay, what’s up? What did you want to talk about?”
Whoops. He just got himself in a nice, relaxed mood, and I’m about to drop this on him.
“Oh, I just wanted to warn you that things might get a little testy with Ashley and the other girls.”
He rolls his eyes, letting out a heavy sigh. “What do you mean? What’s happening?”
“I know it seems like I’m tattling or something, and I’m not trying to, really. Ashley reached out to me today and warned me about you.” I make it a point to keep smiling, treating this like it’s a joke.
His eyes narrow. “What’s that mean? What did she say?”
“Don’t get upset. It’s not worth it. Listen, I didn’t say this before, but it’s pretty obvious most of the girls in the group have a thing for you. You must know that.”
He doesn’t confirm it verbally, but the way his eyes lower to the floor tells me what I need to know.
“And here I am, an outsider, coming in and getting in their way. I don’t take it personally. But I thought you should know that the next time you get together with any of them, they might be annoyed with you for going out with me.”
“See? This is exactly the kind of thing I was talking about. I’m so sick of the drama. Like a bunch of little kids. I thought I’d left that behind in college.”
