Page 21 of Haunted Spurs

Ugh.

Okay, breathe, Selene.

I bring my hands to the sides of my head, closing my eyes. What happened to the confident Selene Dusk, the one who used to churn out ideas effortlessly? Did she get lost in the ocean, tangled in the sea tentacles of the King of the Abyss, or is she wandering desperately through the halls of the Phantom Duke’s castle?

I open my eyes. I stare at my phone sitting abandoned on the desk.

As much as Jessica is an insufferable, lethal thorn in my side, and as mad as I still am at her… she’s terrifyingly good at her job.

I need her opinion before I lose my mind completely.

Me: [Attachment]

Me: Lay it on me.

I lock the screen and go back to staring at the laptop monitor like I’m in a trance, illuminated only by the sterile glare of the display.

Possible scenarios try to form in my head, plot fragments colliding, but none of them really satisfy me.

They’re all blurry. Incomplete. Wrong.

And then… the darkness of the room starts to feel heavier.

A tightness rises in my chest, a physical, stinging weight that spreads, pressing against my sternum. It feels like my lungs have suddenly shrunk. The air is thin, stale, and every breath takes an immense effort. I feel my heart racing, but it’s not the euphoric pounding from an hour ago; it’s a dull, terrified buzzing.

God… what am I doing? Where am I going with my life, with my career? Am I really washed up? What if I’ve already written all the good stuff I had in me? What if this book never sees the light of day?

The spiral drags me down, a cold vortex tightening around my throat, leaving me frozen in this chair, drained and unable to react.

My breathing turns short and heavy.

It feels like a tangle of thorny brambles tightening around the walls of my stomach, threatening to suffocate me. The spiral drags me down, fast and lethal, until a sudden vibration shatters the agonizing silence of the room.

Buzz. Buzz.

My phone screen lights up. I feel a surge of acid rising in my throat. It’s Jessica. Of course it’s her. She’s probably texting me to tell me the draft is garbage, that it’s a mess of senseless clichés, or worse, that I’m losing my dark touch.

I don’t want to look.

And yet, defying my own survival instinct, I glance down. I do it with one eye squeezed shut, bracing myself for the fatal blow to my pride.

I read the name on the screen.

Ron.

A second later, completely beyond my control, I feel the muscles in my face relax. My lips, tense just a moment ago, curve up into an imperceptible smile.

God.

Why the hell am I smiling? I haven’t even read the text yet.

New-cowboy: Just so you know, Ollie just woke up and he’s really upset that you left.

Me: Oh really? Ollie, or you?

New-cowboy: Are you flirting with me, Queen of Darkness?

My traitorous smile grows wider. No. Fuck, no. I am not flirting. This is not flirting. It’s… strategic sarcasm.