Page 12 of Miss Behaved
“Enjoy the conference,” she says, without agreeing to set up the meeting. “We’ll talk when you get back.”
“Sure thing.” I hang up before the voice in the back of my head has a chance to unload what I’m really feeling.
My career used to be in my hands. I made the decisions, wrote what I wanted. Heck, I actually enjoyed the process. Now every word on the page feels like pulling teeth.I wanted this at one point, didn’t I?To be a successful author. I wanted the notoriety, the money, the women. What I didn’t realize was what I’d be giving up.
Denise is worried about my “lack of voice.” What a joke. I can’t hold back a fucking laugh just replaying that in my head. I had a voice, I had a story, I had passion. She and my editor were the ones who suddenly didn’t want me to use it.
I head over to the bar and slap down a twenty. “Double of whatever will fuck me up the quickest.”
Thankfully, alcohol was never a trigger for me. I could have one drink or five and not think twice about it. That was my father’s weakness, not mine. After all, I didn’t need to search the bottom of a bottle to make myself numb. Leaving Monica did that job well enough for me.
The bartender just smirks, pulls out a bottle of single-barrel bourbon, and starts pouring. He slides the drink my way and looks over my shoulder with raised eyebrows for the next person’s order.
“Gin and tonic.”
Monica’s voice pops me like a balloon, and when she comes up beside me, I’m suddenly free-falling.
She’s changed clothes, and her new outfit makes it blatantly obvious she’s no longer the teenage girl I remember. Her skintight turquoise tank might as well be painted over her perfect, handful-sized tits, and her pale blue jeans hug her curvy ass. God, what I wouldn’t give to bend her over this bar right now and explore the intoxicating woman she’s grown into.
“Rough day?” she asks, looking at me from the corner of her eye, and I realize I’m once again staring at her chest.
Real smooth, Calloway.
“Something like that.” I take a drink.
Up until a moment ago, I was ready to find a better day at the bottom of my glass. That was before I got damn near drunk at the sight of her face. Those big brown eyes, bright as ever.
Monica digs into her pocket to pay the bartender, but I slip him cash first. “It’s on me.”
“Thanks.” She nods and picks up her glass, taking a sip.
“I see you’ve graduated up from wine coolers.” I tip my glass toward hers.
Her face puckers. “Ew, I forgot about those awful things. Just thinking about the sugar in them makes my teeth ache.”
Monica draws her straw between her lips for a long sip and I’m desperate to know what that pouty mouth would feel like on my cock.
“What?” she asks, bringing me back.
I really need to stop thinking about her naked in my bed.
“Want to grab a seat?” I motion toward a few empty tables away from the crowd.
She shakes her head, and any hope I had sinks. Not that I have a right to hope. I’m still surprised she’s stuck around for this conversation.
“I’m headed back to my room, actually.” She eyes me over the rim of her glass. “I need to get some writing in before things ramp up tomorrow. Deadlines and all.”
“I get that.”
She shifts her stance, and it brings her an inch closer, but her drink is like a barrier between us.
“Want company?” I ask with a grin. I know it’s a big fucking risk, but I can’t help it. My defenses are shot to shit around her, and I turn into that kid with untamed impulses who can’t get enough.
Her eyes scan over me, but apart from the slight dilation in her pupils, her expression is passive.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” she says. “I don’t want this to be awkward since we have to spend the week around each other. So I think we need to find some common ground and be cordial. But it doesn’t change anything.”
She waves her hand between us, as if it’s not already perfectly clear what she’s talking about.
