Chapter 33 Harriet
THIRTY-THREE
HARRIET
TWENTY-TWO WEEKS PREGNANT
“I’m going to be honest with you, Miss Thomas. We’re searching for a fresh take on country, and while your style is different, we’ve heard it before.” The woman across from me links her fingers and casts me a pitying look.
I’ve never claimed to reinvent the wheel with my lyrics, and while the feedback itself isn’t mean, it doesn’t lessen the blow.
Her counterpart has hardly said a word throughout the entire meeting. They asked me to bring in two short sample recordings. While my networking and time in the industry are lacking, I’d hoped the small buzz from my socials over the last couple of months would help.
It’s not like I expected immediate representation, and this is the furthest I’ve gotten, so I’m trying to see the silver lining.
My smile is polite. “Of course. I understand and really appreciate the opportunity to meet with you both today. I’d like to send you some samples in the future that maybe more of what you’re looking for.”
The second woman finally speaks. “That won’t be necessary.”
“Oh.” Her response catches me off guard. “Sure.”
They stand, and I follow suit, offering them both a clammy handshake. “Thanks for your time.”
“Some advice. Stealing work from other artists is typically frowned upon. The industry talks and doesn’t take lightly to plagiarism. You’ll get yourself a reputation before you’ve even started.”
Plagiarism?
“I’m sorry?” Shock strains my voice.
“One of the songs you brought in today sounded familiar. I couldn’t put my finger on it until now. Covers aren’t illegal, but taking lyrics and claiming them as your own is.” She looks down her nose at me. “We don’t take on clients who are a copyright lawsuit waiting to happen.”
My ears ring, heat claws at my face. “I assure you, I’ve never stolen lyrics from another artist. I take great care in ensuring my songs are authentic.”
She isn’t convinced and flicks her gaze to the door, dismissing me. Her colleague stands there awkwardly. I should go, leaving my bridges unburned, but that’s not in my nature.
“Can I ask who you’re claiming I stole it from?”
She rolls her eyes. “We’re not at liberty to disclose any information.”
“Can you tell me which song?”
She huffs, and it takes all my willpower to keep my cool. “The breakup song.”
I’ve only written one breakup song, preferring songs about love and redemption. That song is 100 percent not stolen. I save my breath, knowing an argument will get me nowhere. I try to remember if I’ve ever posted the song to my page or performed it for an audience and come up blank.
“Thank you again for your time. Have a good day.”
Out the door, past the receptionist, through the parking lot, I keep it together. It’s only when I climb into my car that the hold on my frustration falters. I breathe slowly through my nose as hot tears of embarrassment prick my eyes.
God, what a steaming pile of crap.
There are zero silver linings to be found.
With no appetite to listen to the radio, the drive home is silent. I ignore texts from the girls and Warren, needing to wrap my head around what happened before anything. Not even the sight of my little cottage cheers me up.
I flop onto my bed, a bristling ball of overworked brain cells and frustration. Too amped up for a nap. Too tired to move a muscle. I count the number of panels in the tongue-and-groove ceiling until my mind wanders.
A flash of brown eyes and broad shoulders fills my vision. Exactly the distraction I need. He wasn’t wearing his suspenders yesterday, but a girl can reimagine. The temptation to rub against him like a cat when I was shaving his beard was overwhelming. Being near him is overwhelming.
His reaction was abrupt but also welcome, because if we spent another minute pressed against each other in my tiny bathroom, one of us—probably me—would’ve crossed a boundary.
Talia was right: I need to get laid.
Yeah, because who’s going to want to sleep with a pregnant lady?
Suddenly, I remember the email that popped into my inbox this morning from the erotic audio app I’m subscribed to, informing me of a new episode—Strict, older male.
Sold.
Headphones connected and Do Not Disturb mode activated, I settle into my pillows and shimmy out of my leggings, leaving me in my panties and oversized sweater. My libido has returned full force in the last week and a little me time will do the trick in helping me forget today’s meeting.
I click Play, and a deep, spine tingling voice husks through the headphones.
“You’re not in charge tonight, baby girl. I want you on your knees, hands behind your back, pretty little mouth open.”
It can’t be helped; I’m too desperate for release to pretend I’m not imagining a certain firefighter.
I remember how Warren gripped my hips, the rough pads of his fingers scratching my skin deliciously.
How the coarse hairs of his beard tickled the insides of my thighs.
The dark mop of hair moving between my spread legs.
The stretch of his cock as he filled me for the first time.
I slip my hand under the waistband of my underwear, finding my center slick and warm, and move in slow, concise circles.
“Open. Take me every inch.”
My eyes clamp closed. I can taste the peak of my pleasure, sweet and tempting on the tip of my tongue. I spread myself wider with my other hand, increasing the pressure.
“Gag on it. That’s it. You’re doing so well.”
Legs shaking, back arching, moans rising, I’m almost there.
So. Close.
Only, that’s where I stay, balancing on the edge, no matter my efforts or how filthy the audio becomes.
Nothing.
My moans of pleasure turn to groans of frustration.
With my vibrator lost in one of my unpacked boxes, my hands are all I have. Giving it one last shot, I try a new tactic and push my index finger into my pussy.
More images of Warren enter my brain.
Corded muscles. Tight ass. Dark happy trail. Thick cock.
The audio becomes background noise, and when I hang over the precipice, ready to fall, there’s a loud bang outside my room.
Then, my door blows open, and a wild, manic-looking Warren looms in the doorway.
I’m stunned, fingers frozen, questioning whether he’s an apparition of my mind. An earbud slips out just as his furious expression morphs to surprise.
“Fuck, Harriet. You weren’t answering your phone. I was worried about you.” Surprise turns to something else. Frustration laced with hunger? His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t look away.
Finally moving, I slip my hand free and tug the hem of my sweater over my panties. “I’m busy!”
“Shit.” He averts his gaze. “I’m sorry. I saw your car outside and you weren’t answering the door or my calls. Then, I heard…noises.”
My entire body ignites. He heard me getting myself off to images of him. Or trying to. “Did you kick down my door?”
“I have a key.” His eyes stay glued to the floor. “Like I said, I was worried.”
“Here I thought I was getting the full firefighter treatment,” I joke, attempting to lighten the mood. My body has other ideas. It lights up at the idea of Warren storming in here, furious and determined. This time, he doesn’t stop in the doorway. He stops to kneel at the foot of the bed.
And watches.
Jesus, Harriet. Horny much?
Yes! I scream back to myself, only I actually say it aloud.
Warren jumps at my outburst, eyes darting to where I’m still slumped on the bed.
His gaze lingers this time, swirling with midnight, lighting a path over every inch of my skin, leaving a trail of pebbled flesh in his wake. “I’ll leave you to it.”
He doesn’t move, as if an invisible force locks him in place.
He should go; if he stays a second longer, I’m going to throw away the handbook of our friendship. Maybe he senses my dilemma, because he waits, dangerously patient.
This is reckless. Stupid. Absurd.
He’ll say no. Tell me it’s a terrible idea. We’re friends.
“Warren?” I whisper.
His fists clench at his sides. “Yes?”
This isn’t fair, and I know I’m taking advantage of his caring side but my brain is swamped with desperation.
I sit upright. “I need help.”
His nostrils flare. “With what?”
Shuffling on my ass, I move to the middle of the bed and take out my other earbud.
“I’m frustrated and angry, and I just want some relief to distract me.
My vibrator is lost in one of the boxes, and the meeting didn’t go well.
I want to forget about today. But…” I bite my lip, feeling ridiculous as tears burn the backs of my eyelids. “I can’t find it.”
The point of no return is lost in the rearview mirror.
Molten. There’s no other way to describe his stare. His chest rises and falls, but otherwise, he’s made of stone—including the bulge growing in the front of his pants.
Holy fuck, he’s turned on.
“What do you need?” His voice cracks. “Tell me, and I’ll help you.”
I hesitate.
“Don’t leave me guessing, sweetheart, because my mind is going wild over here.” Statuesque stance broken, he steps forward, crossing the first line. His presence fills the room. “Tell me exactly what you need.”
“You. I need you.” I’m done caring how needy I sound. “Please, Warren.”
His head drops, a throaty groan leaving him. “God dammit, Harriet. Half of me was hoping you wouldn’t say that.”
I suck in a breath. “And the other half?”
His fiery gaze snaps to mine. “Was hoping you would.”