Chapter Thirteen
Knowledge is power. But I should have left information on chocolate milk X alcohol pairings alone.
Mars
Tomorrow is Valentine’s Day.
So you’d really think people would have better things to do than read a dark romance about off-kilter characters, yet Jove’s and my Valentine book continues to soar in the Amazon store, beating out even a “Naughty Coupon” book, whatever that is.
My head hurts.
It feels like I’ve never had water in my life.
Squinting at my stupid, meaningless work, I nurse an ice-cold glass of not vodka and sigh.
My ads are slipping. Frequency’s rising. I need to update the videos, which means I need to make the videos.
And check on my stocks.
And assess whether or not I’m pulling funds from one of my high-yield savings accounts to dump into one with a better APY.
Messages.
Fan mail.
I blink at my emails, wondering when I opened them and hoping it means I’m done updating ads. The top subject line declares: You Should Be Ashamed of Yourself .
Obviously, that sounds fun, so I click on it and read an essay about how my work is sick and repulsive.
It’s a real rant. Longer than five paragraphs, too, which means it’s not even a Baconion essay.
Possibly, it’s a research project, considering this dweeb is pulling content references from several of Rouge’s books to support their claim about how no one should be reading them.
Even though it’s pretty darn clear they are.
“Lame,” I mutter, and sip, and reply: the only thing i am ashamed of is my shoulders
Maybe I’ll turn auto-capitalization off on my phone. I think I’m growing attached to the way lowercase I’s look. I should put them everywhere. Leave a pitiful trail of lowercase sentence starters and neglected punctuation wherever I go.
“That will literally make her hate you,” I grumble, letting my eyes close.
This is stupid.
I am stupid.
And a dumb hangover is no excuse not to do my morning pushups, but I simply cannot locate the strength.
At some point, my head finds itself on my desk where it remains until a piercing notification assaults my impoverished ears. Grimace in full swing, I pull my attention up to my monitor.
Sara.
Ceres.
My chest squeezes.
Sara : Done.
Sara : More.
Done? With what? More of what?
An email comes through. I stare at it.
Looking at our message thread, I bemoan the idiocy that said, Google what alcohol goes well with chocolate milk and get the hardest one.
Yesterday, after bringing Ceres back home from Taco Bell, I biked to the ABC store, grabbed what good ole Googs told me to, and biked home with it in my basket.
I’m basically a grown-up toddler with grown-up money who needed to learn a grown-up life lesson.
Alcohol solves zero problems.
Never ever assume it will help with anything based on movies and popcult ever again.
Another message comes through.
Sara : I pulled the document to Word, since that’s where I normally work, but I’m wondering if it’d be easier for me to work in the Doc itself, considering you’ll be getting me consistent content and downloading a bunch of chunks then reviewing them in pieces is more effort for both of us.
Sara : You were too out of it yesterday to discuss the process with.
Sara : Speaking of the trainwreck that was yesterday, I hope everything’s okay this morning.
A niggling sensation of panic overlaps pain as I drag my cursor to the email she sent, click, and open. Once the attachment loads, my stomach dips so violently I nearly throw up.
First of all , I apparently sent my little goddess a disaster riddled with so many grammatical errors I should be imprisoned. Second of all , I might have sent her the fancified equivalent of…my diary.
Internal screaming begins in my poor skull as I scroll through comments, eyes flicking across lines of thoughts that belonged inside my head, where they should have been taken out back and shot.
My heart rate thunders, nausea swelling.
An array of curse words join the ballet spinning in my brain, then they take up tap, then they devolve into hiphop.
Finally, both them and my heart screech to a marvelous halt.
Because my eyes land on a comment.
It has highlighted some truly unhinged pining—the sort of obsession a male lead absolutely should seek therapy for—and, yet, it says, “I LOVE HIM. OH MY GRACIOUS. YES. PLEASE.”
Love him.
Love…me?
It quite entirely hurts to swallow, but I manage a flighty breath, pry myself from my desk chair, and drop to the ground in the center of my bedroom.
Several pushups later, death seems more attainable than acceptable shoulders, but if I can scam Ceres into falling for my character—at the rawest, most unhinged level—maybe there’s hope.
And if I can’t?
Maybe my shoulders will be at a kidnapping girth by the time I need them to be.
As with most things, it’s my personal belief that preparation is key.