3. Chapter Three
Chapter Three
Beckett Langford
I f I injure my head by banging it on my keyboard, can I claim worker’s compensation?
Hmm...
Yes, I am consulting the internet on random questions instead of working on my next book. That is what tends to happen when the characters decide to be twats and not speak to me.
My last book went over really well with the publisher. So well, they decided to hold it and turn it into a trilogy or series, depending on how book two goes. The whole thing made me stupidly excited, and as always, I agreed immediately. Granted, those extra dollar signs on the contract addendum certainly helped me agree a lot quicker.
Now, it’s been two weeks since I signed, and the publisher wants an outline as well as the first chapter. And I have... nothing.
No outline. No words. Not a fucking clue.
Well, I have ‘Chapter One’ on my doc, but that’s about it. And I’m sure that isn’t the impressive wordsmithing my publisher is hoping for. But what the fuck am I supposed to do?
I can’t force my muse to inspire me. I can’t force the characters to do stuff. If I did, it would just come out all terrible.
Character A walks to Character B, and they hump.
Yeah, not exactly gripping, is it?
Also, in case you were wondering, according to the internet since I would be hurting myself with the keyboard, it’s not a valid claim for a worker's comp. Well, damn. There goes that idea.
The thing is, I already do have a base plot in my brain. I also have an idea of how the first chapter is going to go. So, the only issue is actually writing it all out. See, whenever I sit down to start in on it, the Queen from my book takes on an oddly familiar shape. A very distracting shape. A shape that has been invading my own dreams more and more every night.
Lola Barkley .
She is my best friend’s roommate and is picture-perfect for the type of woman that fits me. Marina won’t go into detail about what happened to Lola and her ex-husband—which is fine, I respect that—but I know there was some trauma there. And just as I keep picturing her as the Queen, I want so fucking badly to be her Knight.
Have I jerked off to my own story lately, imagining her and me in those roles?
Why yes, yes I have.
I don’t even feel the least bit sorry about it.
She’s tall and curvy. Some use the term ‘plus sized,’ but frankly... that term irritates the hell out of me. She’s not more or less of anything. She’s not plus. She’s a Greek goddess of perfection. She’s nerdy and sexy in all the best ways. She fills out her yoga pants in a way that accentuates her hips, making me drool.
And now I have a boner.
Again.
Fuck.
The near comical part of this whole situation, is that I haven’t even managed to have longer than a two-minute conversation with her. It’s like I get around her and get all... weird. Well, weirder than my usual levels, I suppose. Tongue-tied. Maybe that’s the better term?
Marina keeps hinting that maybe Lola might have a bit of an interest in me as well. Even after this last year of exploring myself sexually, I still don’t feel like I could actually be desirable to anyone. It’s definitely something I need to overcome, but when the girl you are pining for is also more on the self-conscious side, it makes the first move quite a bit more of a dance. Only neither of you is leading and you both have two left feet.
But it’s ok, because I have a plan.
Something else my best friend happened to mention during one of our conversations a few days ago, is that one of the things Lola has been feeling down about is her lack of financial freedom. Given that she seems to have a love for books, and that my Aunt Fiona just so happens to own a little bookshop in need of a part-time associate, she would be the perfect fit. My aunt is such a chill person, and the vibe of the whole bookstore is relaxed. From the comfy reading nooks spread throughout, to the dark wood and low lighting, the place sets a calm and relaxing vibe. Even my Aunt dresses in cooler tones of comfy fabrics, and hippie-like accessories.
Talking about the store and the job opportunity feels like a nice, safe subject to break the ice. Then, if she is interested in the position, we can extend the conversation into a quick trip to the store. If she takes it, maybe that will even earn me some brownie points.
I can hope!
In fact...
Checking my watch, I see I have sufficiently killed all my writing time for this morning. Pushing away from my desk, I leave my work and my characters behind. Pulling on my hoodie, I make my way to Marina’s for a surprise visit.
Thankfully, I know that Marina never does in-home sessions. That is the last thing I would want to walk in on. The line of thinking has my mind flashing back to the first time I met Marina... and my session with her. I am so fucking glad we were able to become friends afterward because that was some seriously intimate work.
Not intimate with her , of course. To be completely honest I only briefly had feelings for her. Very, very briefly. Not that she isn’t absolutely stunning with an amazing personality, but she wants something I can’t give her. Marina is a one-man show, craving monogamy from her partner. That simple fact was the nail in the coffin of any potential romantic notion between us. No point in wasting time when neither of us would be invested.
However, we also quickly realized we couldn’t stand the idea of not being in each other’s lives. There was no denying that we had a connection. But it was much more on the brotherly/sisterly levels of affection. So, then next logical step was that she became my best friend.
To be honest, at this point, I really can’t remember how my life was before Marina. She changed something in me. Or rather... helped wake up the real me. The true me. The one who lives full and wholly without fear or hiding myself. The version of me that I can confidently admit that I love.
I will never be able to repay her for that.
But maybe boning her roommate would help?
Kidding!
Mostly.
Sort of.
I want to do more than fuck her, ok?
But damn, do I really, really want to fuck her.
The drive to Marina’s house is quick.
Granted we only live about ten minutes away from each other, but when your mind is a whirlwind of thoughts and feelings and hormones... you kinda lose track of time.
Have you ever heard of the term ‘driving on automatic’?
Basically, it’s the concept of when you drive somewhere on a route that you have taken numerous times repeatedly, to the point where you don’t really remember driving there. It can even cause a brief momemt of panic after you arrive and think ‘ how did I get here? ’ Hoping that you had enough wherewithal to drive safely and not cause harm to others you came across on your journey.
Anyway, I am nearly positive my trips to Marina’s house are always ‘driving on automatic’ anymore. However, I’m sure the distracted mind did not help at all this time. Pulling to a stop in her driveway, I pause and take a few minutes to center myself. I breathe deeply. I check my breath. Make sure the car is clean. Shove my dick down again .
You know? The usual ritual when psyching yourself up.
Glancing at the house, I can’t help but smile at how perfectly it fits the owner. It’s on the larger side, but not imposing—made for the family she hopes to have one day. The siding is pale green, accented by the white flower boxes under the two windows on the right and the huge white porch that wraps around the left. It’s too cold for flowers now, but I know that in the spring, wide flower beds of all colors will line the front.
The whole thing screams ‘ Southern Belle ’, just like the woman herself.
The interior aesthetic is pretty much the same: light and unobtrusive colors throughout the main floor. There are high-end appliances throughout the kitchen, laundry room, and living room, including a coffee station that would make a barista proud. Even though I’m pretty sure that’s the only appliance Marina actually uses in the kitchen. As you head up the stairs, the colors of the fixtures and walls become deeper and more pronounced, letting you know that her sweet persona has a romantic side.
Looking at the whole picture—woman included—you would never guess that Marina is a professional ‘ Kink Expert ’.
Yes, that is a real profession, and Marina has made quite a name for herself in the industry. And quite a bit of money to boot.
Alright, enough stalling. I push myself out of the car, up the walkway, and adjust my jeans for the millionth time. Once I’m sure everything is in order, I knock on the door. Marina calls out a quick ‘ Come in ’. She already knows it’s me since I texted her this morning. And before I left. And in the driveway.
I’m a nervous texter, ok?
When I walk in, though, the house looks empty.
“Hello?” I call out gently, but wince when I hear the bit of echo.
Nothing.
While that is a bit weird, I do know they are both here somewhere. Determination in my steps, I make my way through, glancing into the living room, dining room, and kitchen. But they are all empty. When I stop, focusing on any subtle sounds I can pick up on, I hear a sound I know intimately to be the turning of a page.
Stepping through the doorway in the back of the dining room, I enter the library. It’s my favorite room in Marina’s house, and it’s amplified by the beauty curled on the oversized chair reading a novel. The sight of her makes my heart beat faster and fills me with warmth.
I step further into the room, but when she lifts the book slightly to turn the page, my feet become lead and my stomach completely bottoms out.
She’s reading a smutty book.
A super smutty book.
My super smutty book.
Why is that simultaneously hot as fuck and utterly terrifying?