option,” I said. “Ever.”
“You left me the address, right?” Bev asked.
“Yes.”
“So if the cockhead does ditch you, I’ll be able to come get you.”
I zipped up my suitcase and pulled it off the bed. “You’re the best, Bev.”
“No, I’m not. I’m the worst roommate possible. I take up too much room and the ink smells.”
“You said it.”
“You could get mad at me for it.”
“Why? You let me live here. Plus, the t-shirt gig is your dream. Just like the writing gig is my dream.”
“Speaking of which, I made you something,” Bev said.
She vanished out of my room and retuned a second later with a t-shirt.
She threw it at me.
I caught and opened it.
It had two words on the shirt.
Fuck Words
That was it
I snorted.
“That’s good,” I said.
“Yeah? I remember you saying that a few times. When you get flustered writing.”
“I guess I have said that a few times,” I said.
“My gift to you,” she said. “Good luck with Cockhead Cole.”
I took a deep breath. “Now I just have to wait for him to show up.”
“No need for that,” Bev said.
“Why not?”
“He’s been parked outside for the last ten minutes.”
When I saw the size of the SUV, I laughed.
I carried my suitcase because the one wheel was broken and it wouldn’t roll. Over my shoulder, I had my bag with my laptop and writing supplies.
The back door opened, and Cole stepped out.
Wearing jeans and a henley with the sleeves pushed up.
I needed a second to myself to make sure my tongue didn’t fall out of my mouth.
I also needed a second to remind myself that Elevator Guy and Cole were two different people.
“Took you long enough,” he said. “And you still look the same.”
“Thanks for that,” I said.
“What? I just figured you would walk out looking like a supermodel.”
I hated him even more already.
“Well, let me grab your bag and we’ll get this adventure going,” he said.
Cole took my bag and walked to the back of the SUV. He opened the back and I approached the SUV.
I poked my head inside.
The smell of clean leather hit my nose.
The second row had two gigantic seats.
The third row had three seats. All as one.
I climbed into the SUV and the driver looked at me and nodded.
As I moved to the third row, I saw Cole at the back, messing with my suitcase.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“Sniffing your panties,” he said so boldly.
I gasped. “What?”
“Nothing, Maya,” he said. “Are we cuddling in the third row?”
“I’m sitting in the third row,” I said. “You sit in the second row.”
Cole didn’t respond.
He winked and shut the back of the SUV.
I was surprised he listened to me when he got into the second row behind the driver.
The SUV started to drive away from the apartment building.
We were off.
Through the thickness of the trees, she followed him.
At one point, she began to hesitate.
She had seen enough scary movies to know how this could turn out.
A masked killer could be waiting anywhere in the woods.
Sensing her worry, he reached back and took her hand.
Relief washed over her like cool rain on a hot day.
Speaking of which… being with him, there had been a lot of hot days.
“So, what’s the big story about?”
I looked up from my laptop and Cole was looking back at me.
“What?”
“You’re just typing away back there.”
“Is that bad?”
“No. Read it to me.”
“No, thanks.”
“Why not, Maya? No confidence in your ability?”
“I didn’t say that,” I said. “I just…”
Cole reached for my laptop.
In a swift motion, I slammed the laptop shut and tucked it into my bag.
My hand clutched around the top of the bag.
That was my silent way of saying fuck you.
Cole took the hint.
Of course, he smiled at me.
“Why writing?” he asked.
“What?”
“Why do you want to be a writer?”
“I don’t know. I just do.”
“Am I going to get the cold shoulder this entire time?”
I tilted my head. “As opposed to… you want to get to know me?”
“We have a little more time to kill,” Cole said. “Thought we could talk.”
I glanced out the window.
I had been so focused on my writing, I missed the change of scenery.
Gone was the city.
The buildings. The sights. The sounds.
In its place was a long road filled with trees on each side.
As though we were in a different part of the world.
And maybe we were if Cole was asking me personal questions.
“So, why be a writer?” Cole asked.
“Because I like to write,” I said.
“You know, I heard most writers write because they want to control the story. Meaning they came from
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