by Damian Bloom
Behind me, the lady’s voice is so high now that I struggle to focus on my own conversation. Her partner tries to shush her, which only has the opposite effect. It feels like I’m listening in on something private, even if it’s happening against my will.
“Don’t get me wrong,” Tim says. “Of course I’m happy you’re so prolific. But the non-agent side of me—the friend side of me—wants to plan an intervention.” A discouraged sigh slips out of his chest. “There’s more to life than work, Adam, and sometimes I wonder if you forgot that.”
“What if work makes me happy?”
“I’m not saying it doesn’t. I just don’t think it’s good to be so obsessed with any one thing. Maybe there’s other things that would make you happy if you gave them a chance.” He scratches the small patch of skin between his eyebrows. “I can’t help but think you’re trying to fill in a void. To make up for something that’s lacking in your life.”
For some reason, Tim’s words poke at my insides in a very unpleasant way, like he’s picking at a wound. “Are you trying to hook me up with someone, or what’s the end game here?” I ask with a playful wink, hoping I can ease the conversation into jokey territory. “Is Maria not enough for you anymore, and you’ve got your eye on me?”
Tim leans back in his chair, dejected by my unwillingness to have a serious conversation. “When I’m a grandpa, I don’t want my best friend to be a crazy old man squirming with regrets.”
We finally get our food, and a short silence falls over us as we dive in. After a few bites, Tim rests his elbows on the table and steeples his fingers, thinking hard about something. “Don’t you ever get lonely, Adam?”
“Man, you’re nosy as fuck.”
Tim’s next sigh sounds more defeated than the previous one. “Okay, what do you want to talk about? You wanna talk business? Let’s talk business. How’s the last book going? I know you must have already started drafting it.”
I take my time chewing on a bite of my delicious chicken manchurian, thoroughly savoring the flavor. “It’s going fine…”
Tim tilts his head. “You don’t sound very convinced.”
“I don’t know, man, I’m stressing out. I’m not sure I’ve felt this sort of pressure since writing my first book.”
He frowns. “You’re at the top of your game, Adam. You’re the king of thriller.”
“I know, and I’m grateful for it. But…” I take another bite, buying myself some time. “I want to send the series off with a bang, you know.”
Tim nods wisely. “Finale nerves…”
“I want this book to be the best. To prove to everyone I’m still trying my hardest.”
“No one thinks you’re slacking off.”
I shrug.
Frowning, Tim peers over my shoulder to the belligerent couple. Their voices almost drown out our own: “You always do this. I forgave you once, and you promised I’d never catch you texting any other woman…”
With a shudder, Tim turns his eyes to me. “What’s your plan for Emma and Stephan, though?”
I press a napkin to my mouth. “That’s a random question.”
“Not really. Have you been following the online conversation?”
I shake my head. I try to stay away from social media as much as possible; otherwise, I get distracted from work.
“Many fans of the series now expect some sort of romantic storyline for these two.”
My stomach sinks. “Oh, that I’m aware of.”
“And are you comfortable with it? So far, you’re not exactly known for your romantic style.”
“Is that how little faith you have in me?”
Tim rolls his eyes. “Come on, you yourself keep yapping about how you don’t even believe in love.”
I scoff. “That doesn’t mean I can’t write about it.”
Tim’s face is doubtful. “Readers are smarter than that, and you know it. They can smell a writer who doesn’t believe in what they’re writing from a mile away.” Pretending to sniff in my direction, he adds: “They smell like skepticism and selling out.”
“That’s a fair point.”
Plates clatter when the woman behind me finally slams her hands onto the table. I shut up, stunned, and so does half of the restaurant. She catches my gaze, tears already pooling in her eyes, and I take that as my cue to look away and mind my business.
“Man, I wish they’d break up somewhere else,” Tim says, just as stupefied, but less sympathetic.
With a final roar, she splashes whatever water’s left in her glass into her partner’s face, and a few drops land on my shoulder. Then, she rushes out of the restaurant, her heels click-clacking indignantly on the polished concrete floor.
I stare at the entrance door even after it’s been slammed shut and the lady has disappeared from view. After a collectively held breath, the chatter comes back to life around the tables, more ardent than before. “I feel bad for them.”
Tim scoffs. “Because they had to put up with each other?”
“I’m sure they thought they were soulmates at one point.”
“Oy, please don’t start with the anti-romance discourse again.”
People always act surprised when I say I don’t believe in love, but my reasons for it are easily observable all around us. “This is why I don’t fuck with relationships,” I say. “Look how quickly people turn. How feelings change.”
I read it in Tim’s eyes that I’m a hopeless case. Sucking in a breath, I try to lighten up. “But I promise to turn into a hopeless romantic for the last book and make sure Emma and Stephan get the happy ending everyone wants.” With an evil grin, I rub my hands together. “Before they die, that is.”
Tim chuckles, scratching at a patch of hair at the base of his neck. “You, a romantic…I’m not praying for a miracle of that magnitude. But at least make sure they have some mind-blowing sex, will you? You might not believe in love, but I know you at least believe in sex.”
I smirk and nod, my head already filling with pulse-quickening thoughts. “I sure do.”
The waiter picks the perfect time to check on us. As I picture that ripe peach of an ass completely free of clothes, my eyes stick to him like Velcro. Tim raises an eyebrow to let me know he saw that.
Since I broke it off with Ollie, I haven’t seen anyone. The messy way my interaction with Ollie ended served as an efficient reminder of how sloppy and tiring these things get, even when you plan for them to stay casual. I figured I wouldn’t put myself again in that situation for a while.
So far, abstinence has been a double-edged sword. On the one hand, it’s nice to be free of distractions and 100% available for my writing. On the other, my balls are so heavy it’s like they’re made of steel.
And they only feel heavier at the end of the night. As soon as I step through the door, I toss my jacket onto the couch, slip the shoes off my feet, and tread over to my desk. The house is dark and quiet, like a monster’s lair. While the computer powers on, an annoying thought crosses my mind: Maybe I am writing my life away.
Curled up like a ball, Hector’s snoozing on the couch, nose buried in his fluffy tail.
In the end, we all just pass the time here anyway, don’t we? Whether I write or do something else with my time on Earth, what does any of it mean?
I play some music, only loudly enough to break the silence that tonight feels heavier than usual. I should have made a move on the curly-haired waiter. Could have come home with him tonight. That might have been exciting. The house would have been a lot less quiet, for sure.
Despite my regular urges, I miss sex much less than I expected I would. The thought of sleeping with a stranger doesn’t stir me like it used to. Maybe it’s because I still feel bad for the Ollie thing.
Stop, I tell myself, hoping to dislodge the knot of guilt from my chest. You did nothing wrong. You made it very clear from the beginning that you and him would never be more than fuck buddies. No strings attached.
My backlit keyboard shines with da
rk green lights. Beyond any doubt, I’m better off focusing on my writing. But as my fingers scamper over the keys, Tim’s question echoes through my thoughts. Don’t you ever get lonely, Adam?
I know I’ll have to mercilessly cut the largest part of the words I fill the screen with now. With a beer-imbued brain, it’s hard to write anything worth keeping. But I need to do something, or else I’m forced to listen to my thoughts. And tonight, neither music nor the clacking of my fingers on the keyboard can cover up the suffocating silence of an empty house.
Today’s truth is that I do get lonely. Sometimes.
5
Luis
The man who opens the door is only wearing a pair of gray sweatpants. They hang loosely from his hips, exposing a set of chiseled abs that point downward in a neat V-shape. The fabric stretches over his crotch and thick thighs, and I don’t have to wonder if he’s wearing underwear.
I must have gotten the wrong house.
“Luis,” he says. A purr of a voice, low and rumbling.
I shiver. This is Adam?
His brown hair glistens with water. He must have just come out of the shower. The man’s got a carefully trimmed beard that accentuates the sharp shape of his jaw. My entire body tingles, painfully aware of how gorgeous he is.
Damn, he’s huge—probably at least as tall as Tanner. I need to crane my neck whenever I gather the courage to look directly into his intimidating face. His frame is, I suspect, twice as broad as mine, and more muscles bulge on his torso and arms than I even knew the human body possesses. I feel like a toy in his presence.
He leans against the doorway, and I’m mesmerized by the way those painstakingly sculpted muscles ripple under his skin with every move.
I lift a hand in a stiff wave. “That’s me. Hi.”
“I’m Adam,” he says, shaking my hand. A cocky smile brightens his face. Almost a smirk. “Come on in.”
Inside, the house is impressive—not through its size or luxury, but its coziness. The design sticks to a warm palette of whites, browns, and oranges, which I imagine makes it feel like fall all year round. The spaciousness of the rooms breeds a sense of freedom without feeling excessive.
“Sorry to welcome you like this. I just came back from the gym and took a quick shower.” He presses his back to the wall. When he crosses his arms over his chest, I don’t know what to stare at—his swollen biceps or his muscular, hair-dusted chest.
“I—I can see that,” I stammer.
This makes the giant laugh. “Not really what you expected, huh?”
“That’s an understatement.” My gaze sticks to him like a leech. Goddammit, what’s wrong with me? “You sure you’re a writer and not, uh, I don’t know…Captain America?”
Adam chuckles again as he ambles over to the kitchen. “You want a cup of coffee? I just made some.”
I blink back to his face. He’s smirking again, pleased with the obvious effect he’s got on me, and it makes my skin prickle.
Adam arches a knowing eyebrow. “Maybe I should put a shirt on first.”
And some boxers, I think, my mind still reeling from the sight of that sizable bulge.
Blood rushes to my cheeks, and they burn with embarrassment. Did I come off as pervy? “Coffee sounds great,” I say.
Coming back in a black T-shirt, he pours me a delicious-smelling cup of coffee. The same easy smile hovers over his lips, so I hold out hope that I haven’t creeped him out or annoyed him by ogling his half-naked body.
“You just got off work, right?” he asks.
I barely even dare look his way anymore. “Yes.”
“Hope you’re not too tired.”
“Not at all.” I take a sip and feel my eyes widen. The brew is soft and creamy, and so so tasty. “This is amazing. Better than the coffee we serve at the coffee house.”
He laughs. “What coffee house is that?”
“The Hazelnut. It’s pretty central, right next-”
“I know where it is,” he declares, adorably excited. “It’s close to my favorite bookstore. I pass it at least once a week.”
He doesn’t say whether he’s ever gone in, but if he did, it was certainly not during my shift. I can’t imagine forgetting this body. Or this face.
“I think I know which bookstore you mean,” I say. “Mrs. Bertha’s.”
Adam’s enthusiasm only increases when I reveal that I know the place. “Exactly.”
“I go there all the time,” I confess. “It’s so cozy, and she’s always got the best book recommendations. Plus, the romance section is amazing. She really knows her stuff when it comes to love stories.”
Adam’s eyebrows draw closer together in a confused smile, and I wonder if I said something wrong. He comes closer, dropping a cliche remark about the small world we live in. Then, he casually lays a hand on my hip to guide me to another room, like it’s the most natural gesture in the world. Like my skin doesn’t burn under his touch.
I stumble forward, stunned and antsy. He smells of shampoo, shower gel, and…and something that I can’t place. But it makes my insides stir, all mushy. It must be him, I figure—just his natural smell. And, for some reason, it’s the most arousing thing I’ve ever experienced.
I dig the tips of my fingers into my palm. Get yourself together, Luis.
Adam leads me into the living room, which seems to double as his working space and my wildest dream. A wide ebony desk instantly draws the eye to where it stands in front of three broad, impeccable, ceiling-to-floor windows. Outside, the backyard seems to stretch for miles, filled with various kinds of trees that, with the advent of autumn, begin to match the house’s color scheme. I wonder if a view like that would serve more as inspiration or as a distraction.
It’s quiet, the kind of quiet in which thoughts are loud and flow effortlessly, of their own accord. The type of silence I rarely enjoy at home with four housemates. I could picture myself writing in here.
To the side of the room, there’s a humongous couch, decked with squooshy-looking throw pillows. On the other side of an unassuming coffee table stretch shelves upon shelves of books. The volumes seem to overflow, eager to jump into your hands, to be opened and read. To the sides, there’s more of them, stacked in little towers, just like in my bedroom.
Adam sits down on the couch, turns to me, and rests his head on his arm. He pats a spot next to him. “Have a seat.”
His gestures are so self-assured, so dominant, that I naturally want to obey him.
However, in a small, mutinous gesture, I sit a little farther away than the spot he pointed to, then swing the backpack off my shoulder and drop it at my feet.
“That looks heavy,” he says.
“Yeah, I came prepared.”
He arches a thick eyebrow. The man’s features, I notice at a closer look, stretch upward ever so slightly. While this contributes to his rare handsomeness, making him appear younger than I suspect he is, it looks like he’s constantly stifling a mischievous grin. I know something you don’t, his face seems to say. My first impression of him was that he’s as handsome as a Disney prince, but he looks much more like a villain. “Prepared for what? A hunting trip?”
That smirk again. A fiery, unfamiliar sort of desire uncoils from deep in my gut.
“I brought my laptop,” I say, shifting in my seat, “but also a notebook. Just in case you maybe prefer writing by hand. I don’t really know what your process is like.”
He nods, visibly amused.
I rummage through my bag. “And then some pens, some pencils, some markers…”
Adam snickers. I decide against mentioning the old typewriter in the back of the car, which I’ve also brought just in case.
I drop the backpack on the floor again. “I might have overdone it.”
“No, no, it’s good that you’re prepared.” He stifles his laughter. “It’s cute.”
There’s an undeniable spark in his gaze. He’s a flirt. It seems to come so naturally to him that I’m not even sure it’s in
tentional. I discover I need to look away from him.
I spot a color pattern on his shelves right away. Most of the books are, if not black, dark-colored—the book collection of a thriller writer.
I briefly googled Adam Allister when Peter told me about him. My heart almost stopped when I read New York Time’s Bestselling author next to his name. It was all I needed to know about him. Absolute jackpot. I still can’t believe my brother managed to bag me an apprenticeship with a bestselling author.
I texted him immediately, and we set up this visit. Now I kind of wish I’d have done more extensive research. I could have at least taken a look in the Images section of the Google search. It might have prepared me for this hunk of a man.
“So, you want to be a writer.” Adam stretches his arms along the back of the couch. I feel his left hand brush against my upper back.
I nod.
“Can I ask how old you are?”
“Twenty-three.”
He nods as if more answers could have been possible, but I managed to give the correct one. “And have you written anything so far, Luis?”
I shift uncomfortably. All of a sudden, I feel like a schoolboy. “Kind of. I started a lot of different things but haven’t finished any of them.”
Adam smirks. “That’s common.”
“But this time, I want to try it for real. I want to write ‘The End’ on something.” My voice resounds with determination. “Something I can be proud of.”
Adam leans forward. “You seem very passionate about it. That’s good.”
He pulls on the tip of his beard. For a second, I wonder what it would feel like to run my fingers through it. When I finally get a hold of myself again, I dismiss the thought from my mind.
“And I suppose you’ve got a few ideas already,” Adam says. “New writers are always bursting with ideas. You just need to squeeze one, and a dozen usable premises ooze out.”
My mouth dries up at the thought of Adam’s large, strong hands wrapping around me and squeezing. “I’ve got some ideas, but they’re very vague. So far, I’ve only thought of some tropes I’d like to explore.”