The Muse

by O'Brien, Meghan

  Exhausted but triumphant, Kate rose from her chair just as Erato knocked on her office door. She stretched on tiptoe, flexing her fingers as she raised her arms above her head, before calling out, “Come in.”

  Erato entered the room like a beam of light. “Ready to unwind?”

  “As always, impeccable timing.” Kate spotted the joint and lighter in Erato’s hand and frowned. She wanted to stay sharp and adversarial, if necessary, until they’d settled the matter of moving forward with Olive. “But no, I’m not ready to unwind quite yet. First we need to revisit this morning’s discussion, like you promised.”

  “All right. Well, I’m still not giving you permission to contact Olive, and certainly not to have dinner with her.”

  “What the hell is wrong with you?” And just like that, the incredibly fragile hold Kate had on her control snapped. This wasn’t a situation where she could tell Erato to fuck off, then go ahead and contact Olive despite the bullshit rules. Unfortunately, she hadn’t had the foresight—rather stupidly, she acknowledged—to write down or even memorize Olive’s number. That meant Erato was in complete control of her ability to communicate with Olive, short of waiting until next weekend’s farmers’ market. Kate’s rage over her sense of powerlessness, which had been simmering for hours, boiled over. “You explicitly fucking promised to revisit, not reiterate! How the fuck is this partnership supposed to work if I can’t take you at your word?”

  Once again, Erato remained infuriatingly calm. “But I did revisit…in my head. This afternoon while you were writing, I realized that you were absolutely correct—it would be unfair and downright cruel to leave Olive wondering why you haven’t contacted her when you told her you would. So I let her know what was going on.”

  Kate’s stomach dropped. “What? What did you say?”

  “That I wasn’t comfortable giving you permission to date someone until you finish this book, and that you won’t be free to speak to her until then. I also thanked her for understanding where your priorities lie and told her that if she wanted to talk through her feelings for you in the meantime, I’m available.”

  Kate winced. She’d literally just assured Olive that Erato was simply a writing coach with unconventional methods, and now Erato was talking about granting permission as though she held the keys to Kate’s chastity belt. Or worse yet, as though she was Kate’s partner in more than just writing. Erato works for you, right? If Olive had questioned that before, what must she think now? And just how small did Erato’s offer to play therapist make Olive feel?

  Yeah, this was bad. And if Kate couldn’t figure out how to deploy some serious damage control by way of a follow-up text, if not ejecting Erato from her life altogether, this might spell the end for whatever she might have built with Olive. Shaken, Kate said, “Was she upset?”

  “Maybe.”

  “What do you mean, maybe? Did she reply?”

  “Yes.”

  Kate waited a beat. Then when it became clear that Erato didn’t plan to share, she snapped, “What did she say?”

  Erato shook her head. “This is exactly what I meant—instead of worrying about Rose and Molly and what they’re feeling as they attempt to define their relationship, you’re distracted by Olive. What she’s feeling, how she’s doing.”

  “That’s because she’s a real person!” Kate exploded. “With real emotions and real expectations about how a decent person acts after they fuck you and then promise they want more than just sex. And besides, you’re the one creating the distraction! I wouldn’t be distracted right now if Olive wasn’t potentially furious with me!”

  Rolling her eyes, Erato placed her hand-rolled cannabis cigarette between her lips and sparked up the lighter. “Well, we both know that’s not true.”

  Kate waited until Erato had taken the first, harsh, mostly paper hit before snatching the joint from her mouth. She took a desperate puff, eager to calm her rising fury. Then she took another. When she felt able to speak without shouting, she ground out, “Seriously, why are you doing this to me?”

  Erato took back the joint and enjoyed a long, lingering hit before answering. “You know why.” When Kate opened her mouth to protest, she placed a finger against her lips. “Listen: you are an artist. So do what great artists do—take all the pain and frustration you’re feeling right now and use it. As an artist, you must embrace all facets of the human experience wholeheartedly—good, bad, and indifferent—while taking mental notes along the way. If you’re able to do that, then every difficult period of your life, every struggle, every adversarial roadblock becomes nothing more than potent fuel for future creations.”

  Snatching the joint from Erato’s condescending grasp, Kate sniped, “That’s the platitude you think will calm me?”

  “Calming you isn’t precisely my goal.” Erato watched coolly as she took multiple, desperate draws on the half-smoked joint. “And there’s a good reason for that. I suspect you’re approaching the point in Rose and Molly’s story where everything goes to hell for a few chapters until they can resolve the story conflict and declare themselves happily ever after.” When Kate didn’t respond, she cocked her head in question. “Am I right?”

  In fact, she would be tackling the meatiest part of the story tomorrow, the chapter she’d been looking forward to writing for quite a while: Rose and Molly’s interrupted make-out session, followed by Rose’s mother’s accusations and overreaction. But even if that scene demanded high drama, the presence of such in her own life had never helped her writing before. On the contrary, even minor angst seemed to leave her scattered and locked out of her mental movie theater. Seething, Kate said, “You may think you’re helping me, but you’re not.”

  “History will be the judge of that, I suppose.” Erato nodded at the cold joint in Kate’s hand, then produced a flame that she held steady in the space between them. “You finish the rest of that by yourself. You need it more than I do.”

  Kate didn’t argue. She relit the end, then leaned against the edge of the desk and sucked desperately on the ever-diminishing source of good feeling between her fingers. Even pot wasn’t taking the edge off the bitter disappointment and anger that festered within the blackest part of her soul, a frighteningly negative storm of emotion that rendered her wholly incapable of appreciating anything about what she’d actually accomplished over the course of the day. Irritated and eager to lash out, Kate grumbled, “This fucking worthless book.”

  Erato gave her a disapproving frown. “It’s not worthless, and you know it.”

  It made her somehow angrier that Erato was right. After months of hating this novel on principle, Kate was beginning to recognize that it was one of her better efforts. The book might even have the potential to become something special. Her writing had never been more mature. She’d created high emotional stakes for her characters and was well positioned to deliver a uniquely satisfying ending. The erotic scenes were among the hottest she’d ever written, inspired by the very real, very earth-shattering sex she’d been privileged to enjoy with the two most alluring women she knew in the real world. So no, the novel wasn’t worthless. It was the value of her wayward muse’s draconian presence in her life that she was no longer sure about.

  Sickened to visualize only one way forward, Kate said, “No, you’re right. The book isn’t worthless.”

  “I’m glad to hear you say that.”

  Without meeting Erato’s eyes, Kate made a decision that, days ago, would have felt impossible. “Listen, I appreciate everything you’ve done for me. Really. But now I…” She hesitated, aware she might not be able to retract her next statement. “I need to ask you to leave.”

  Erato giggled. “Oh, sweetheart. You know I can’t do that.”

  Kate looked up and pinned Erato with her coldest stare. “Excuse me?”

  “I can’t leave. Not even if you beg me, per your own words. Not until the book is done.”

  Kate had never before felt so close to flat-out losing her shit. She wanted to scream
at Erato, to pick her up and physically remove her from the premises. Wary about her odds if she engaged in hand-to-hand combat with either a supernatural being or a mentally unbalanced individual, she counted to ten before answering. “You have no right to stay in my apartment if I tell you to leave. I’ll say this plainly, without an ounce of ambiguity. I want you to go. Leave. Now.”

  Erato shook her head sadly. “Sweetheart, that’s not what you want, and I honestly believe you know that, too.”

  “Well, there goes your all-knowing, all-seeing muse act, busted wide open.” The madder Kate got, the nastier her tone and the words she burned to unleash became. She was tired of being told what she knew and believed and wanted, especially when it increasingly contradicted how she actually felt. “I want you the fuck out of my life, you meddling bitch. You think I don’t want you gone? I’d call the police on you right now if you hadn’t stolen my phone.”

  Inexplicably, Erato’s pained expression tugged at her heart. “Believe me, you really don’t want to do that.”

  She believed her. Honestly, Kate didn’t want to involve law enforcement except as a last resort. Even if she managed to summon the police to her door, she had no idea what Erato would do or say to defend against her accusations. Somehow she sensed that her muse’s gregarious, magnetic nature would easily charm the responding officers into dismissing Kate’s complaints—or worse, suspecting her of some kind of wrongdoing. Still, she was happy to make threats if they got her point across. “Try me.”

  Erato pursed her lips. “Now you’re just being ridiculous.” She sighed, then arranged her hair with nervous hands. “Listen, the easiest way to make me leave is by finishing your book. Simple as that.”

  Kate tried to calculate her remaining word count. She was approaching the final act of her novel, but she still had a lot of work. The interrupted tryst would lead to a temporary breakup, a couple chapters of loneliness and soul-searching from each point of view, then a lucid conversation between Rose’s mother and Molly in which the former homophobe offers her sincere blessing as she hates seeing her beloved caretaker so sad and her daughter not at all. Finally, the highly anticipated reunion between Rose and Molly, which would naturally involve a lengthy love scene. Wrapping up the story wouldn’t take a lot more effort—maybe just a final chapter to hint at a happily-ever-after—but on the whole, the entire endeavor seemed incredibly daunting. Between her rising burnout from the furious pace she’d maintained for the past few weeks and the depression created by her muse’s cruelty, she wouldn’t be able to finish in less than two and a half weeks, minimum. After that she’d have to spend at least a few days polishing the manuscript for submission, which would lead to additional scenes and places where she would need to drop in character beats and flesh out the story.

  She might very well need every one of the twenty-one days she had left to finish, and that was at least twenty days too long to wait for Erato to stop fucking up her life. Olive would have most definitely given up on her by then, and with good reason. No, writing her way out of this wasn’t an option. Not if she wanted to win Olive back.

  It was obvious that Erato had made up her mind, with an iron resolve. She couldn’t talk her out of her decision. That left one possible course of action, which would require Kate to stop arguing and start thinking. Subterfuge. She had to pretend to throw herself into her writing—well, not pretend—while devoting her spare time to looking for opportunities and weaknesses to exploit. Muse or not, Erato did sleep on occasion. She might be able to find her cell phone and at least copy Olive’s number—or else figure out some other way to let Olive know she was being held captive by her off-the-rails writing coach.

  But before she could do that, she needed to accept her powerlessness over the current situation. She had to smile—and she did, as sweetly as she could manage with her hands still clenched into fists at her sides. Most importantly, she had to agree to Erato’s terms, because to do otherwise was to invite more restrictions and a level of scrutiny that might be impossible to overcome. In this, with Olive’s love and trust at stake, failure wasn’t acceptable. She would do whatever it took to get out of the mess Erato had created for her.

  So she took a calming breath and said, “You’re right. I’ll finish the book.” Closing the distance between them, she gave Erato a friendly hug before swiping the lighter from her hand. She would need every bit of the roach she had left to get any sleep tonight. “Simple as that.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  When Kate sat down to work the next morning, both her anger and her sense of urgency had only grown sharper. She’d slept fitfully, plagued by anxious dreams in which Olive wouldn’t accept her phone calls or texts and had apparently changed her number altogether. In typical dream fashion, everything had shifted and she found herself lost at the farmers’ market, walking down endless rows of stalls looking for Olive and her father and always coming up empty. Then, back to her apartment, where the police had knocked on her door to deliver the message that Olive didn’t want to talk to her and, in fact, absolutely hated her, and also that she was being sent to prison for being a terrible person. Then suddenly she was in prison, and Erato was her jailer…and so on, and on, and on until Kate couldn’t stay in bed any longer.

  She’d asked Erato to move into the guest bedroom after their discussion the night before, as cordially as possible, and had been relieved when her wishes were readily honored. As she scanned the final paragraphs of yesterday’s efforts, making minor corrections along the way, she half listened to Erato walk around her new accommodations. The masochistic part of her couldn’t wait to find out how things would play out today and beyond. Would Erato maintain their normal daily routine, minus the sex? Would she prepare and serve breakfast to Kate like everything was fine?

  Kate got her answer almost thirty minutes and two hundred words later. That’s when Erato knocked on the door and, full of breezy confidence, swept inside only after being granted permission to enter. She dropped off a glass of water and a plate of pancakes with maple syrup, wearing a wide, toothy, adorably sexy smile, then left with a chirped “Good luck!” and a brief squeeze of Kate’s shoulder. The simple touch seemed to naturally loosen the tense muscles in Kate’s back, helping her relax, and simultaneously sparked a fierce, focused desire to dive right back into her fictional world.

  The worst part about Erato’s maddening rules and restrictions and directives, Kate decided, was that they kept her from enjoying the genuine benefits of her muse’s company. No matter who Erato was, or what she was, her mere presence inspired Kate to be at her creative best, always. Despite what she’d decided in anger the night before, the gifts Erato had to offer were far from useless. It was an awful, stupid twist of fate that she’d happened to meet Erato and fall for Olive all at the same time, because without her desire to maintain control over her romantic life, she would probably accept nearly any stricture Erato imposed. Even though she’d asked her to leave, Kate hated the idea of having to relearn to write without the clear-headed inspiration her muse provided.

  “This sucks,” Kate muttered under her breath, then took a grudging bite of pancake.

  She let her mind wander as she chewed, thinking about Olive with all the defiance of an intentionally disobedient seven-year-old. It had now been over twenty-four hours since they’d last spoken, and no doubt at least twelve since Erato had decided to send those text messages. Where was Olive’s head at right now? Was she devastated? Understanding? Pissed off? She wished for some way for her to check, to smooth things over as necessary.

  As she’d predicted, writing through her anxiety about what Erato was doing to her and Olive wasn’t exactly easy. But, surprisingly, it was apparently very possible. Even if her progress had slowed considerably, the words that did end up on-screen actually satisfied her always-harsh inner critic, with very little additional editing required. She was both surprised by how natural it felt to channel her own tumultuous emotion into the inner lives of her characters and irritated
by the idea that, yet again, Erato’s bullshit theories had some merit.

  In the past, Kate would have allowed her current level of turmoil to yank her out of her characters’ heads for the rest of the day. At least. With Olive’s feelings at stake, that simply wasn’t an option. If she couldn’t devise some covert way to evade Erato’s control, finishing the book could be her only ticket back into Olive’s life. She had to plan for any eventuality, and unfortunately, it was possible—even probable—that Erato would be able to predict and deflect any trickery or deceit on her part. That uncomfortable truth—along with the hard reality that her deadline cared not about her love life—would keep her honest about working even as she plotted in silence.

  Besides, Erato might suspect the rebellion in her heart if she didn’t continue to boost her total word count—and that wouldn’t do. Her best chance at success depended upon preserving the element of surprise. If such a feat was even possible.

  Kate finished her pancakes quickly, then waited for the knock that came almost immediately after she swallowed her last bite. “Come in,” she called out, and mustered a pleasant but restrained smile. Too over-the-top with her affability and she’d arouse suspicion; too surly and she’d invite unwanted attention. She wanted only to hand off her dirty plate so she could bask in the two to three hours of solitude she’d have before Erato came to check on her again.

  Erato took the plate with a small curtsy. “How were they?”

  “Delicious.” Kate placed her fingers on her keyboard, ready to type. “Back to work.”

  “That’s the spirit!” Erato blew her a kiss, then flounced out of the room with an enthusiasm undeniably pleasant to watch. Especially as reflected in the subtle movement of her firm, round ass.

  “For fuck’s…stop looking, Kate,” she grumbled under her breath as soon as she was certain Erato wouldn’t overhear. “Stop looking.”

  And that’s when she had a brilliant idea, one she was embarrassed not to have landed upon last night. She might not have access to Olive’s phone number, but why else did Internet search engines and social media exist, if not to solve conundrums exactly like this one? She knew from Olive’s father that her last name was most likely Davis. They owned a bakery, and what business didn’t have some presence on social media these days? Olive could even have a personal profile somewhere, which would offer an easy way to send her a message.