The Muse

by O'Brien, Meghan

  Forcing herself to stay calm—lest Erato feel the psychic vibrations of her anticipation through the walls—Kate opened a browser window for the first time that day. She navigated to her favorite search engine and spent a moment composing the most foolproof string of key words that she could imagine: Olive Davis bakery Sonoma County. Before she clicked the search button, she took a moment to send a silent plea to the universe to let this plan work. She might still have time to soothe Olive’s hurt feelings, but only if she got a chance to explain before another day of radio silence from her end destroyed whatever goodwill might remain between them. Taking a deep breath, she initiated her search and held her breath as she waited for the results.

  The default search engine screen remained open, her criteria plastered across it. Kate shifted uncomfortably, glancing over her shoulder at every random noise she heard, terrified Erato might sneak up behind her and discover her transgression. After nearly a full minute of waiting for the results page to load, Kate frowned and stopped the page from executing. She tried again immediately. Her stomach twisted when the page instantly refreshed to display a cute ASCII graphic and the ominous message Unable to connect to the Internet emblazoned across the top.

  At first she wasn’t sure what to think. Until now, even with the threat of derailment via cute animal videos, Erato had allowed her access to the Internet. Truthfully, she hadn’t been using it nearly as much as she normally did. Per Erato’s advice, she’d been avoiding the news sites that only depressed her, along with social media and other forms of pointless distraction. She’d mostly stuck to checking her email during breaks and occasionally searching for research purposes. She had given Erato absolutely no reason to justify cutting her off now.

  Maybe it was a coincidence. Maybe her provider was simply down, or she needed to reboot. She clung to her last vestige of hope as the computer restarted, then cursed when, after a few minutes of detective work, it became clear that this was no accident: it was sabotage.

  Her gut instinct was to confront Erato, although that meant admitting she’d attempted to go online in the first place. But that wasn’t exactly an admission of guilt, was it? Despite the light subject matter of her books, she had to conduct all sorts of research. Sexual positions, rope-bondage techniques, and BDSM best practices were frequent areas of interest. Depending on the tale she was spinning, she might need to look up details about weapons, surnames, the careers of her characters, real-world locations or events, as well as anything else she wanted to be accurate about. In fact, the more she thought about Erato’s latest punishment, the madder she got.

  With this, Erato had flat-out interfered in her ability to work. The art is her only concern, my ass. Simmering, Kate tried to decide if it would be better to pretend she hadn’t yet noticed that the wireless router had been disabled. She risked alerting Erato to the real reason she wanted Internet access, which would surely make life even harder. Then again, Erato was most likely already perfectly aware of the way her mind worked, hence the blatant pulling of the proverbial plug.

  As soon as she decided she had more to gain than lose at this point, Kate closed her browser (lest she leave behind incriminating evidence) and left the office in search of her muse. She found her in the guest room, sitting cross-legged in bed with the newest model of Kate’s five-year-old laptop balanced on her knees. A pair of pink headphones obscured the sound from whatever she was watching, but judging from the smile on her face, it was pretty spectacular.

  Erato lit up when she noticed Kate standing in the doorway. “Oh, Kate! You have to come watch this, seriously. This tiny, adorable kitten is so surprised, over and over again…”

  Kate walked to the bed, craning her neck to confirm what she didn’t want to believe. Apparently the Internet outage was limited to her computer alone. A familiar—and yes, spectacularly adorable—viral video was streaming in all its full-screen glory, evidence that what was good for the gander was apparently unacceptable to the muse. Kate watched until the end before speaking. “I came in here to tell you that our Internet connection was down, but apparently it’s a fairly localized outage.”

  Clicking on to the next video, this one starring a baby goat, Erato didn’t tear her attention away from the screen for even a second. “Very localized. Your computer, specifically.”

  This time Kate had to count to twenty before she could speak, which gave them both plenty of time to watch the exuberant cuteness of brand-new goat-hood. Finally, she raised her voice to make sure Erato would hear her over the sound of the video. “You cut off my Internet access?”

  Erato snorted at the baby goat’s antics, then clicked over to a different video before the current one ended. “I sure did. You tried to search for Olive?”

  Wishing she’d prepared a cover story before opening her mouth, Kate blurted out the first excuse that came to mind. “No, I wanted to read more about…” She flashed on the scene she was just beginning to write: Rose visits with her mother, then goes to find Molly in the room of a dead patient. How did the patient die? What in the world did she need to learn about so badly? “Bowel cancer.” She winced. “Or is that too much to even hint at in an erotic romance?”

  Erato pulled the headphones from her ears and studied her intently. “What’s your gut feeling?”

  “Too much. You’re right.” She hesitated, then when it looked as though Erato might resume her viral film festival, said, “Even so, I really do need to be able to get online when the situation demands it. You may not think my silly sex stories require any real research, but I happen to take pride in being accurate about even the most minor details.”

  “Hey, hey.” Erato touched Kate’s wrist in an obvious attempt to soothe. “Believe me, I recognize that your stories—which are anything but silly, by the way—require serious thought and even some occasional nonfiction reading. The good news is, I have access to the Internet.” She angled her laptop toward Kate, beaming. “If you need to get online, I’m happy to let you do it from here.”

  “While you watch over me like I’m some sort of prison inmate?” She covered her frustration over the ruining of her plans with a minor eruption of righteous indignation. That Erato had correctly guessed her true motivation had no impact on her ability to generate a healthy dose of legitimate outrage. “Nice. Really respectful.”

  “I don’t see what the big deal is, if you weren’t intending to try to contact Olive anyway.” Erato set the laptop aside but remained seated on the bed. “Look, having limited Internet access is a good thing this close to your deadline. It removes temptation. All temptation.”

  “It also makes my job harder if I have to yank myself out of the story so I can come in here and talk to you every time I want to pursue a stray thought. Did you think about that?”

  “I hear what you’re saying.” Erato’s placating tone only heightened Kate’s irritation. Where did the woman get off? “Unfortunately, this is a delicate case. I’d rather risk distracting you with longer research breaks than deal with the fallout of a well-placed search on social media for Olive or the family bakery.”

  Even though she’d anticipated that Erato would try to block any attempt she made to circumvent her missing-cell-phone problem, Kate still felt shaken to have been bested so quickly and effortlessly. “You’re a real jerk sometimes, you know that?”

  Erato responded by releasing a sweet peal of laughter totally at odds with the harsh comment that preceded it. “You’re not the first writer to tell me so.” She smiled pleasantly, then picked up her laptop and waggled it in the air. “Still need that search engine?”

  Kate was too mad to care about keeping up her cover story. “Forget it. Too much, remember?”

  Chuckling, Erato said, “All right, then.” She slipped the headphones back over her ears, winked, and returned her attention to her screen. “Unless you need something else, I suggest you get back to work. The day is still young, and I know you want to get a lot more accomplished than you’ve managed so far.”


  Swiveling on her heels, Kate stomped silently out of the guest room. She started back toward the office out of habit, then stumbled to a halt as another thought occurred. Her truck. Out in the parking lot sat her ticket to the outside world. All kinds of places offered Internet-enabled computers for public use—she could find one. An even more earth-shattering realization set her heart racing. Of course! Her wireless provider’s website would have a detailed list of her voice usage charges, each one identified by the associated phone number. Locating Olive’s contact information would be easy, as long as she found a way to get online.

  Kate dashed down the hallway and into the kitchen as quickly and quietly as possible. Thus commenced a frantic search: the hook where she was supposed to hang her keys, the bowl full of spare change where they usually ended up, the counter, her purse, then into the living room, the coffee table, beneath the couch cushions, by the front door—until finally she stopped, sweat dripping from her forehead, and accepted the obvious. Erato had anticipated this plan, too.

  What other ideas had Erato already worked to counteract? For all she knew, the passwords to her online accounts had already been changed, including that of her wireless provider. It was possible, even probable, that Erato’s devious, detail-oriented nature had enabled her to preemptively undermine even the most brilliant gambit Kate might think up. Perhaps she’d even found a way to remove every trace of Olive Davis from the Web. If anyone could, it would be Erato.

  Kate returned to the kitchen, utterly defeated. Pouring herself a glass of now much-needed lemonade, she took a long drink as she analyzed her predicament. She was being held captive in her own home. So far Erato hadn’t barred the doors to prevent her from leaving the apartment—as far as she knew—but she was otherwise cut off from the outside world. Short of trying to walk her way into town or flag down one of her rarely seen neighbors without Erato noticing, she could do little else but finish the book.

  Walking for help was a possibility, although it meant a bit of a hike, and if Erato noticed she was missing within the first twenty minutes or so, she could easily hunt Kate down with the truck and force her to come home. Appealing to a neighbor might also work, but the other tenants in her small unit were nearly as quiet and reclusive as she was. She sometimes went days without seeing anyone, and even when she did, few people seemed to linger outside for much longer than it took them to walk between their outside-facing apartment door and the shared parking lot. If she wanted to get someone’s attention, she would need to move quickly and stealthily the second an opportunity presented itself, without hesitation. And she would have to hope like hell that Erato wouldn’t see her and interrupt, because she knew who would acquit themselves better in an awkward social situation.

  Whatever she chose to do, she would need a high degree of confidence about her odds before she’d feel comfortable enough to act. She would probably get only one chance at escape. Any weakness she managed to exploit would no doubt be managed with brutal efficiency, and the potential consequences for her disobedience would likely be harsh. If she wasn’t careful, she could wind up locked in her office—even chained to her desk. As much as she wanted to believe those fears were extreme, she was done underestimating Erato. The woman had made it abundantly clear she would do whatever it took to keep her away from Olive until she finished the book.

  Dejected, Kate returned to the office, but not before very quietly testing the front door to make sure it still opened. To her immense relief, it did. Too frightened to run without a solid plan in mind, she closed the door and rushed to her desk. It was only after she was back where she belonged, in front of her laptop with her hands on the keyboard, that her anger resurfaced. Lashing out at Erato was clearly pointless, but as timing would have it, she happened to have another perfectly good target for her wrath.

  Two of them, actually.

  Aware that she was way too happy about the prospect of devastating Rose and Molly by forcing them apart via an interfering third party, Kate began typing—determined to do just that.

  Chapter Nineteen

  The next five days passed quickly even as Kate’s output slowed to a steady trickle. Almost as soon as she was finished writing the interrupted kiss and all the delicious angst that ensued, her anger toward Erato flattened out and her general emotional trajectory began to echo that of her characters. She had just broken up Rose and Molly, her perfect couple, and left them utterly destroyed by the unexpected turn of events. Their stark depression, their mutual sadness over what might have been, their shared anxiety and regret and the feeling of powerlessness they had about a situation beyond their control—it all perfectly reflected Kate’s growing anguish over the inexorable march of time and her ever-diminishing hope that she would be able to find her own happily-ever-after.

  Five days, a prisoner in her own home. She had promised Olive dinner. A chance to talk. A possible future. But all she’d given her was another reason to feel insecure, and no doubt heartsick. It really, really sucked—to put things in distinctly unliterary terms. She had never intentionally given anyone the silent treatment before, even those who’d probably deserved it. Being forced to give the cold shoulder to a woman she might actually love turned her stomach. Despite the delicious food Erato kept bringing her, every day it became more difficult to eat. Her mood sank lower and lower with the passage of each minute of her forced radio silence, as she imagined Olive’s hurt and anger growing fiercer and more enduring.

  So yes, while words continued to trickle out—each of them admittedly powerful and evocative of a turmoil she now knew all too well—wrangling them onto the screen felt like pure torture compared to the free-flowing ease of writing the chapters of passion, romance, and highly charged drama that came before. It wasn’t simply the subject matter that was slowing her down. She was mentally and physically exhausted. After having spent nearly two years not writing much at all, this weeks-long marathon had pushed her to the absolute limit. Now that she was afraid and depressed on top of being overtaxed, every day required intense effort to keep going. If not for the slim possibility that Olive might forgive her one day, she probably wouldn’t even try.

  What really pissed her off was that before this Olive situation, she could have leaned on Erato for the energy, motivation, and sexual healing she needed to make it through the last third of the story. Now she didn’t want to rely on Erato for anything—at least nothing more than absolutely necessary. Even if she had no choice but to depend upon her muse for access to the Internet and the world beyond her apartment complex, she could at least refuse to surrender to the comforts and pleasures Erato offered so freely. After all, if she gave in even a little, she might be persuaded to cave all the way—maybe even going so far as to voluntarily banish Olive from her thoughts until the book was submitted. Or forever. No. Her hypothetical future with Olive felt far too tangible to allow Erato even the slightest opportunity to make her lose focus on what was really important.

  But could Erato easily revitalize her creative spirit and give her the push she needed to sprint to the finish? Could she end the torture of this final slog in the most pleasurable way possible?

  Undoubtedly. The jerk.

  What made the sixth morning of imprisonment different was that it was Saturday, which meant that for the first time, Kate knew exactly where Olive would be—for approximately five hours, at least. The farmers’ market started at eight o’clock in the morning and ran until one. She had no idea how long it would take Olive and her father to pack up their booth and leave once it was over, so she would need to get to the town square by one o’clock at the very latest to ensure that the trip wasn’t a waste. She would likely only have one chance to pull off such a bold escape, so she shouldn’t try if she didn’t think she could make it there in time to intercept Olive and have a face-to-face conversation. While she couldn’t imagine deciding to delay contact for another week after the agony of the one she’d just endured, it would be better than waiting the two weeks it would take for her d
eadline to arrive.

  By eight thirty that morning, Kate realized that writing just wasn’t going to happen. At least not until after the farmers’ market was over, and only then if she hadn’t already dissolved into a puddle of bitter, mournful tears. It was impossible to focus when her window of opportunity was narrowing every second. Her heart wouldn’t stop racing even though she sat perfectly still at her desk, hands motionless on the keyboard. Her gaze remained stubbornly fixed out the window, on the manicured landscaping that her apartment complex did such a nice job of maintaining and the sidewalk leading away from the building and toward the parking lot. If she was going to ask someone for a ride into town, it would need to be as they were walking to the parking lot or returning from their car. She had to be ready.

  Unfortunately, by ten o’clock it became clear that her neighbors enjoyed sleeping in on weekends—or at least not venturing outside early in the day. Though she’d managed to write a sentence or two since first sitting down to work, her attempts at forward progress were cursory at best and specifically timed to coincide with those moments when Erato was due to check in on her. Although she never saw Erato glance at her word count or even look at her screen, she didn’t want to call attention to her sudden, intentional drop in productivity and ruin her chances of escape.

  “Stuck?”

  Kate nearly succumbed to a heart attack when Erato’s voice cut through the silence and interrupted the apologetic plea to Olive for a second chance that she had been mentally rehearsing while she waited for a potential hero or heroine to appear outside her window. She hadn’t heard the office door open behind her. The single word, so evocative of her state of being at the moment, confused her as she tried to decide what, exactly, Erato was asking. Stuck here with a madwoman, forced to write like a literal slave to her muse? Yes, she was. Stuck within the narrative of her story? Maybe a little, as she hated the slog of writing post-breakup blues.