The Muse

by O'Brien, Meghan

  “Yeah,” Olive said, and grimaced. She looped her arms around Kate’s shoulders and leaned in for support. “She has to let us out to pee, right?”

  “If not, things between us are going to get really intimate, really fast.” Rubbing a hand down Olive’s back, she sat forward to indicate that they should stand. “Because I’ve got to go.”

  “Me, too—at the very least.” Olive got to her feet, shifting in discomfort as an increasingly petulant frown took over her face. “I also need a shower, desperately. You do, too.”

  Kate’s muscles screamed as she straightened her legs for the first time in hours. She could feel their mingled juices dried on her skin, along with lingering wetness mixed with fresh arousal from having Olive on her lap. Her hair was a mess, and she tried to flatten it with a hand that smelled distinctly like Olive’s pussy. “You’re not wrong.”

  Olive bobbled from foot to foot. “Okay, so…unless you have another idea, I’m going to go knock on the door and tell that crazy bitch to let us out.”

  Kate winced. “I’d leave out the ‘crazy bitch’ part if I were you.”

  Olive left her with a peck on her cheek. “Don’t worry, I’ve got this.” She walked to the door, took a deep breath, then pounded with her fist for a good three seconds. “Hey! Erato! We need a bathroom break.”

  Silence greeted her request.

  Now Kate had to hop back and forth, all the talk of using the bathroom working against her self-control. “She could be sleeping. Probably upstairs—”

  Olive banged some more, so insanely loud Kate couldn’t imagine it not waking the neighbors. “I mean it, Erato! We’re in serious pain here. You can take us one at a time, if you want. Put bags over our heads, or whatever it is that sadists do to their fucking prisoners—”

  “Shh.” Kate cautioned her, alarmed by both the volume and the increasingly hostile tone. “You’ll wake the whole building.”

  Olive turned and gave her an incredulous look. “Would that really be a bad thing?” At Kate’s nod, Olive whipped around and grabbed the doorknob, rattling it noisily. “Listen, bitch,” she yelled, before yanking the office door wide open with a force that caused her to stumble backward a few steps. “If you don’t—” The threat ended as the reality of her role as the engineer of their escape seemed to sink in.

  Kate was caught between feeling unsettled and immensely relieved. “Well, that’s kind of weird.”

  With a fleeting backward glance, Olive shot out of the office. “Totally agree, and also, dibs on the bathroom across the hall!”

  The sound of a door slamming in the hallway jarred Kate out of her temporary stupor and sent her jogging toward the master bedroom, shouting to Olive as she passed by. “Going upstairs!”

  “I’ll meet you there,” Olive said, voice heavy with pleasure. “Enjoy—it feels divine.”

  Kate giggled the rest of the way upstairs, even as she battled a serious case of nerves over the prospect of suddenly facing her jailer. Where was Erato? She’d never been a heavy sleeper, so it was difficult to imagine she would still be tucked away in bed after all the commotion downstairs. Half expecting to find her muse waiting for her in the bedroom, Kate exhaled audibly when she found her private domain unoccupied. She wasted no time visiting the toilet, which—as Olive had promised—was simply exquisite. Though she was tempted to turn on the shower, hopefully for her and Olive to share, she wouldn’t be able to relax until she knew where Erato was and why she’d decided to release them.

  Hands and face washed, Kate left the bathroom and went to the place Erato was most likely hiding: the guest room. But it was empty. Oddly so. Erato hadn’t come with much, but the bag that had carried her extra clothing was gone. As was her fancy new laptop. Fresh linens were on the bed, which had been made with military precision. Kate stood in the center of the room and turned in a circle, searching for some sign that Erato hadn’t simply vanished.

  “Kate?”

  The sound of Olive tentatively calling out from the hallway sent an unexpected flood of relief surging through her veins. Even if her muse had disappeared, Olive hadn’t. “Right here,” Kate said, and walked out into the hall. “I think she might be gone. Like, gone.”

  Olive held up an envelope with Kate handwritten on the front. “This was on the office door.”

  She stepped forward to take the envelope, nervous about what might be inside. “She said she wouldn’t leave until I finished the book. Why would she have left?”

  “I thought you wanted her to leave,” Olive murmured, not unkindly. “Maybe she decided to respect your wishes.”

  Rolling her eyes, Kate unfolded a piece of stationery covered in impeccable, flowery script. She skimmed the first couple lines, then blinked. At first she could only state the obvious. “It’s a letter.”

  “I see that,” Olive said in a gentle voice. “Do you want to read it out loud or would you prefer that I give you some privacy?”

  Kate looped her arm through Olive’s and steered them into her room. “No need for privacy, but let’s sit down first. I’m exhausted.”

  “I’ll bet.” Olive disentangled when they reached the bed, guiding Kate to sit beside her. She enfolded her in strong arms and encouraged her to lean back for support. “I have no idea how you’re still awake after all those orgasms.”

  Kate yawned loudly and rubbed at her eyes, hoping to sharpen the blurry words on the handwritten page. “Me neither, all of a sudden.” A brisk shake of her head brought everything into temporary focus. She cleared her throat, eager to read Erato’s missive so they could clean up and then crash for a few hours. “All right…”

  My dearest Kate,

  If everything has unfolded according to my design—and it always does—then you and Olive are snuggled up, reading this letter together. Good! Contrary to what you’ve grown to believe, I am the veritable captain of Team Olive (that’s the proper usage of the idiom, isn’t it? “Team So-and-So” to denote support for said so-and-so? At any rate, I think she’s a doll).

  Ironically, I’m not much of a writer, and this letter is a particularly challenging one to compose. I wish I could’ve told you good-bye in person, as I’ve always expressed myself better in real life than on the page (more irony), but this will have to do. You’ve wanted me gone from your life for a while now, so I suspect the heartbreak you once feared you’d feel at my departure is no longer a concern. I’m glad. That, too, is by design. After the suffering and torment I’ve forced you to endure, now that you have the woman of your dreams firmly at your side, how could you possibly mourn the loss of such a terrible pain in your ass?

  First, an apology: I told you I wouldn’t leave until you finished, but obviously that wasn’t quite true. I know you have two and a half more chapters left to write, but whether or not you realize it yet, this book is as good as done. The rest will practically write itself. Enjoy the ride.

  I think it’s important for you to understand why I made you experience everything you did, why I let you agonize over the possibility of losing Olive despite knowing your own happily-ever-after was all but guaranteed. The reason, dear Kate, is because you were stuck. Not just in writing, but also in life and love. Two years without sex? It would be one thing if you’d chosen celibacy deliberately, but let’s face it—you were simply mired in complacency, the simplicity of a life spent mostly interacting with other human beings online, if at all.

  You are an author, Kate, and a storyteller—one who excels at transcribing universal human emotions and experiences into sexy little distractions from the sometimes-painful grind of daily life. Some artists are able to draw inspiration solely from their imaginations. You could isolate them in a cave at the top of a mountain and they would still produce magnificent works of beauty. Unfortunately, you are not one of those artists. Your creativity needs to be fed. It needs to be challenged. It needs to be informed by real-life experience, because it is when you’re able to tap into your own emotions that your prose really soars.

&nbs
p; And let’s not forget, your creativity desperately needs to be fucked.

  Blushing, Kate stopped reading and gave Olive a sidelong glance. “You’re sure you want to hear the rest of this?”

  Olive patted her arm, then kissed the crown of her head. “Baby, I know your creativity needs to be fucked. And I know Erato took care of that before me. I’m all right.”

  Nervously, Kate forged ahead.

  The reason you were struggling to write Rose and Molly’s romance is because your own heart had become so hardened toward the entire concept of true love. You’ve written about passionate, all-consuming romances for years without ever experiencing one of your own. And yes, your work has been outstanding, but believe me when I say it’s about to get even better. After all, you’ve just lived your very own romance novel.

  Think about it: girl meets girl, girl has a one-night stand with girl only to discover the existence of an indefinable spark hinting at the possibility of more, and then, unexpectedly, life throws girls back together. Girl fucks girl again, things start to get serious, and then life (or the antagonist, which I suppose was me) interferes, throwing the happy ending into doubt. As a crafter of romance stories, you know very well that there’s a direct relationship between the severity of conflict and heartbreak the characters suffer and the sweetness of their eventual reconciliation—and after enjoying your own reunion with Miss Olive, I suspect that now you truly understand on a whole new level. Do you not?

  No matter what anyone tells you, you don’t have to write what you know, but it’s almost always easier when you do.

  This time Olive interrupted by scoffing under her breath. “Neat trick, great for your writing, but she’s lucky we played our roles the right way or else she could’ve ruined everything.”

  Having skimmed ahead a couple of sentences, Kate murmured, “Sounds like she didn’t consider it a risk.” She kept reading.

  I suspect that one or both of you are thinking that I was taking a big chance with your hearts by manipulating the unfolding of your brand-new relationship the way I did. All I can do is assure you I wasn’t. For one thing, you’re too well matched for me to easily keep you apart. Believe me—even if I hadn’t locked Olive in that room with you, unimpeded, you two would have found your way back to each other eventually. Besides, I played the perfect villain, able to wreak havoc on your budding romance while simultaneously serving as a target for your collective rage once Olive discovered the lengths to which I would go to enforce my will. The enemy of your enemy…well, let’s just say I was certain you would eventually bond over your mutual anger toward me, which would enable Olive to see clearly that the hurt she experienced was at my hands alone.

  On that note, this paragraph is addressed to Olive: Hello. I sincerely apologize for the way I grabbed you in that parking lot and for the way I embarrassed and—let’s face it—dehumanized you in front of that very handsome law-enforcement officer. My need to help Kate in a very specific way trumped your right not to be terrorized—at least according to my own internal code. I hope that the outcome of my endgame will be enough to convince you to forgive me. If not, I understand. If I’m able to make it up to you some day, I will.

  “Shit,” Olive murmured, and took Kate’s hand between both of hers. “I forgive her.”

  Kate gave her a subtle squeeze.

  So, about that endgame. Let me explain.

  I always make it a point to jump-start the separation process well before my relationship with an artist comes to its natural end. Unfortunately, that usually means turning myself into the enemy. Harsh, but necessary. My policy is to never stay with a writer for more than one project, out of concern that he or she might grow dependent upon my presence to work. That can’t happen for a number of reasons, least of all because my job isn’t to inspire. Not really (although I have been told I have some talent in that department). No, my job is to find my client’s perfect inspiration—their own personal muse. For some it’s a new lover, for others a new passion or even just a new perspective. I am a filler of empty spaces, to attempt a slightly lyrical turn of phrase.

  Kate, Olive is your muse. Treasure her (and take her out for a nice dinner, for goodness sake! On me…I left some cash on the kitchen counter…along with both your cell phones!).

  All right. In conclusion, I just want to say that I hope I imparted some lasting lessons, such as

  Write through the turmoil of your own life. From adversity flows poetry!

  Make sure to have a life. Your art demands it.

  Nobody ever achieved her dreams by watching kitten videos on the Internet (except the woman whose dream it was to watch kitten videos on the Internet).

  I’ll leave it to you to suss out the rest—there’s more, trust me, but I’m guessing that you’re exhausted right now (after hours of frenzied writing, I hope?) and would like nothing more than a shower and a nap. You have my blessing to enjoy both.

  However, consider this a warning: I expect you to hit that manuscript hard after you wake up. The book still needs to be ready for submission within the week, and if I even get slightly nervous that you’re not on track, I may just have to come back and oversee your efforts until you’re done. Thankfully, I’m confident that you no longer need—or want—my services. So be a good girl and work hard, won’t you?

  On a personal note, I thoroughly enjoyed every bit of the time we spent together (admittedly, the parts where you liked me and/or made love with me were my favorites). Thank you for sharing your home, your body, and your fantasies with me. I will never forget you or the time we spent together.

  Never stop creating other worlds, especially when this one proves difficult,

  Erato

  Kate stopped reading and stared at the letter sightlessly before folding it up and tossing it on her nightstand. Olive tightened her embrace and stayed silent while Kate processed everything she’d just read. Or tried. Now that the adrenaline of her sprint for the bathroom had worn off and she knew they were alone, her bone-deep exhaustion was finally overwhelming everything else. She yawned and closed her eyes.

  With a gentle squeeze, Olive pulled her to her feet. “Come on. I’ll run us a quick shower so we’re not totally rank when we wake up.”

  Kate groaned. “While I’m sure future-me will be incredibly grateful, right-now-me just wants to curl up in bed with you and fall asleep.” Despite her protest, she followed Olive into the bathroom and watched as she turned on the water and tested the temperature with her hand. “What do you think of the letter?”

  Olive unbuttoned her blouse and shrugged it off. “I think the important thing is what you think.”

  “I think…” Drifting off at the emergence of more and more bare skin, Kate took a minute to gather her thoughts. “I think that right now, at least, I’m happy. And I am writing again—better yet, I actually like a lot of what I’ve written. So I guess while I’m still not one hundred percent sure whether Erato is a supernatural being or just a diabolically manipulative madwoman, I can’t deny that she’s made my life better for having walked into it.”

  Now fully nude, Olive began to undress Kate with careful patience. “But as far as wanting her to come back?”

  “Nope.”

  “Good, then we’re in agreement. We’ll nap, spend an hour, maybe two, waking up, and then I’ll bake some muffins while you head straight back to work. I’ll text my father to let him know I’ll be in late today, so I can make sure you get off to a good start. Because I’m telling you right now, you will finish that book in a timely manner. Understand?”

  Vaguely unsettled by Olive’s no-nonsense tone, Kate sensed that she really had just traded one muse for another. Her slight unease lasted only seconds before turning into a warm, gooey feeling in the pit of her stomach. Who was she kidding?

  This was the happiest of endings.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Exactly four weeks later, as she walked hand in hand with Olive around the farmers’ market while Howard minded the bakery’s
booth, Kate stumbled over her feet, gasping, as the crowd parted to reveal Erato standing not five feet away. Radiant as ever, she lit up at the sight of them, even as Kate shrank back in fear. Olive’s fingers tightened around hers, though she couldn’t say whether it was out of fright or in an effort to reassure.

  “Kate! Olive!” Erato swept in to greet them, taking Olive by the shoulders to plant a not-quite-platonic kiss on her lips, then giving Kate the same treatment. She released Kate and stepped back with a happy, friendly smile. “I’ve been expecting to run into you. Frankly, I can’t believe it didn’t happen sooner.”

  Unsure how to feel about the sudden reappearance of a woman who had genuinely traumatized both of them while also helping bring about all the best things currently happening in her life—including her amazing girlfriend, the glowing feedback her editor had emailed just that morning, and two brand-new short stories written within two weeks—Kate struggled for the right greeting. Hello seemed inadequate. So did thank you. What the hell is wrong with you was certainly too harsh, considering that everything had turned out so wonderfully.

  Olive stepped in to break the silence. “She turned in her manuscript. The editor loves it. Why are you here?”

  Straight to the point. Kate drank in the sight of her girlfriend, vibrant and confident and alive, aglow under the mild warmth of the autumn sun. She loved this woman, beyond a doubt. Olive really was her happy ending.

  Erato giggled. “Don’t worry. I’m not here for your lover. I actually just forced my current artist to leave his place for a bit, to get some air. He has the rest of the month off from work to finish his novel, so I understand his intensity and focus, but the quality of his work is directly proportional to his exposure to the outdoors. He’s always been a nature guy. We decided to stop off for a few snacks before hiking out to the river for a picnic.” She clapped her hands, elated by a sudden thought. “You two should join us. We could make it a double date.”