And I didn’t intend on continuing on with teaching, though I was enjoying it much more than I’d thought I would.
But it could hurt Syd. And that couldn’t happen. Not because of me.
For another, I had no intention of startinganythinglong term. Not when I was trying—clawing—to get back to serious writing.
No. Not serious writing. I’d done plenty of that in the past five years.
I needed to do some seriousfinishing.
That’s why it was so perfect for Syd and me—beyond the whole code of ethics thing. (I never had been one for codes being impressed upon me.) She knew I’d be gone in a few months, never to return. She had three more years here at Bribury in which to find something more serious—if that’s even what she wanted.
The other reason it was perfect was although Syd was certainly a reader, she wasn’t one of the many—many—women I’d encountered who wanted to “heal” me because they were obsessed with Aidan Colly ofGangster’s Follyand mistakenly thought we were one and the same.
Yes, Syd was that great blend of someone I could hold a great conversation about books with, but who wasn’t an overzealous Billy Montrose fan.
Though, shit, after making her come four times, she’dbetterbe a Billy Montrose fan now!
Smiling at my own guy-ness, I started going through the notes she’d transcribed this morning.
God, had it just been this morning when she’d been here and left the note about quitting?
A shot of panic swiped through me now as it had when I first read the note and realized that being an insecure ass was going to cost me something great.
I’d quickly gone back to my apartment, loaded up some more boxes to show her how much more I needed her. I had seen the gift-wrapped scarf on my coffee table where I’d thrown it the night that I’d thrown my little tantrum, and grabbed it too. I’d rushed back to the office, then texted her, holding my breath that she’d answer.
Yeah, there were a lot of moments in the past five years that I’d acted in a way in which I was embarrassed. But none more so than when I’d laid into Syd for reading my stuff.
And she’d nailed it at the time—I’d been embarrassed that she’d seen my secret shame. I hadn’t written beyond a few pages of a new book in over five years. Paralyzed by fear, or others’ expectations, or lack of discipline, or whatever.
It sure wasn’t because I didn’t have any ideas. At last count there were over two hundred beginnings of stories on the laptop that now glowed in the dim light of my office.
With one more glance at Syd, and again thinking she probably needed sleep more than she needed me pawing at her again, I opened a new Word doc and typed the words I’d typed nearly every workday for the past five years. Chapter One.
Syd let out a little murmur in her sleep and I pulled my fingers from the keyboard like I’d been caught with my hand in the cookie jar. She turned slightly, burrowing deeper into the old, soft couch. It was a great couch, and I’d taken a few naps on it. But its stock had skyrocketed today. Maybe I’d even see if they’d let me buy it and take it with me at the end of the year. It would fit, just barely, in my already-cramped office in my already-cramped apartment.
Taking my gaze from Syd and returning it to the blinking cursor (damn that thing taunted me), I was about to start the first line of a new story, when I stopped.
I sat back in my chair, my heart beating a little faster, my palms becoming sweaty. I took a deep sigh, glanced at Syd once more to make sure she was sleeping and wouldn’t witness what might quite possibly be an epic fail, and one that would end in another tantrum, or worse, tears.
I closed the new doc, not saving it, and went to theDown In Flamesfolder, opening both the notes Syd had transcribed about Esme/Rachel’s story and the book file itself. I read through what I had written long ago, liking it. And then typed the words I hadn’t in so long.
“Chapter Two.”
Chapter21
Syd
I wokeup to see Billy at his desk, hunched over his laptop. I watched for a moment from the couch, loving the feel of his coat on my body, and his scarf across my shoulders. I stretched, my body aching in several delicious places, and still he kept typing. And typed. And typed.
God, he was writing! I don’t know how I knew, but I did. I totally sensed it. He was writing. And from the look of determination on his face, I’d guess he’d been doing so for a while. I leaned over and grabbed my phone from the floor where it must have fallen when I was hurrying to get my clothes off of me, and his hands on me. Three-thirty in the morning. My guess was that I’d dozed off around midnight. I didn’t know if he had slept too, but if not, he’d been writing for quite some time.
He could have been writing every day for the past month I supposed, but I didn’t think so. If I had to guess, I’d say that Billy Montrose was on his first real writing jag in five years.
I didn’t slide off the couch and elbow crawl my way across the floor, or anything, but I was quiet as I left the couch and put on my clothes. I could tell he saw my movement—there was a tiny flinch in his jaw—but his fingers kept flying and I kept quietly putting myself together.
I would have loved to watch him work all night long, but I sensed this might be a pivotal moment for him, and I didn’t want to impose, even as close as I felt we were. I guess you didn’t get much closer than him being inside me.
No, that wasn’t true. I’d had sex with boys with whom I’d never felt close to. In fact, I’donlyhad sex with boys for whom I had no feelings.
