Total pages in book: 121
Estimated words: 116362 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 582(@200wpm)___ 465(@250wpm)___ 388(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 116362 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 582(@200wpm)___ 465(@250wpm)___ 388(@300wpm)
“How is it going?” Ana asks.
I look up over my computer to see her standing in the doorway, smiling warily at me. She knows, oh she knows, that the worst thing to say to a struggling writer is, “How is it going?” or “Get any writing done?” Bitch, if I’ve got writing done, you can fucking bet you’ll know about it.
But I don’t have the strength to get mad. I sigh, pushing myself back from the computer, and rub my forehead, trying to loosen the tension. “It sucks,” I mumble. “I’m just staring at the screen, and when I’m not staring at the screen I’m staring at the walls and when I’m not staring at the walls I’m having a nap.”
“Want to be my guinea pig again?” She waves a green lipstick at me. “I could use the help. I’m supposed to do space and fantasy makeup. You know, the nerd stuff you like.”
That does sound more interesting than normal, and I know this time she’ll probably nail it since her day-to-day makeup usually borders on the side of 80s futuristic prom queen, but I can’t be bothered with doing anything. Even going for a run is a struggle. I fear my writer’s block is slowly leading to life block. And then what?
“How about you do it to yourself and I’ll watch,” I tell her.
“Sounds kinky,” she says.
“I’m pretty sure everything sounds kinky to you.” Actually, everything has been sounding kinky to me lately, hence the pervy peeping Tom scene in my book.
Phenelope, you are a pervert, I think to myself.
Still, I get up and follow Ana out into the kitchen. I’ve totally resigned myself to the fact that makeup has permanently taken over the table. I often drink my coffee around mascara tubes and color correctors. The other day I found cream eyeshadow in my protein shake.
Luckily this is Ana’s last couple of weeks of school, even though it means she’s trying to practice on me as much as she can. I had Rio over the other day and watched Ana transform her into a pretty convincing drag queen, though I’m pretty sure that wasn’t her intention.
Even though it’s only three in the afternoon, I go and get a bottle of local pinot gris out of the fridge. Fuck it all—a prescription for the daily blahs.
I’ve just poured us both a glass—thank god for day drinking roommates—when my phone rings.
Thinking it’s either my mother or a telemarketer, I fish it out of my pocket and glance at it.
It’s Blake.
I have to admit I’m surprised to see him calling.
Surprised, and, well…I’ll just ignore that little flip my heart did.
“Hey,” I say as I answer, sounding more chipper than I mean to.
Ana watches me with a slow raise of her scarily arched eyebrow.
“Hey, Big Red,” he says smoothly. “Catch you at a bad time?”
I stare down at the glass of wine. “Not really. Was about to get my day drink on.”
“What a coincidence, so was I.” There’s a lengthy pause and I find myself sucking in my breath, not sure what he’s going to say next.
“Did you want to join me?” he asks. “Beautiful day, a slow period at Spinnakers. We could grab a couple of shrubs on the patio.”
“Last time you sampled my shrub you nearly spit it out on the waitress as she passed by.”
“You know my luck with waitresses.”
“And hostesses and classmates and most females. Yes, I do.”
But beneath all the casual banter, I know I have to say no to him. The fact that we’re both done working together and he still wants to hang out is nothing but bad news. I mean, what can we possibly offer each other anymore?
“Are you also saying yes to the pub?”
I can see Ana nodding anxiously at me.
“No,” I tell him, and she groans loudly in disappointment. “I’m busy.”
“Washing your hair?”
“Yeah,” I tell him. “And not hanging out with you.”
“You’re kind of mean, you know that?”
“You’ve told me.”
“Did I tell you I like that?”
“You have.”
“And yet you keep doing it.”
I sigh, even though I’m trying not to smile. “Anyway, I don’t think it’s a good idea. There’s no reason for us to hang out anymore.”
There’s a pause. Am I being too harsh? Maybe.
I open my mouth to backtrack but he says, “But I have a reason.”
“And what is that?”
“A proposition.”
“Yeah, those never end well.”
“This might. It might end with us being rich.”
Now he has my attention. “What are you talking about?”
“Let me pick you up. I can be there in a half hour.”
“But what is this about? I’m not going unless I know. My roommate had a bad dust-up with a Nigerian drug lord last month and I’m not about to follow in her footsteps.”
“Tell him the chicken parmigiana was good,” she whispers, gesturing to the phone.
“I hate to burst your bubble, peach, but you know I’m not a Nigerian drug lord. However, I do have a solution for that overactive imagination of yours.”