Молли Харпер - And One Last Thing...

“Actually, I’m doing okay,” I told her. “I’m not really that lonely.”

“Have you met someone?” she moaned. “Damn it.”

“And why would that be a bad thing?”

“Because if you’re all dewy with the first blush of new love, you’re not going to want to help wronged women get revenge,” she griped. “You’re in the middle of nowhere. How could you possibly meet someone there… Oh, wait, the hunky neighbor. The plot thickens.”

“Yeah, he remembers you, too,” I commented drily. “And I’m not dewy with anything. I just made a friend.”

“Well, every time you start to feel all giddy with hormones, I want you to read another one of these letters and remember what it feels like to have the rug pulled out from under you by a man.”

“I’ll try,” I promised.

“Are you still at least considering my proposal?” she asked.

“Yes,” I said. “I am. I’ve just been sidetracked by another project. I’ll try to give you a decision as soon as possible. And thanks for the movies. I’ll e-mail you.”

“And listen to the angry music!” Maya called as I started to hang up. “We’ve got to stick together on this, Lacey. I’m sending you more movies. And some books. And some -”

I pushed END and batted packing peanuts out of the way as I examined my new movies. “Strange girl. Brilliant, but strange.”

It took me a few days to work up the nerve to show Monroe what I’d written. And then I took it right back. Several times.

“I changed my mind,” I said, snatching the papers out of his hand before his eyes could focus on the page.

“Okay, if you keep doing that, I will not be able to read it. Also, I will get a headache. And then I will be annoyed.”

“All right, fine.” I shoved the stack of pages at him.

He glared up at me. “You’re going to take it away again, aren’t you?”

“Just one more time,” I promised, but as I grabbed for it, he pulled his hand out of my reach. I gasped as he pulled away the title page and settled into his chair. “You’re going to read it now?”

“Yes.”

When I reached for the paper again, he gave my hand a light smack. I bit my lip. “You’re right. I needed that.”

He flashed a grin at me. “Now, the question is, are you going to sit here while I read it. Or do you want me to wait until you’re home?”

“Which would you recommend?”

“Here, let’s make it even,” he said, handing me a manuscript called Two-Seven-Zero. “You show me yours, I’ll show you mine.”

“But -” Without looking up from my opening page, Monroe pointed to a chair by the fireplace and pressed a finger to his lips. Slightly disgruntled, I sat and flipped past Monroe’s title page. I looked over the edge of the paper and watched his face. I dreaded hearing what he thought, but desperately wanted to know. What if the newsletter was a rage-fueled fluke?

Monroe was distressingly straight-faced and silent as he read. Seriously, he couldn’t twitch or something?

Without looking up, he called, “Read, Lacey. Read and breathe.”

I cracked the manuscript and got lost in the story of a patrolman who gets sent to a routine burglary and meets a seemingly normal woman who then pulls the full-on Glenn Close routine. The numeric title was based on the police code for dealing with a crazy person.

I was so wrapped up in Monroe’s description of the stalker showing up at the cop’s house with a caterer to discuss the couple’s upcoming wedding that I’d almost forgotten that Monroe was reading my stuff. No, wait, there was the paralyzing anxiety again. A few minutes later Monroe announced that he was finished. I resisted the urge to bolt out of the front door.

“This is my professional hat,” he said, pointing at his head. “Nothing I’m about to say is personal. This is just one man’s opinion -”

“Quit stalling and get on with it,” I told him.

“Obviously, you’re going to go through a couple of drafts, but I think it has potential. You have a strong voice, a good ear for dialogue, and there were some truly horrible, disturbing images in there.”

“I am going to take that as a compliment. There’s a ‘but’ coming, isn’t there?”

He nodded. “Is there going to be any sex?”

“Well, I’m writing about a woman who’s in the middle of a divorce. She’s not really going to want to date.”

“She couldn’t have a rebound boyfriend or a one-night stand? Hell, you could have a flashback of the better times in her marriage. You don’t have to go explicit, but the readers will appreciate a little sex to go with their drywall-based violence.”

“I don’t even know if I’m going to be able to write a sex scene. It just makes me nervous, knowing that someone else would be reading it.”

“Well, get the hell over it,” he told me.

“Nice.”

His tone softened a bit when he saw me blush. “Sorry. You asked for my opinion and here’s my advice. Just sit down and write a sex scene. Even if it’s a bad sex scene, just get it out of your system so you don’t get blocked. You can go back and rewrite it. Come on, woman, you’re a husband-humiliating, ass-baring Valkyrie! You can’t be scared of a little sex. Where’s your passion? Where’s your fire?”

“Oh, well that’s easy. I don’t have either of those things.”

“Do you have seizures?” he asked, nonplussed. “Do you drool? Experience uncontrollable arm spasms? What?”

“Oh, sweet Irene, this is just mortifying,” I groaned.

“Oh, come on,” he said. “I told you about getting shot in the ass; how much worse could it be?”

“That happened to you once,” I said. “This is a lifelong problem. I just don’t do well when it comes to sex with other people. I don’t have orgasms, okay? I know I can, it’s not an anatomical problem. It takes me a while to warm up and then by the time I get up in time.”

Monroe chuckled and when I didn’t smile in return, he blanched. “You’re not kidding.”

“Sadly, no.”

“And let me guess who told you that’s your fault,” he muttered.

“I can provide you with a reference,” I told him.

“No, I think I know who your source is. And I don’t buy it. A frigid woman does not skinny-dip. A frigid woman would not have chased after me, naked, to tell me to fuck off.”

“You’re not going to forget that anytime soon, are you?”

“Not likely,” he said, without pausing. “And when He Who Should Not Be Named hinted that you were no good in the sack, what did you do?”

My lips twitched. “I bought a vibrator.” When Monroe barked out a surprised laugh, I added, “It has five speeds.”

“And I’ll bet you’ve used them all,” he said.

I nodded. “Yes, I have.”

“Frigid, my ass,” he said, handing me my pages. “Now I want you to go home and write about sex. It’s like X-rated homework. Write sex scenes until you’re not embarrassed about it anymore. Be graphic, be dirty, and it won’t be scary anymore, I promise.”

“You will never see them, but okay,” I said, heading toward the door. I stopped and turned back to him. “I don’t want to have sex with you.”

The color drained out of Monroe’s face before he threw his head back and laughed. “That was really… straightforward. I haven’t even kissed you yet.” enthusiastic, it’s over. It’s like I can’t catch

“It’s not funny,” I said, smacking his arm.

“It is,” he said, still laughing. “I’ve never been shut down so fast in my life. You’re practically a cock-blocking ninja.”

“Crude!” I shouted. I shoved at his chest. “No. This wasn’t some coy, hard-to-get, I-want-you-to-respect-me game. I like you. I mean, I really like you. And I don’t want things to be awkward between us.”