Killian
I pour myself a dream of Bushmills into the wee glass, eyeball it, and turn straight to the bottle. If I want to wash the taste of the morning out of my mouth, it’ll take more than just a little nip to set me right.
With my lips wrapped around the bottle’s mouth and my fist around its neck, I finally feel my shoulders relax, but not for long. There’s something darkly magical about whiskey—the way that, when I drink it, it always calls her to mind.
Pretty redheaded Rebecca Doyle. She’s ruined Jameson for me already, and I’ll be damned if she ruins Bushmills to boot.
I come up for air, gasping. I lick the last vestiges of the ocher-colored liquor from my lips. Truth be told, it’s Rebecca’s mouth I’d rather have my lips pressed against right now.
The fact that she’s my next-door neighbor now should surprise me, but it doesn’t. Fate has always proven to be a fickle beastie. And when Rebecca Doyle is involved, destiny generally becomes an outright fucking monster.
I shrug my sling off and limp to my desk. There’s an ache in my muscles and a stiffness in my bones. I wonder if it’s just my near-constant hangover, or if it’s because Rebecca hit me with her damned SUV last night.
A little of column A, a little of column B, most like.
On my desk sits my phone, and on my phone lurks a headache of a different sort.
Twelve missed calls from my editor, and the bastard is already calling again.
Instead of making it thirteen missed calls, I pick up the phone and swipe the accept call button.
“Hello,” I say in an exhausted tone.
“Finally, you pick up your damn phone, Killian.”
“Well, hello to you, too.”
“Don’t play coy, Killian. I’ve called you fifty times already.”
“Technically, it’s only been twelve times, but who’s counting.”
“Whatever. I’m calling you for a reason.”
I’m sure it’s to beat the deadline into me again.
“The team’s going to need your first draft sooner rather than later. Definitely, well, in advance of the final dealing.”
Okay, deep breath.
Usually, I don’t have a problem with getting the writing done, but the universe has decided to throw me a wee curveball this time.
Hey, I wouldn’t judge baseball without knowing a few things about it, first.
Writer’s block is a bitch. I’ve heard of other writers experiencing it and never took them seriously until now.
“I know. I’m just getting started,” I tell him, hopefully to get him off my back a little.
Another swig from the bottle of fine whiskey in my hand helps to relax me a little more.
“Alright, Killian. That’s what I like to hear,” my editor grumbles. “It’ll be a couple weeks until we need anything because the senior editor just had a baby, and I’m about to head out for my honeymoon. Still, keep working.”
“I’ll make sure to do that while you all are on vacation.”
“Not everyone chooses the solitary writer’s life like you, Killian,” the editor exclaims. “But I respect your priorities, and I respect the senior editor’s as well.”
“I get it. Everyone chooses to live their lives differently,” I concur.
And I really do fucking concur with that.
I choose to live a solitary lifestyle for a reason. The only person I need to please and be supportive of is myself. That’s the way I like it, and that’s the way it’s going to stay.
“Okay. I’ll check in with you in a few days. Make sure you pick up the phone the first time I call.”
Before I can appease him with an agreement, I hear the distinct click that indicates he has already hung up the phone.
He’s also right in that I need to work, even if the draft isn’t expected this week.
Plopping my ass into my desk chair, I take an even bigger drag of the whiskey, dreading the writer’s block I have yet to boot. The liquor burns a fiery trail down my throat and distracts me briefly from the ache in my arm.
I sit and stare at the wall across the room. Nothing’s coming to mind for the story that needs to be written. Maybe this writer’s block is the fickle beastie fate at work again, and it’s hinting that my career as a writer is going to come to an end soon.
“Fuck that,” I growl. “No damn way is it over yet. You can kiss my arse, fate, cause it ain’t happening.”
My damn injured arm isn’t helping at the moment, though. Neither is the fact that I’m damn horny and can’t get Rebecca Doyle out of my head.
Recalling earlier, she was sweet in offering to help. And how did I respond to her kind heart? I called her out for staring at me through her cottage window.
Her face was expressionless, but those eyes said it all. She definitely wanted to throttle me upside the head. Her fiery personality may not show through her facial expressions all the time, but it sure shows through and through her eyes.
In combination with her red hair, she’s the epitome of a fiery, redhead woman.
That one night at a publishing convention showed that she’s also fiery in bed.
You know, fiery isn’t a strong enough fucking word for it, but it’s the best one I have at the moment.
If I could ever do that evening justice with words, then I might as well smash my fucking typewriter, because that means I’ve fulfilled any possible aspirations I could ever have as a fucking wordsmith.
I don’t mind remembering, though, even when my descriptive prowess fails me.
Thinking of that night helps in no way to solve the horny problem I’m faced with right now, but thoughts of Rebecca keep surfacing no matter how damn hard I try to block them and focus on the writing I should be doing at the moment.
Blame the Bushmills. I’m glaring at the bottle as if that would fix the problem.
What am I expecting? For the bottle to disappear in a cloud of smoke in hopes that it’ll help?
How about Rebecca, too, while you’re at it?
Frustrated that the battle to get her out of my mind is failing, I lean back in the chair and remember and daydream and fantasize a bit.
In reality, shit gets messy. That just the way shit gets.
But in the universe of daydreams, this almost always end up a little more pleasant.
Like in the daydream forming now, about wandering over to Rebecca’s cottage.
You know, to reconnect.
To talk about old times.
To drink. And laugh.
But soon enough, all our clothes would be on the floor, and she would be climbing me like a tree.
“Fuck,” I growl.
The desk chair goes flying backwards as I abruptly stand.
Why the hell did I think fantasizing about damn Rebecca Doyle would make this day any better?
Whiskey sloshes from the bottle when grabbed roughly by the neck.
No writing is going to be done now. Rebecca’s going to be the end of me, but hell if I will let her consume me.
“I need a cold shower,” I state, walking toward the stairs that leads to the master bathroom. A sliver of relief should be attainable there.
Rebecca would be able to provide a bigger relief, but that thought is asinine and the dumbest one I have had yet today.
“You win just for now, fate, but I’m telling you now it isn’t going to happen again,” I begrudgingly rumble under my breath, ascending the stairs.