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“Sometimes it’s more personal. Once, I hit a serious bout of writer’s block. I stared at my computer for a solid week, not able to write anything. I had to break down what put me there before I could get out of it. It turned out that my cat Bucky had passed four years ago that week, and I couldn’t—” she sniffs, and half the audience sniffs too. “I couldn’t work until I had come to grips with the grief I had been carrying. Writing is heavily personal and very mental. If you aren’t in the right mental headspace, things won’t get done.”

“The act of writing words is very physical, though.” I shake my head. “You are literally using your hands and fingers to string together sentences.”

“Some of us put more effort into our sentences than others,” comes fucking
Miranda
. Of course. “Everyone has a different method. Saying some people don’t suffer from what can be debilitating is very wrong and misleading. Often, we wear ourselves out from overworking, and we end up hitting blocks in the road because we don’t know where to go next. Have a few drinks, get loose, try crying over a glass of wine.” She grins at me. “Or have a shot. I just tried a great one last night right here in the hotel bar. Anything to reopen the cathartic parts of your brain and let the muse shake free.”

“I find taking long walks to be especially helpful.” Georgia pats my hand again. It’s very comforting. I feel bad for being rude in my mind before. “Sometimes, fresh air and a little exercise can go a long way in opening up your mind.”

“I do a lot of tai chi,” I tell her. “Exercise is totes the greatest thing you can do for yourself. When you’re stuck, do something to get the blood flowing. In fact, I can think of a different form of exercise you might want to do
after
those shots…”

“But that doesn’t negate the fact that some people do, in fact, suffer from nasty writer’s block,” Miranda cuts me off swiftly. Well, if she thought I was telling people about us, she was mistaken. I just wanted to mess with her.

“If you are suffering, you aren’t alone. Sometimes, it can feel that way, but you aren’t. All of us suffer from it at one point or another, and if you claim you don’t, I have to question your authenticity. Creativity isn’t tied to an unending faucet; we have to take care of ourselves—physically, emotionally, and mentally—in order to keep it healthy. Sometimes, when we push too hard, the water supply suffers.”

“That’s why everyone says to read as much as you write,” Karen piggy-backs. I’m surrounded! “Keep those creative wells full, and you’ll be able to overcome any obstacle in your way. It’s also important to reach out to your critique partners when you’re stuck. They can help you see things you can’t right away in terms of plot progression, and they can be your biggest cheerleaders. Those things can really help overcome a block.”

“Right. What they said.” I flash another smile, determined not to be pissed on by the enemy. “But if you haven’t yet experienced a block, you’re still a real author, no matter what the weepers want to tell you.”

More titters from the audience. Point to Joe. Miranda turns another shade of pink, and I find myself reminded of the night before, when she was gorgeously flushed and on the edge of another orgasm. My dick tingles and all I can think about is doing that exact thing to her again. She’s my mortal enemy, but god
damn
the girl is so good in bed. I have every reason to dislike her, but I still can’t get her out of my mind. The way she took my dick in her mouth, the way she panted when I stroked her clit, the way she moaned my name when she was about to come.

Aw hell yes.

“Charlie?”

“Hmm?” I blink, suddenly aware I’ve got a raging boner in the middle of a writing panel and Georgia is still patting my hand and I have no idea what question was just asked and I sincerely hope I didn’t just moan out loud, but I don’t even know. “Sorry, I haven’t had my morning coffee yet.”

Miranda coughs to cover a laugh, I’m sure of it. There’s no way she could know I’m currently thinking of her, right? That would be crazy. And impossible. Unless we’ve somehow connected telepathically after a night of mind-blowing sex, like superheroes or something.

That would be awesome.

Note to self for future book: Superhero erotica.

“What is your biggest piece of writing advice to those starting out, and to those currently stuck in the trenches?” Bethany repeats, looking at me like I’m an idiot. You know, she strikes me as not a very nice person. Imagine that.

“Back to the beginning. Put your butt in the chair and do it.” I spread my hand with a smile. “A million people want to write books, but you’re the ones actually doing it. Don’t let that go to waste. If you want to write a story about brain-eating goblins on a bank heist, fucking write it. Don’t let anyone tell you a story isn’t good enough. There is enough room out there, and readers out there, for every kind of story. I’m living proof. Haters just fuel my fire.” I flick my eyes down to Miranda, who actually looks bored.

Oh, fuck her. And not in the fun way! I mean, I’d like to in the fun way, but you get my gist.

Joe McCoy, Wordsmith.

There’s a loud applause that follows, and I salute the room. I love these people.
They
get it,
Miranda
. Or should I say Randi “Haterade” Rose. I’m not going to be able to let this go, man. I can feel it. I’m equal parts pissed and aroused, and this isn’t ending here.

Georgia goes off on some rambling bit of advice. I’m not listening, because I’m too busy revenge-fucking Miranda in my head to pay attention. I picture doing her in the ass with an assortment of dildos shaped like my books. That’s going in the sex-yelp book too. God, I’m brilliant. Oh, whoops. I didn’t mean to doodle out my thoughts on my notebook, but I did and Georgia has stopped talking and turned red and she definitely saw.

“Don’t be afraid to feel your work,” Miranda’s voice interrupts my guilty internal giggles. I shake them off to hear, even though I super pretend I’m not listening.

“Writing is incredibly personal, and if you evoke emotions while writing it, you’re on the right path. Don’t quit. Don’t let someone tell you the story you want to tell isn’t worth selling because someone else is selling dino-porn like it’s hot cakes. Don’t let trends scare you into silence. Your voice is important, and trends come and go. Books are here forever, and it’s our duty to tell the stories that last.”

It was no
me
, but that was actually a nice wrap-up. Bethany thanks all of us for coming, and the audience disperses.

“I just wanted to tell you, dear, that I’ve read all your books. My husband and I find them to be excellent foreplay.” With that parting, unshakeable vision, Georgia shuffles off.

I can hear everyone talking about the panel, with my name thrown around. And then, best part, fans approach the table, and I can’t believe I’m actually getting to meet the people I tweet with constantly. I pose for every photo and sign every book, drawing little butts in each one, all the while keeping Miranda in my periphery. She’s talking to a group of frumpy looking women, and outshining all of them.

Not that I notice. Because I don’t. I’m way too busy to notice her. And I super don’t notice how nice her legs look in today’s dress. Eventually, the room empties out. I grab my things and am about to leave, hoping to hunt down Miranda to shove my win in her face, when I see her on the other side of the room, thumbs moving like crazy on her phone.

Well fine, we’ll do it here. I love it when shit is convenient.

“
Y
ou
,” I hear from across the room.

I look up from my phone, which had gone off about a hundred times during the panel. Evidently people were live-tweeting about our fight. It is now trending under the hashtag #CharlieRose. Curse those clever internets! What I really want to know, though, is who they think won. Surely me. I’m the voice of freaking reason here.

He’s a literary novelty, like the cheap shit you buy on vacation and throw away when you get home. No one keeps it, no one takes it seriously. And I’m going to make sure everyone realizes what a fucking tool he is.

Anyway, I look up from the slaughter and see that—that
not
-model walking towards me, looking sexy and stupid all at once. How dare he come and talk to me! He just spent the better part of an hour in full-blown army gear, trying to attack everything I stand for. Of course I stood up for myself, for the other writers like myself, and now I have to deal with him again.

I look around frantically, but there is no one left to pretend to be busy with. I’d rather interspecies-marry a brachiosaurus than talk to this fool. No matter how sexy he looks. Because he looks obscenely sexy, slightly disheveled, like he just got out of a fight. And he did. With me. And now he’s trying to come up to me again. Ratfarts.

If I had a pencil on me, I’d stab him right in the carotid artery. I know all about that from
Grey’s Anatomy.

I cannot
believe
I slept with the enemy. I deserve to be punished for my crimes. Maybe bound and gagged, restrained with silken ties and spanked and—no! Bad Miranda! Bad, bad Miranda! I deserve a punch to the face.

“What do you even want?” I sneer, back to my tweeting. Now, I’m letting the world know about how stupid his hair is and how he is clearly a kinky sex robot who has no business in publishing. “How dare you talk to me?”

“How dare I?” he snorts. “You didn’t tell me who you were either, Trapped Fart.”

“Trapped Fart…?” I stare at him. “What are you, twelve? I knew your books were juvenile, but come on. Don’t call me that. Better yet, don’t talk to me. Go away.”

“We need to talk,” he says.

“Bullshit,” I say. “We’ve talked enough. I have better, more important things to do. Like not talk to you.” My rage is making it hard to come up with good comebacks, and I wish I hadn’t thought of the word “hard” because now I am remembering his hard member.

He should have told me who he was, because I would never, ever get into bed with Charlie Shivers. He’s my archnemesis. He’s the reason I drink copious amounts of wine while lamenting over Amazon rank. He’s the asshole who tried to say writer’s block isn’t even a thing.

I hate him. All of the warm fuzzies from earlier died a painful, horrible death and left me with this feeling that life is terrible. I need a drink, or twenty, and some time with my laptop to cry out all the emotions. Also, maybe some alone time where I can work out all of this traitorous sexual tension I feel welling up within me. Because he’s fucking gorgeous, of course he is, of fucking course he would be. Why wouldn’t my enemy be drop dead gorgeous and give me like eighty-seven orgasms in one night and make me question my loyalty to my writing?

God has a sense of humor.

“You can’t stay mad at me because you didn’t know who I was!” He’s practically yelling at me. I hate him. I want to punch him. I want to kiss him. Wait, no! That’s wrong! How dare he yell at me! “You didn’t exactly tell me you were the snatchface who one-stars all my work.”

“
Snatchface
?” I stare at him incredulously. That’s it. I’m going to murder him with my purse. Somehow. I’ll strangle him with the strap. I’ll shove his notebook up his ass so far he’d choke on it. “Did you seriously just call me that?”

He falters a minute and looks panicked. Fucking good. He should be terrified. I feel absolutely murderous.

“It’s pretty clear how desperate you are for me,” I continue. I’m now tweeting about how he harasses women in bathrooms and is a total creep. “Why don’t you go jerk off in the bathroom and picture my face, because that’s the closest you’re ever going to get to me again. I shouldn’t even be talking to you right now, you dirty piece of shit.”

“A piece of shit, really?”

“Yeah, jackass.” I slam my bag down on the chair next to me. “You called me a snatchface. That’s just weird, and gross, and you aren’t allowed to call me that!”

“Fine. I’ll just stick with Trapped Fart.”

“Fuck
off
.” I grab my bag and storm off to the doors. Before I leave, I turn around and stare at him, mentally slaughtering his stupid attractive assholish face. “You were mediocre in bed, anyway.”

“What?” I hear him shriek. He actually shrieks. I’m halfway out the door before he grabs my arm and slams the door shut. “You did not just say that. There’s no way on this earth you, of all people, called sex with me
mediocre
. I’m one of the best there is.”

“The best? What are you, delusional? Sounds like you are out of your damn mind. But let’s rewind the tape, shall we?” I pause a moment and say again, “You were mediocre in bed, anyway. Well look at that, I did.”

“You weren’t screaming that last night.”

“Last night I was drunk, which means I don’t have the sense of self to know what is good and what is bad in the moment. Without those shots, you would have never seen the inside of my pants. Is that the trick to a night with Chuck Shivers? Get someone drunk so they don’t realize everything they’re missing?”

“What, like you’re so great in bed?” He’s in my face now, and I have to resist the urge to slap him. “If I was mediocre, you were pathetic.”

“Fine, I was pathetic in bed. That’s why you kept fucking me after you came. Sure. You could have easily kicked me out of bed, but instead you wanted to snuggle with me after the fact, like you were in love with me—”

“In love with you?” he scoffs. “Please. I barely even like you. I hate you. You were practically throwing yourself at me in the bar and I took pity.”

“A pity fuck! How original! Just like all your so-called books!” I push him away from me and go for the door again. He steps in the way.

“What, can’t deny I made your night last night, so you have to keep oh-so originally attacking my books? Are you just jealous I’m actually selling, while you’re barely limping by?”

“How do you know what my sales figures look like, you creep?” I ask, so angry I can barely see straight. It’s bad enough I had to endure him through the panel, but this is just downright horrific. “Stalking me much?”

“I don’t have to look to
smell
the midlister on you!”

“That’s just your leftover cum,” I shoot back.

He stands there, a smile tugging on the corner of face, and I have never wanted to hurt someone so much in my entire life. He stands there so nonchalant, like he’s not even bothered. I know he’s bothered, he made that much clear during the panel, and I want to rip his smug asshole expression off his face. I don’t think I’ve ever been this angry in my entire life. It’s both frightening and liberating.

“You didn’t complain about it last night,” he finally says.

“Ooh, how original.” I roll my eyes and try for the door again. He blocks me. “Fucking move, asshole. I don’t want to talk to you anymore.”

“I think we have to talk about it,” he tries again. “Two enemies who banged? Come on, that deserves an adult conversation.”

“Someone who calls me a snatchface and a trapped fart is incapable of having an adult conversation. There’s nothing adult about you. You—you—I bet that college boys could do it better than you did.”

“Make a habit of doing it with college boys, do you?” That
smirk
.

“I don’t think you can judge anyone’s sexual appetites, Shivers. I’ve seen your books. You’ve got the sexual prowess of a thirteen-year-old pervert.”

“And yet you went to bed with me.” His hatefully handsome face moves closer as he growls at me. A spark of heat settles in my core as I remember him growling in my ear last night. Remember his grunts and groans and whispers.

Focus, Miranda!
“I didn’t know who you were! You’re right, I should have smelled the bad taste on you as soon as you walked up to me, and that was my fault. But the rest of it is on you!”

“You could have told me you were the professional troll Randi Rose! As if I’d even touch you knowing who you were!” He’s just as mad as me, and I don’t even care. I’m all up in his face yelling now too.

“Not that it matters, because you couldn’t keep your hands off of me!”

“Well, your tits were hanging out and screaming for attention. After you were blown off by the royalty, I didn’t want you to drink by yourself!”

I thought he hadn’t seen that. “Well, aren’t you just a fucking gentleman!”

“I am a fucking gentleman!” But no, no, he isn’t because a gentleman wouldn’t have brought it up.

“If you’re a fucking gentleman, than I’m the goddamn Pope!”

“Then put on the hat sweetheart, because it suits you.”

I can feel my face flushing a million degrees hot. “Go jump off a cliff. Go get fucked by a robotic triceraraptor.”

“There’s no such thing as a triceraraptor.”

“On the planet where you think you’re an author and a gentleman there is. And I hope it tears your ass apart!”

“You’re a bitch!” He points a finger at me. “A really hateful bitch.”

I slap the finger away, hard enough to sting a little. “I wish I didn’t have to walk around with the knowledge that someone like you is out there.”

“Don’t use
Good Will Hunting
against me! You aren’t good enough for
Good Will Hunting
!”

“Oh my god, you’re amazing! You think you can tell me what I can say?” I laugh angrily. Can you actually shoot lasers out of your eyeballs if you get mad enough? I’m about to find out. “I can say whatever the fuck I want, and you can’t stop me!”

“Your mom can say whatever she wants.”

“She would call you a hack too.” Not true. She would have tried to get him to escort her to Bingo Night and then home for Bang-o Night. Oh my god, I am my mother’s daughter.

“Failure.”

Now that stung.

“Asshole.”

“Bitch.”

“You know.” He drops his messenger bag at his feet and kicks it backwards. “I’m getting really tired of your mouth.”

I spit out another angry laugh. “And I’m really tired of you. I’ve tried to leave twice, and you keep stopping me. Why? Do you like it rough? Do you think if you keep insulting me, I’m going to fuck you and leave you satisfied? In your fucking dreams.”

“At least I’m living the dream.”

“What the hell does that even mean?”

“Oh, you know what it means.”

“I hate you!” I yell, shoving him back against the wall. My fists clench, and weirdly, so does my vagina. “I hate your stupid face and your stupid hair and your stupid dick!”

“Oh yeah? Not as much as I fucking hate
you
and your stupid face and your stupid pussy!”

We stand there for a minute, chests heaving, faces red, and then we dive for one another, nearly knocking the chairs over. The kisses are rough and painful. We bite and suck and shove one another across the room. He grabs my hair and pulls, which I love but hate all at the same time. I dig my nails into his neck, and he groans in response and bites my lip.

I want to slap him so hard my hand burns, but I also want to rip off his clothes and ride him like a stallion. I want to punch him, and I want to lie with my legs spread and let his stupid tongue lick me into orgasm. I want to claw his stupid face off, and I want his huge dick in my mouth.

Fuck this whole sexual tension business. Fuck romance. It’s all a bunch of bullshit, with stupid men and stupid feelings. I should start writing thrillers and kill off everyone in the books. I’ll shoot up the charts and be the next George R.R. Martin. First order of business—fictionally murdering Charlie “Joe” Shivers.

He pins me against a wall near the back and presses his dick against my center. I can’t stop the moans from spilling out of my lips. I can’t stop panting, the want etched into my voice. “Your books are a travesty.”

Joe bites my neck and sucks it. “
You
are a travesty.”

He pulls at my skirt, and I slap his hands away. He pulls at my shirt, and I slap his hands away. He presses his lips to mine, and I feel my resolve slowly spilling away. For a moment, the kiss is almost tender, our tongues entwined and our hands running through each other’s hair. It reminds me of last night, of the passionate way we made love to one another, all of the teasing and agonizingly slow and perfect sex. He really was a great lay, not that I will ever on my life tell him that.

I’m getting lost in it, panting and moaning against him, fumbling for his belt. I want it to be like it was last night, but then he pulls my hair again and instead of submission, I feel anger rolling through me.

He called me a failure. He’s dead.

I bite him again and move to his neck. I leave huge hickey marks everywhere I can, while he roughly jerks my legs around his waist and shoves my panties out of the way. I’m squished against the wall and can barely breathe.

“You’re disgusting,” I barely get out before he shoves his cock all the way in and steals my breath.

“You’re more disgusting,” he mutters against my collarbone, panting. He thrusts hard and my body aches.

It’s a good ache, it’s an incredible ache, and I’m unbelievably wet just from the screaming-match foreplay. We dissolve into animals, nothing but this moment. One of my legs dangles, barely touching the floor, and he hikes it back up around his waist and continues plowing into me. Holy shit, he’s
strong
. It’s sexy as hell. Tai chi, he said? I’m going to look into it. Later. Because I am busy with my first orgasm already.

Hate sex is amazing.

I’ve never had it before, because I’ve never sexed someone I wanted to behead before, but it’s easily the hottest thing I’ve done in years, including last night. Why does Charlie Shivers have to be so goddamn good at sex? Why does he have to make my vagina quiver like a cliché romance novel, and send jolts of electric ecstasy through my core? My entire body feels like it’s on fire and all I want is more, more, more.