The Muse (30 page)

Kate returned to the kitchen, utterly defeated. Pouring herself a glass of now much-needed lemonade, she took a long drink as she analyzed her predicament. She was being held captive in her own home. So far Erato hadn’t barred the doors to prevent her from leaving the apartment—as far as she knew—but she was otherwise cut off from the outside world. Short of trying to walk her way into town or flag down one of her rarely seen neighbors without Erato noticing, she could do little else but finish the book.

Walking for help
was
a possibility, although it meant a bit of a hike, and if Erato noticed she was missing within the first twenty minutes or so, she could easily hunt Kate down with the truck and force her to come home. Appealing to a neighbor might also work, but the other tenants in her small unit were nearly as quiet and reclusive as she was. She sometimes went days without seeing anyone, and even when she did, few people seemed to linger outside for much longer than it took them to walk between their outside-facing apartment door and the shared parking lot. If she wanted to get someone’s attention, she would need to move quickly and stealthily the second an opportunity presented itself, without hesitation. And she would have to hope like hell that Erato wouldn’t see her and interrupt, because she knew who would acquit themselves better in an awkward social situation.

Whatever she chose to do, she would need a high degree of confidence about her odds before she’d feel comfortable enough to act. She would probably get only one chance at escape. Any weakness she managed to exploit would no doubt be managed with brutal efficiency, and the potential consequences for her disobedience would likely be harsh. If she wasn’t careful, she could wind up locked in her office—even chained to her desk. As much as she wanted to believe those fears were extreme, she was done underestimating Erato. The woman had made it abundantly clear she would do whatever it took to keep her away from Olive until she finished the book.

Dejected, Kate returned to the office, but not before very quietly testing the front door to make sure it still opened. To her immense relief, it did. Too frightened to run without a solid plan in mind, she closed the door and rushed to her desk. It was only after she was back where she belonged, in front of her laptop with her hands on the keyboard, that her anger resurfaced. Lashing out at Erato was clearly pointless, but as timing would have it, she happened to have another perfectly good target for her wrath.

Two of them, actually.

Aware that she was
way
too happy about the prospect of devastating Rose and Molly by forcing them apart via an interfering third party, Kate began typing—determined to do just that.

The next five days passed quickly even as Kate’s output slowed to a steady trickle. Almost as soon as she was finished writing the interrupted kiss and all the delicious angst that ensued, her anger toward Erato flattened out and her general emotional trajectory began to echo that of her characters. She had just broken up Rose and Molly, her perfect couple, and left them utterly destroyed by the unexpected turn of events. Their stark depression, their mutual sadness over what might have been, their shared anxiety and regret and the feeling of powerlessness they had about a situation beyond their control—it all perfectly reflected Kate’s growing anguish over the inexorable march of time and her ever-diminishing hope that she would be able to find her own happily-ever-after.

Five days,
a prisoner in her own home
.
She had promised Olive dinner. A chance to talk. A possible future. But all she’d given her was another reason to feel insecure, and no doubt heartsick. It really, really sucked—to put things in distinctly unliterary terms. She had never intentionally given anyone the silent treatment before, even those who’d probably deserved it. Being forced to give the cold shoulder to a woman she might actually love turned her stomach. Despite the delicious food Erato kept bringing her, every day it became more difficult to eat. Her mood sank lower and lower with the passage of each minute of her forced radio silence, as she imagined Olive’s hurt and anger growing fiercer and more enduring.

So yes, while words continued to trickle out—each of them admittedly powerful and evocative of a turmoil she now knew all too well—wrangling them onto the screen felt like pure torture compared to the free-flowing ease of writing the chapters of passion, romance, and highly charged drama that came before. It wasn’t simply the subject matter that was slowing her down. She was mentally and physically exhausted. After having spent nearly two years not writing much at all, this weeks-long marathon had pushed her to the absolute limit. Now that she was afraid and depressed on top of being overtaxed, every day required intense effort to keep going. If not for the slim possibility that Olive might forgive her one day, she probably wouldn’t even try.

What really pissed her off was that before this Olive situation, she could have leaned on Erato for the energy, motivation, and sexual healing she needed to make it through the last third of the story. Now she didn’t want to rely on Erato for anything—at least nothing more than absolutely necessary. Even if she had no choice but to depend upon her muse for access to the Internet and the world beyond her apartment complex, she could at least refuse to surrender to the comforts and pleasures Erato offered so freely. After all, if she gave in even a little, she might be persuaded to cave all the way—maybe even going so far as to voluntarily banish Olive from her thoughts until the book was submitted. Or forever.
No
. Her hypothetical future with Olive felt far too tangible to allow Erato even the slightest opportunity to make her lose focus on what was
really
important.

But could Erato easily revitalize her creative spirit and give her the push she needed to sprint to the finish? Could she end the torture of this final slog in the most pleasurable way possible?

Undoubtedly.
The jerk.

What made the sixth morning of imprisonment different was that it was Saturday, which meant that for the first time, Kate knew exactly where Olive would be—for approximately five hours, at least. The farmers’ market started at eight o’clock in the morning and ran until one. She had no idea how long it would take Olive and her father to pack up their booth and leave once it was over, so she would need to get to the town square by one o’clock at the very latest to ensure that the trip wasn’t a waste. She would likely only have one chance to pull off such a bold escape, so she shouldn’t try if she didn’t think she could make it there in time to intercept Olive and have a face-to-face conversation. While she couldn’t imagine deciding to delay contact for another week after the agony of the one she’d just endured, it would be better than waiting the two weeks it would take for her deadline to arrive.

By eight thirty that morning, Kate realized that writing just wasn’t going to happen. At least not until after the farmers’ market was over, and only then if she hadn’t already dissolved into a puddle of bitter, mournful tears. It was impossible to focus when her window of opportunity was narrowing every second. Her heart wouldn’t stop racing even though she sat perfectly still at her desk, hands motionless on the keyboard. Her gaze remained stubbornly fixed out the window, on the manicured landscaping that her apartment complex did such a nice job of maintaining and the sidewalk leading away from the building and toward the parking lot. If she was going to ask someone for a ride into town, it would need to be as they were walking to the parking lot or returning from their car. She had to be ready.

Unfortunately, by ten o’clock it became clear that her neighbors enjoyed sleeping in on weekends—or at least not venturing outside early in the day. Though she’d managed to write a sentence or two since first sitting down to work, her attempts at forward progress were cursory at best and specifically timed to coincide with those moments when Erato was due to check in on her. Although she never
saw
Erato glance at her word count or even look at her screen, she didn’t want to call attention to her sudden, intentional drop in productivity and ruin her chances of escape.

“Stuck?”

Kate nearly succumbed to a heart attack when Erato’s voice cut through the silence and interrupted the apologetic plea to Olive for a second chance that she had been mentally rehearsing while she waited for a potential hero or heroine to appear outside her window. She hadn’t heard the office door open behind her. The single word, so evocative of her state of being at the moment, confused her as she tried to decide what, exactly, Erato was asking. Stuck here with a madwoman, forced to write like a literal slave to her muse? Yes, she was. Stuck within the narrative of her story? Maybe a little, as she hated the slog of writing post-breakup blues.

She turned to answer Erato but fell silent and stupid at the sight of her dressed only in a sheer white camisole and a pair of blue boy shorts. It took an embarrassingly long time to kick her brain back into gear, and even longer to tear her gaze away from Erato’s visibly erect nipples. She answered without taking any additional time to think. “Not stuck as much as drained. I’ve been going-going-going, and now that my characters are just as depressed as I am, I seem to have hit a wall.” As soon as she heard the words come out, she worried that Erato might use her confession as a reason to make her leave her post at the window—and maybe even spend the next few hours together. She hurried to add, “Well, not a
wall,
exactly, since I’m still moving.”

“Maybe you should take a short break. We could go for a walk.”

She doubted she could outrun Erato in a footrace, so even if the prospect of being outside was admittedly enticing, it would be foolish to accept the invitation. As long as she was with Erato, she couldn’t keep trying to make it to the farmers’ market in the next—she checked the time on her laptop as subtly as possible—two and a half hours. A walk would be a waste of precious time, as was
every
second she spent in Erato’s presence. Shaking her head, she said, “No, that’s okay. Honestly, I feel like I’m close to a breakthrough. Or something.” Trying not to cringe at her frantic backpedaling, which felt so transparent she was certain she’d just ruined everything, Kate managed a weak smile. She had to come up with a way to keep Erato busy,
away
from her, stat. “Maybe I’m just hungry?”

She didn’t realize how brilliant a diversionary tactic she’d just unleashed until Erato lit up with excitement. “Of course! It
is
almost snack time, after all.” Clapping her hands together, Erato said, “Anything you want.
Anything
at all, I’ll prepare it for you.”

After almost a week of celibacy, which once again felt foreign following their month of near-constant fucking, Kate couldn’t help but recognize the similarities between Erato’s food-related promise and the one she made at the beginning of their sexual relationship. As angry as Erato made her, and as much as she missed Olive, Kate would be lying if she claimed she didn’t miss sex with her muse. She did. It had been incredible: whatever she wanted, pretty much whenever she wanted it. And she knew—
knew
—that the wonders of Erato’s sexuality were all still available to her. She just had to ask.

Kate realized two things simultaneously: despite her low mood, she was suddenly incredibly horny, and perhaps more startling, she was tempted to ask for the quickest of quickies. She didn’t know whether to blame biology or witchcraft, but either way, it was clear she’d allowed this interaction with Erato to go on for far too long. The thought sparked an idea.

And it was
good
.

Kate racked her brain for a meal request that would keep Erato in the kitchen for at least the next two hours. Erato usually cooked while listening to music through her headphones, and if she also had the distraction of a complex, fairly involved recipe to keep her busy, Kate might be able to devise a bolder escape plan. Not being much of a cook, she had a limited knowledge of foods requiring lengthy preparations. However, she did have a single, horrific memory of a childhood cooking class that involved a pile of flour, eggs, and the complete loss of her pride. “You know, I’m really craving lasagna. But with fresh, homemade pasta.”

“No problem!” Erato gave her a sunny smile that made Kate think she should have thought bigger. Much bigger.

“And could you make the pasta sauce from scratch, if you don’t mind? I hate the stuff from the jar.” When Erato’s expression failed to change, Kate added, “With fresh tomatoes? Not canned?”

“Of course! How else would I do it?”

Shit. She made it sound so
easy
, and it probably would be, for her. In a final effort to complicate the request, Kate asked, “Veggie lasagna? With little chunks of onion, three different colors of bell pepper—but mostly red—zucchini, and squash? Maybe even some mushrooms or spinach?”

“Absolutely. Your wish is my command, darling.”

Well, that was as complicated as she could make things without being totally obvious. But then another exciting thought occurred. “I hope I’m not forcing you into a trip to the grocery store. There’s a big game on TV today…it’ll probably be crowded.” At least she hoped it would be.

“Actually, you’re in luck. I went to the grocery store last night after you fell asleep—the twenty-four-hour one, downtown—so I could restock your kitchen. I bought a whole bunch of fresh fruits and vegetables, replenished all the staples—sugar, flour, eggs, milk—and pretty much picked up whatever else I could think of to satisfy your every potential need.” Erato bounced a little, clearly pleased with her own foresight. “As it happens, I managed to get
everything
I need to make you the best lasagna you’ve ever had!”

Kate covered her disappointment with an over-wide grin. “Wonderful.”

Erato tiptoed closer to plant a quick kiss on top of her head, then practically skipped out of the room, closing the door behind her. Glad to finally be alone, Kate sighed. All she could do now was sit back, wait for Erato to get busy, and hope she’d bought herself an opportunity for escape. She wanted to wait at least fifteen minutes before she attempted to step away from her desk, just in case Erato suspected the ulterior motive behind her very specific culinary cravings and was currently waiting outside the door. She turned back to her laptop, but her eyes refused to take in the half-written paragraph in front of her.