He continues to a hallway to the left of the front door and turns to me. "I write impulsively and at very random times. That’s why it's best that you stay here." He motions down the hall. "Yours will be the room on the left."
I follow him down the narrow corridor, curiously looking into each open doorway. Just across from my room is what I assume is his. The four-poster king-size bed is neatly made. The curtains over the windows on either side of the bed are drawn, leaving the room in a sullen darkness. That’s where he sleeps… and fucks.
I take a quick look at him, my eyes drifting down his body. He writes some messed up shit. The sex is always degrading and rough. Animalistic and raw. I can't help but imagine he must be filthy. He probably ties women up to that bed—why else would you have a bed like that? I bet he binds them, spanks them, calls them all kinds of filthy names before he finally fucks them. I shouldn't wonder it, but I can't help myself—what would it be like to have EA Mercer inside you?
Clearing his throat, he stops in front of his bedroom door. I realize I've just been standing there, peering into his room. I feel like such a whore for having imagined him in such a way. I’m not a pervert. I’m not…
He narrows his eyes at me. I can see him studying me, possibly dissecting me bit by bit. It makes me uncomfortable because I want him to see me as a strong, intelligent woman, and I fear if he looks too hard, he'll see that I'm not.
Without a word, he starts inside his room but stops abruptly. Looking back, he holds up a finger. "Oh, and I'm not sure if you've checked yet, but don't even concern yourself with getting cell service out here. There is none." He points the same finger down the hall where we came from. "The house phone is in the kitchen."
"Oh, sure. Okay," I say.
A short-lived smile flinches over his lips before he turns, walks into his room, and shuts the door. Something in that grin leaves me unsettled. So much so that my hands are shaking when I open the door to my room. I'm miles away from the nearest city, in the middle of fucking nowhere, with a man I feel like I know. I feel like I know him because he’s EA Mercer. He's famous. I've read his words—read article after article about him—but the thing is, I know absolutely nothing about him.
And I am staying in his cabin.
In the woods.
All alone.
I anxiously peer into the hallway as I slowly close my door, the unoiled hinges creaking. I stare at the handle, fighting with myself. Telling myself to stop being such a paranoid freak. To stop buying into all of the shit I read so much—convincing myself everything is fine. As soon as I turn from the door, my gaze strays out of the large window on the back wall, and all I can see is that shed. My heart rate kicks up as I spin back around, palms flat against the bedroom door.
I take a deep breath as I stare at the handle. I can't help it—I impulsively twist the lock and pull back on the door to check that it's secure before I turn toward the bed.
After all, someone who can conjure up the twisted shit he writes… how much can you really trust someone with an imagination like that?
I've been here three days, and we have a total of five thousand words. That's it. It's not easy to write with him next to me. Everything I write is wrong. He huffs and puffs over my "amateur" word choices, and to be honest, I’ve never met anyone quite so rude. He reminds me every chance he gets that I'm still in grad school and without a published book under my belt. Not to mention he likes to throw things when he gets really annoyed. The lamp. The keyboard. Coffee mugs. There’s a nice stain on the wall beside me where he hurled his cup yesterday morning.
My fingers shake as I type out my sentence.
My heart races in my chest as I press my back against the cold, wooden door…
Edwin groans, tossing his head back and dragging his hands down his face. He abruptly stands, his chair crashing to the floor as he backs away from the desk, the sudden movement making me nearly jump out of my seat. He glares at my screen with a snarl of absolute disgust, and without warning, he grabs the pencil holder and hurls it across the room. It hits the wall, and I jump again as the pencils and pens explode in every direction.
"Is this it? Is this the best that bitch could find? Is this what the next generation of best-selling authors will contribute? This mindless drivel?" He looks at me, disdain on his face. "Is it?"
"I… I…" Tears build in my eyes. He makes me feel so stupid and incapable, I'm beginning to actually despise him. "I don't know what else you want. I don’t know what—"
"Is this what I can expect for the next three months?" he goes on as if I haven't said a thing. "Because I'll tell ya, Miranda, I don't know how much more of this I can take." He yanks the desk drawer open, and everything inside jostles. Fuming, he digs around before pulling out a stack of papers stapled together. "Where is the woman who wrote this? Huh?"
He tosses the papers on the desk. I glance at the title page with my name typed across it.