A gust of wind kicks up, scattering dry leaves across the wooden porch as I make my way to the walkway. I can see Janine through the tinted windows, her dark hair piled on top of her head in a messy bun. She's smiling and waving from the driver's side. The trunk pops open, and she hops out then meets me at the side of the car to help me with my luggage.
"Thank you for coming to get me," I say before making my way to the back of the car.
She grabs my bag and places it in the trunk. Janine looks older than she sounds, older than you’d think someone who listens to the teenybopper crap on her stereo would be, but maybe the stress from working with him has aged her a bit. Maybe she’s younger than she appears. Nonetheless, she’s still pretty, her tiny waist accentuated by the tight sweater stretched across her massive breasts.
"No worries. Edwin's…" She grimaces. "He's hard to handle at times."
"Yeah, you could say that."
She laughs and slams the trunk. "He's been hard on you, huh?"
"Hard is one way to put it."
Janine goes to the driver’s side then stops. "Hey, I forgot about a conference call I had. Got half of my face on, then had to take the damn call, and, well, I can’t very well go out in public like this. Would you mind driving? Otherwise, I'll just steer with one hand." She laughs, and I'm left standing with the passenger door open, staring at her.
I just met her. I don't really want to drive her car on roads I'm unfamiliar with, but I have a bad habit of not speaking up for myself, so I say, "Sure."
I walk around to the driver’s side and climb in. We shut our doors at the same time.
Janine hauls her oversized Louis Vuitton bag into her lap and begins rummaging through it, pulling out a palette of eyeshadow and brushes. She glances up, a short snort leaving her nose. "Oh, well, look at Mr. Happy." Smiling, Janine leans down and waves.
I glance over my shoulder to see Edwin with his arms braced in the open doorway as he glares at the car. His face is red, his chest rising in ragged swells. I'm glad I'm in this car and not in that fucking cabin with him right now.
"He'll get over it, don't worry," she says, still waving as I put the car in drive and pull off.
A thick haze of smoke hangs in the air, and I fan it away from my face as I glare at the man sitting across the bar, a cigarette dangling from his lips while his eyes are glued to a TV mounted on the wall.
"I thought you couldn't smoke inside anymore?" I ask through coughs.
"Yeah." Janine shrugs. "This place still lets you."
She's brought me to some run-down hole-in-the-wall bar. Dollar bills are tacked up all over the walls and ceiling. Half the barstools have tears in the leather seats, and the few tables scattered around the place are covered in that plastic red-and-white checkered tablecloth. An old white-haired man stumbles over to a jukebox in the corner, struggling to put his money in and stand at the same time.
"Ah, Darryl's done gone and got drunk before ten again," some random man shouts from the other end of the bar.
A few men cackle before returning to their conversations. Suddenly, some twangy country song blares over the sound system so loudly I can barely hear myself think. All the men hoot and holler. I just want to get the hell out of this shithole.
"You want a drink?"
I glance behind the bar and see a short, bald man leaning over the bar, winking at me.
"Uh, two shots of tequila,” I say as I glance at Janine. She nods.
He nods and waddles off to pour the drinks.
"I really don't need anything." I shake my head. "I don't normally drink."
"Trust me, I didn't either until EA. He's a moody one."
The bartender places the shots on the counter, and Janine motions for me to take them.
"Drink up, sweetie." She smiles as I take the first shot back. "You gonna quit?"
"I can't handle him." I down the second tequila, coughing at the burn working its way down my throat.
"You have to learn how to handle him, that's the thing. He has mood swings." She shrugs. "Most really intelligent people do. When he gets pissed, just walk away. Give him a few minutes and he'll be fine."
"Uh-huh, but…" I arch a brow at her. "He's an asshole."
"Yeah, but he doesn't mean it. And besides, Miranda"—she places her hand on my knee, squeezing gently—"he's EA Mercer. The man could literally take a shit on a piece of paper and it would turn to gold. A few months of dealing with an asshole and you have a start to a writing career most people only dream of."
I inhale, thinking about the promise this opportunity could afford. How it could change my life. That could make me worth something. "I guess." I sigh.
"You have talent, honey. Trust me. Do you have any idea how many essays I had to read through? Yours"—she smiles—"was pure genius. You have a way with words, and I'm not just saying that to blow smoke up your ass. He needs that. Edwin needs your voice."
Edwin Mercer needs my voice?