Malibu Love Story: A Novella

Chapter 1: A Wicked Hot Day

"Waldo, will you please shut the fuck up?" Reed accompanied her words with some pounding on the wall. The pounding made a few more bits of milk-barf colored paint flake off onto her work space and settled a few flakes onto her hair, making her look like she had the world's worst case of dandruff.

Wonderful.

Waldo, her neighbor who lived in the next apartment, didn't seem to have heard her, however, as the Formula Five Hundred racing, or whatever the fuck it was called, continued to blare out of his TV, along with his own play by play commentary of whatever exciting race was on.

Reed sighed and tried to focus on what she was writing. She was at a crucial point in the plot, when the two lovers, Ruark and Esmerelda, finally found each other again after having been angry with each other and at metaphorical swords' points for most of the book. If she could only get the two of them together, the rest of her novel should be plain sailing, and she might actually have something to query by her self imposed deadline of August 30th, which was barely four months away.

Something really thrilling must've happened on Waldo's TV, because he let out a yell, and dropped something with such a loud thud that the wall they shared shook all by itself, shedding even more paint all over Reed's desk, laptop, and notes, making everything now look like it had a light dusting of snow on it. Reed also heard a crashing of glass, and knew that Waldo had broken whatever bottle he was drinking out of.

If she was lucky, he'd be passed out drunk in a bit, and she could sneak over and turn the TV down and get some quiet time within an hour or so.

Reed stared dourly at her screen, and at the malevolent flashing cursor. As she looked, she heard the ping that let her know she had an incoming email. She knew without looking that it was from Sam.

Sigh.

Wonderful, patient, Sam. Her finger hovered over the little stamp on the dashboard. Should she read the email? Why not, it wasn't as if she was getting any writing done, anyway.

Hey there, babe,
Hope you're well, and that the bright lights of Hollywood are treating you okay. Is the writing going good? I hope so. You know that August 30th is coming on awful soon, right? I for one can't wait to see you. I miss you something fierce, Reed, for sure. I hope this year you took away from me and Oklahoma is enough to get this writing bug out of your system, because I really don't think I can do without you any longer than this. You were meant to come home and marry me. The bakery needs you, and I need you. I love you, and hope to see you soon.
With all the love in my heart,
Your Sam

Your Sam.

Sigh.

Reed wiped the perspiration from her forehead and took another drink of iced tea from the glass, though at this point it was iced tea in name only; the ice had long since melted on this sweltering day. She could feel the sweat dripping between her breasts, and her thighs sticking to the chair. Her AC had gone out three days ago, and the landlord had promised to come and look at it, but so far it was all crickets.

She laughed, thinking about Sam's email. He probably thought she had a cute little bungalow somewhere with a tidy yard and a view of the hills; that was what Hollywood meant to him. What would he think if he could see her in this studio over a liquor store off La Cienega, a baking hot room that reeked of booze and garbage because of the dumpsters that were right outside, the dumpsters where her alcoholic next door neighbor threw away all of his empties?

So much for the glamorous life of a writer.

Abruptly, she rose from her seat, automatically saving her work and closing her laptop. She was blocked, and it was too hot to work, anyway. She poured a cold glass of tea with fresh ice cubes into her water carrier and headed for Rhonda, her ramshackle blue Accord that was held together with paperclips and prayers at this point, but at least still had a noisy but working AC.