Rewrite Me

4. Sparkling Abs

Paisley 

There are an infinite number of nightmares I've had throughout my life, but the ones featuring my parents haven't appeared since I was little, since I thought I had desensitized myself.

Padding through the kitchen, laptop in hand, the time on the oven reading 5:00 in the morning, I quietly take a seat at one of the barstools surrounding the island. No one else is awake as my laptop screen illuminates my face, cold sweat drying beneath my t-shirt, my chest just now returning to its usual rhythmic rise and fall.

Writing seems to be the only thing nowadays that calms me. I used to enjoy running, but that was ruined by one too many interruptions from fans, or some idiotic reporter looking for his next big story on the pace I was keeping, I guess.

Clicking into my newest draft, I allow my imagination to paint over the remnants of the nightmare. Swiftly chasing away the hollow feeling in my stomach, my fingers fly across the keyboard.

Nothing compares to this feeling, the happiness I feel as I bring the characters in my head to life. A certain freedom comes with art, the ability to express myself, a creation that belongs to no one else. My joy, fear, curiosity, passion, and anxieties can all bleed onto the pages of my books.

Soil envelops a seed, which becomes a sprout, and eventually turns into a full-grown, beautiful organism. One for other people to pick up, consume, and hopefully find some form of solace in.

"Is there a reason you're up so early?" Malachi stares at me expectantly over a pair of thickly-rimmed black glasses that have gradually slid down the bridge of his nose.

I startle, placing a hand over my heart to soothe the rapid thump, causing a hoarse chuckle to spill from his mouth.

Glaring at him, I notice something. The first evidence of daylight has sent a blueish hue to cast over the apartment. In the low-lit shadows, I can make out a carved V-shape, leading up to loosely defined abs, and the smooth skin of his chest.

My mouth goes dry and my concentration completely disintegrates into a broken mess in my lap. Malachi wears nothing but a pair of checkered pajama pants, his upper body on full display, muscles slightly flexing as he stands before me.

In my head and only to myself, I admit that this man is incredibly attractive. He's perfectly crafted, somewhere in between the conventional look of Elias and the rough outlines of Rain. Tanned skin glitters in the light created by the sun kissing the moon goodbye, his figure flipping some kind of switch in my brain.

It's not just his body though, albeit gorgeous. He's alluring, a presence that equally captivates and confuses me.

I realize I've been ogling him far too late because a lopsided grin turns up a corner of his mouth, his arrogance breaking my trance.

"Should I grab a camera?" He hooks a thumb over his shoulder, utterly amused. "I know a few good poses,"

"I couldn't sleep," Answering his earlier question, I clear my throat, a blush heating my cheeks.

"No, really?" Popping my knuckles, I attempt to control my annoyance as he decides to burst my peace bubble, opening a cabinet to retrieve a coffee mug.

"I'd rather you not come out here just to belittle me," Closing the lid of my computer, I hop off the stool, my quiet morning forgotten.

I know it's only the start of my second day here, but if they keep this up for much longer, I'll hitchhike across the country as long as it means I get far away from them.

Pausing his efforts at the coffee maker, he turns his attention back to me. "Sorry," He mumbles. "I'm known to be testy in the morning,"

"You don't sleep much, do you?" I blurt the question before I can think better of it, cartoonishly slapping a hand over my mouth when I realize how much I overstepped.

Again, he tilts his head down, the glasses I notice suit him well, soft curls falling just above his brows.

Gracefully disregarding my outburst, his eyes fall to the laptop tucked under my arm. "What were you writing about?"

"Nothing." The words come out rushed, my face flushing once more. I'm not usually embarrassed about the content of my novels, but for some reason, the idea of any of them knowing fills me with dread. "It's not really a polished concept yet," Awkwardly, I attempt to backtrack.

"I told you I've read your stuff," His easy admittance is a far cry from the shy string of words from yesterday. "There's no reason to be ashamed," 

I would've never pegged him as an erotic romance reader. 

"I'm not," The lie is a sticky substance in my mouth, unnatural and forced. "I just can't talk about anything until it's been announced by my publisher first," Although true, it's a stupid, flimsy excuse.

The universe has fucked me over in multiple ways over the last 48 hours, but my new novel idea ringing so close to home is going down in the history books.

Good one universe.

"Jeez," I don't realize my defensive state until he blows out a breath, pressing a button on the coffee maker as it hums in the background. "I'm not the paparazzi," Steam from the coffee fills the room with the familiar scent. 

This is how I've always been, with anyone other than Eden, high walls keep intruders at their borders. Trust was and still is hard to come by, so I stay surface-level with people, never letting them truly know me. I don't react well to questions and I never have.

"Right, but you guys haven't exactly given me a warm welcome either." Leveling with him, I force myself to relax. "Why is that?"

Malachi blows on his coffee before taking a sip, which he seems to drink black, mulling over an answer.

"We don't do well with new people," He finally supplies, irritating me.

"You're grown adults, don't you think that's a little ridiculous?" I scoff, watching as his Adam's apple bobs with a swallow. 

Shrugging, his expression is casual, eyes rimmed in darkness at the early hour. "We have our reasons, Red." The nickname is an unoriginal play on my red hair and I roll my eyes.

"So you three just get a pass on treating people like shit because you're what, closed off?"

It's almost unbelievable that he's defending this crap. They're acting like six-year-olds hiding behind mommy's leg because their new babysitter is here. I predicted that he would stick with Rain's opinion though, it was a cowardly move really.

"Paisley, tread lightly." He warns, ruffling his hair. "Picking fights won't get you anywhere."

"Oh, this isn't even close to me picking a fight."