𝐖𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝟏𝟎𝟏 (𝟏𝟖+)

𝐕

• 5 •

The city lights, glitters in the dark that I never take for granted, are as beautiful as their heavenly counterpart: the stars.

In my balcony with a good friend, the hour is alive. Not in a sense that lively things are happening, like in a party or at a special event. The night is alive in a sense that its moments are raw. I feel real and conscious. I'm here in the city, twenty-two with big dreams and a goal to make ends meet, living in an apartment, sharing a bowl of fruits with a close friend as we talk about problems.

If we were in a movie, the scene comprises of perfectly minded cinematography. The vibrance of the fairy lights of my balcone is enhanced; the sky is set to the coolest navy blue; the warm lights from my dim room hit my face in the right angles.

Sounds beautiful. My next words ruined the mellow vibe:

"Should I slip in a poorly-written sex scene in chapter five just to see if Keenan will fuck the life out of me?"

Ralph choked on his watermelon. After a second of recomposure, he asked, "Is that what you've been thinking about the whole day?"

"What else would I be thinking about?" I folded my legs, bringing my knees to my chest, and locked my arms around myself, "How can I even think of anything else after what happened?" I sounded maniacal.

The motherfucking Keenan Travino, daddy of all book lovers, touched me. Intimately! For others, it's like being smacked in the ass by Justin Bieber, and the world doesn't even know. Not that I like JB, but if you're into books, Keenan Travino is a fame equivalent.

"Bad boys with issues were never your type," he pointed out.

"First of all," I yawned, "Keenan is not a boy. Second, he's different," Ralph snorted at the cliche phrase.

"Different?" he looks like shit as he tries to suppress his smile.

"I don't have to explain myself to you," I told Ralph, quoting Keenan.

Once I got home last Saturday, the first thing that my pathetic self did was masturbate because I did not know of any other way I can deal with the sensual frustration that the man had planted within me. That day, my fingers felt unusually good, and it wasn't even my fingers' fault—it was the thought of Keenan that brought me to the edge three times.

Ever since that third session, I've been living my days looking forward to the fourth. Only three interesting things happened in the past six days: first, my mother called to ask how I'm doing, and instead of pouring out my growing obsession with Keenan Travino, might as well had gone as far as to tell her that I want the man to bend me over his big desk, I instead told her that everything's well. Second, Ralph went on a date with a girl he genuinely likes. Third, I went to the fair with Adil.

After the Saturday session, mother dearest called me on Monday to check if I was still alive—her words, not mine. I think it would've been inappropriate to tell my mother that I want my mentor to bone me until I turn into a Gia pulp—juicy, limp, and all that. I steered the conversation away from the mentorship program, reassuring her that I am learning a lot, and that it's worth spending time on.

Keenan is constantly on my mind and I hate it. I've always been the type of girl who obsesses over her latest life happenings. If I'm working on a book, I obsess over it. If I hear a nice album, I obsess over it. If I watch a great goddamn movie, you bet your ass I'll watch behind-the-scenes clips and cast interviews.

As for Keenan? I became a private investigator. His parents are dead, he has a half-sister, he dropped out of college, he once bought a sports car, and he's a Scorpio. That's all the new info that the internet had to offer.