Total pages in book: 51
Estimated words: 52663 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 263(@200wpm)___ 211(@250wpm)___ 176(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 52663 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 263(@200wpm)___ 211(@250wpm)___ 176(@300wpm)
“No.” I look over at her. “I want to see.”
“Okay.” She nods, staring straight ahead.
I spot a delivery truck pulling out of the alley and steer into his spot.
“They’ll tow your car if you park here,” Emily finally makes eye contact. “The sign says ‘for deliveries only.’”
“I’ve got that covered,” I say, stepping out. “Hold on.”
I walk to my trunk and pull out an “Art Delivery” sign I made years ago for situations like this. I snap it on the center of my hood before lifting an umbrella and opening Emily’s door.
When she steps out, she looks at my sign and laughs.
“How often does that come in handy?”
“You’d be surprised.” I smile at her. “I’ve yet to get a single ticket. Speaking of which, do I need to pay for anything when we go inside?”
“No, I have this for you.” She rummages in her purse and pulls out a lanyard that reads: Guest Who Loves Good Poetry.
“You really don’t have to come to this, Cole. There are a lot of weird writers, and some of the poems—”
“Stop.” I press a finger against her lips. “Isn’t this the original event you invited me to when we first met?”
“Yeah…”
“Then why would you ask me to walk away now?”
She blushes in response and I press my hand against the small of her back as we walk down the alley. There’s a faintly lit sign reading: Pour out your soul…
Inside, tables draped in light blue and candle centerpieces surround an elevated stage.
The host immediately smiles at Emily and leads us to a booth in the back.
“May I interest either of you in a drink?” a server steps in front of us. “If so, I just need to see your IDs.”
“I’ll have a cranberry vodka,” Emily says, pulling out what is definitely a fake driver’s license. “Oh, and can you ask the bartender to crush sugar on the rim?”
“Absolutely.” He glances at her card without catching a thing. Then he reaches for mine. “And you, sir?”
“Whatever IPA beer you have on tap is fine.”
“Be right back.”
He walks away, and I stare at Emily—waiting for her eyes to meet mine.
“Where the hell did you get that driver’s license?”
“Some guy made it for me when we lived in Oregon,” she says. “My mom paid for it.”
“Let me see it.”
She presses it into my palm and I’m immediately impressed. The art is perfectly aligned, as is her picture, and the only flaw is her listed height.
This license claims she’s five foot nine, but she’s five foot five—at best.
Handing it back to her, I wait until the server steps away from our table to speak again.
“Your mom might be a half-decent match for my dad after all,” I say. “At least in one department.”
“Reckless parenting?” She presses her glass to her lips. “Child endangerment? Or negligence?”
All of the above…
A microphone suddenly squeals before I can answer, and we both look toward the stage.
“Good afternoon, everyone.” The host smiles at the crowd. “We’re picking up with our next poet, Grant Malone, who is going to read ‘Her Lost Innocence.’”
The crowd applauds, and a guy in a jean jacket takes to the stage.
He looks up at the ceiling for several seconds before stretching—actually stretching like he’s about to run a marathon.
Then he paces the stage, not saying a word.
Okay, Emily might’ve had a point about the weirdness…
“I am now ready to perform my future bestselling poem of all time,” he finally speaks into the mic.
“I slide my cock against her hymen, but it’s tough like a diamond.”
What the fuck…
“She feels warm, wet, and tight.” He snaps his fingers. “The sensations are hard to fight…”
“As my heart aches, the condom breaks…”
I take a long sip of my beer.
“When the rubber stretched,” he looks way too confident about his words, “my cock compressed.”
He snaps his fingers again. “The end.”
Silence.
“I said ‘the end,’” he speaks a bit louder. “You may all bask in my greatness now.”
The crowd applauds softly, and I look over at Emily.
She’s smiling and looking happy for the first time tonight.
“Okay, then…” The host returns to the mic. “Next up, we have Emily O’Hara, performing her original piece, Inheritance: A Love Letter to My Mother…”
Emily downs the rest of her drink and whispers, “Wish me luck,” before heading to the stage.
She makes it to the mic and pulls a sheet from her pocket. Unfolding it, she stares at it for a few seconds and shakes her head.
“Correction,” Emily says, opening her purse and pulling out a different sheet. “I’ll be performing a different piece tonight. This one is titled Words Left Unsaid.”
A few polite murmurs ripple through the audience.
She grips the mic and takes a breath before glancing at the page. Then she begins:
You taught me love with fingers crossed,
A lullaby of gain and loss.
Your voice was sweet, your smile divine,
But lies were laced in every line.