𝐖𝐫𝐢𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝟏𝟎𝟏 (𝟏𝟖+)

𝐗𝐗𝐗𝐈𝐈

• 32 •

The first shift was tiring as it was rewarding. Although the day was draining, being in a new environment and doing things far from my usual routine sparked creativity in my mind that I transferred to Karylle as soon as I finished my shower, ate dinner, and sat on Garfield. Every cell in my body was screaming for rest, but I came to realize that the later I write, the better it is. In other words, my mind works better in dark hours. I'd say that Keenan's rubbing off on me, but then a lot of people's minds work like that.

By the time I finished writing a good and surprising three thousand words in two hours, my eyes were a few blinks away from crying blood. The strain was unbearable. My optics have gone through sentence after sentence in bond paper after bond paper, scribbling things with red ink on the sides and between lines. Aside from that, Contented's default desktop screens are fucking massive. I might start needing glasses. Again, I was reminded of a certain someone who looks amazing with spectacles.

Speaking of that certain someone, I wonder how the fuck he is. Has he eaten yet? Probably a burger or some pizza. What might he be doing? Hell, what keeps him occupied all day if his mind works better at midnight? Come to think of it, I don't know much about Keenan, but considering that opening-up is a foreign term of a dead language for the man, I'd say that I know more about him than many.

Just like that, I found myself wondering about his father again. Was he abusive? Was he a drunkard? Did he use drugs? How did he die? Was he the one involved in a hit and run? Maybe Keenan made a mistake when he used the pronoun she? And why the hell did the man deserve fatality? it goes back to the first question. Curiosity is a fucking bitch. The feeling was the same as having the itching urge to stalk an ex, see how he's doing, but triple the need to scratch.

Biting my lip, two ideas popped into my mind: one, to message Keenan because stupid as it sounds, I am somehow looking for his presence, and two, to reread Jailbreak because as the man confirmed, it's one of those write what you know things. All books were write what you know, but Jailbreak connects deeper. With the second idea of digging deep between its pages, I'd be doing something to quench my growing intrigue in the least disrespectful way. I know that Ki's mind was smart enough to assume that I'd study the book the moment he confirmed having relate to the character in a way that he's been in similar scenarios. It was permission. Kinda.

In spite of my hurting eyes, I scanned my latest document. He kept insisting that he's still my mentor, right? Before I could talk myself out of stupidity that I actually wanted to do, the cursor had dragged the file into our chat and my pinky had pressed enter. My presumption is that my want to communicate with Keenan stems from worry. That's all.

I left my laptop on Garfield, trusting that he'd look after the modern thing. Then, walking inside, my feet brought me to my big shelf and my fingers found Jailbreak. In an online article that I once found, it said that the story was titled Jailbreak because in the end, Andreas was able to break out of jail, figuratively and literally—the literal route then pertaining to his transfer to a mental institution. By the last page, he was out of jail and out of his mind.

Has Keenan been to jail? I can't imagine it, but then again, anything's possible. Standing in the middle of my apartment, I flipped through the pages, landing on a scene where Andy was penalized with school suspension after stealing multiple times at the cafeteria. His foster parents spent the money elsewhere. There was a click someplace in my head when I remembered that Keenan said he served community service, hence, time at the library, ergo birthing literary interest.

Had Keenan starved enough to steal food? Maybe he twisted a few things? I kept reading, eyes scanning paragraph after paragraph, page after page, and chapter after chapter. I paused again, rereading a scene where Andy was abandoned in a park, specifically in the playground, where a drug deal had gone bad. I thought that Keenan voicing his hate for playgrounds was a random thing. Could it be?

Before my trail of thoughts could get any longer, there was a notification from my PC. Walking to my balcone, the screen displayed a newly received file—an edited version of the one I sent. Fast as always. I slept after that. Or tired to. I needed sleep for work the next day, but of course, we can't always get what we need. In the time between eleven and two, my guesses turned darker and darker. They followed me into my dreams, projecting fragments of a young Keenan in a shitty apartment shielding himself from an intoxicated parent's fist, the boy's face blurry when I tried to recall it the next morning.

I didn't feel like eating breakfast. I wasn't distinctly sad, but my appetite was nowhere to be seen, almost as if I'd left it the previous night. It took me longer than usual to choose my outfit, partly because I nagged at myself for not planning it the night prior. In the end, I settled with a silky baby blue blouse tucked into a good pair of jeans. Only when my left foot had met the ground floor of Contented's building did the anxiety appear. I'm still a newbie, my every move calculated.

But how do you get used to something without beginning? Happy thoughts, Gianna. I pressed the button to my floor and felt the lift rise beneath my feet. Minutes later, I found myself behind my new desk.

I'm not a wood expert, but my stepdad had woodworking as a hobby amongst other activities. I was able to distinguish that the table was made of beech wood. It was a meter wide, I suppose, by two feet. Its height was average. Some-fucking-how, thinking about study desks led me to Keenan Travino again and the sturdy oak one in his mansion. It was fucking sturdy, all right, as tested by me in inappropriate means.

Below the beige surface was a drawer. A row of smaller ones was to my right, most of them empty. I made a mental note to invest in supplies once I get my pay; after I use a portion of it paying bills and rent. I laid my bag on the floor beside me. Then, after stretching not only my arm muscles, fingers, wrists, and hands, but also my mind, I started working.

There was a pile of manuscripts beside me. There was more negative space on the metal shelves than occupied, though I knew for sure that I'd earn more stacks over time. Taking one, I laid the paper-clipped bunch on my table and grabbing a red pen from a pen holder, one of the many few things that I brought, I dove in.

Any excitement I get in my first month from doing new things in my new job is understandable, though the elation of seeing a new story which may or may not be what the world is looking for is something that I think I'll never get used to—something that won't fade over time. In front of me laid what a man or woman spent his or her golden time on as well as sweat, tears, brain cells, energy, and money. Though paper comes from the trunk, manuscripts are fruits of hard work. Who knows which draft this is? If first draft, then impressive though cocksure, in my opinion. If fifth, then I admire the author's persistence and determination.

Copy editors look at scripts up close, unlike developmental editors, creative teams, publicists, and all others who need to focus on overviews and bigger pictures. Being a copy editor means that we need to read the book line by line, detail by detail—digest bit by bit. This includes checking for grammar mistakes, determining its tone of voice, its consistency, and if it's suited for its intended audience. We make sure that the lines flow well, the paragraphs flow well, and that the overall story ties together. Along with this is analysis as we put ourselves in the mass readers' shoes, yet also criticize with a set of standards. Combing through for plot holes, unnecessary elements, and thinking of what might be lacking are also parts of the process. There's a personal sense to it, being friends with the authors over their work and our drive to perfect it.

Before I could actually start and stop staring at the front page as if it were the Holy Grail, Mia's voice sounded from my left. She was all smiles, today wearing a black dress with a red belt. Surprise, surprise, her lipstick was the color of an oversaturated apple. "Good morning, Gia!" she chirped, "Mr. Jensen wants to see you."

"Now?" I wondered as I got to my feet.

She nodded eagerly, "M-hm. He told me to tell you as soon as you arrive."

"Did he say why?" I had to ask.

Mia dropped her voice into a whisper, but it was still loud enough to be heard by everyone else which I realized after she had uttered the line, was not good, "Special assignment."

The curious glances I got made me feel uneasy. I smiled politely at Mia. "Thanks, I'll be there," I said, already on my way out. As the soles of my shoes tapped against the linoleum floor, I was thinking of what Dominic might need. The possibility of having a talk about Keenan and Alicia weighed heavier than the idea of anything related to work.

I pressed the button to the higher offices. Not only is the man the CEO, but also Editor-At-Large. You'd wonder why he doesn't write books himself, especially when he has the wits to correct others with theirs. As Dominic expressed on dinner night: he's an avid reader, but can't write even if his life depended on it. Once the elevator doors opened, I walked gingerly through the wider hallways, finding the door to Mr. Jensen's office behind a woman and her counter. She beamed when she saw me, sincere though rehearsed.

"Hi," I breathed out, smiling back with hopefully the same enthusiasm, "I'm Gianna Alexie. Mr. Jensen wanted to see me?"

The short-haired woman with piercing blue eyes opened her mouth to talk, but someone beat her to it. "Gia," Dominic's face peaked out of his ajar door. He gestured for me to come over. After a smile at Ms. Secretary woman, I followed.

Dominic gestured at a sofa in the middle of the room and I sat, watching him close the door, walk to his desk, and grab a file only to drop it on the coffee table in front of me. I eyed the pink folder before eyeing the man who presented it. Dominic was expecting me to ask, so I did, "What's that?"

"A book," he said, monotone. Then, he landed on an armchair across from me. Dominic's office kept up with the quirky colorful theme of the rest of the building. "By Adil," he added. I looked at him surprised, though I don't know for what since Adil did say that Jensen agreed to check his work out.

Seeing my quizzical expression, he explained, "I'm assigning it to you."

That was my cue to reach for the file. I flipped through the pages, the stack thick. The title was familiar. All those weeks ago when we ate sushi and Adil drowned in wasabi, he mentioned something about a project that he was drafting for the third time. He was juggling it with the raw story he'd presented at the mentorship.

The room was quiet as I scanned random pages. Dominic broke the silence, "I've read it myself too. I kinda promised him."

I looked at Alicia Travino's boyfriend, "Promise is a big word."

He drew his lower lip between his teeth and thought. Today, the owner of Contented opted for a white button-up and navy blue pants under a gray blazer. There was an odd thought of wondering what Keenan would look like if his style were the same as Jensen's. Dominic leaned forward, resting his elbows to his knees. He rubbed his hands together, "He's a nice guy. It was obvious that he didn't like Alicia back."

No shit, I wanted to say. "Spelled it for you, boss?" I joked lamely.

He scoffed and fell back on the seat, spreading his arms out. "Almost," he said. His eyes met the ceiling and stayed there, mask looking deep in thought, "But I have this feeling that he can get her if he wanted to... but he won't."

I closed the folder and crossed my legs. Adil's work is going to be my priority today. "What do you mean?" I questioned, eyes narrowing as they focused on Mr. Jensen.

"He's just... nice," Dominic shrugged as his lower lip jutted, "I even feel guilty that I thought badly of him."

I nodded slowly, "Understandable," I told him, "Adil's been nothing but kind to me too."

My boss chuckled, though it did not sound as happy as laughter should. His next line intended to be sarcastic, but I found some truth in it, "I guess that's how he got me to check out his work."

I shifted in my seat, the folder sliding off my lap. Bending down to grab it, I spoke, "As a favor... for not snagging your girlfriend?" I wondered. It sounded stupid, but it sounded honest. Adil treated Dominic so nicely that the latter felt shameful about having thought badly of Adil. Must be some hell of guilt if it had Mr. Jensen promising things.

It almost sounded... manipulative. Or am I resorting to that thought because Keenan put the idea of a machiavellian Essa into my head? Manipulative that Dominic feels the need to give Adil a shot at whatever in exchange of keeping his charm to himself. I didn't wanna believe it. I didn't want it to make sense. I shook my head and realized that I'd been staring at the folder for some time now.

"I know what you're thinking," Dominic spoke again. My eyes snapped to the man who looked just as thoughtful as I was with his sight glued to my shoes, "that I must be stupid for sticking with Ali."

"No," I quickly shook my head, "No, I wasn't thinking that."

He remained quiet. With a sigh, he melted deeper into his seat. "I am, though," the man's eyes flew to my face, "I'm stupid for loving that woman." he chuckled. It was dour, "But it is what it is. There wouldn't be smart people without the stupid ones."

I stared at Dominic and his sudden display of emotion. The fuck do I do? Do I contradict or do I admit that yes, he is stupid. Before I could decide, he continued, have sensed my discomfort, "That's all," he said, back to being the Dominic I knew. He straightened in his seat and cleared his throat. The man nodded once at the file in my hands, "It's amazing. It has big potential, and I want you to do your best editing it. I'll be introducing Adil to a publicist soon, an agent, the creative director. I know a junior designer who has illustrations perfect for its theme. I want you as his editor. You'll be at every meeting. That book," he pointed at Adil's work, "it's gonna be big. You'll get me once you've read it."

Having no need to extend our talk, I was dismissed. With the file clutched in my hands, I walked back to my office with a new responsibility. All eyes were on me and I could only think of one reason why. Nolo looked like he had a hundred judgments upon seeing me, none of them pleasant. Courtney looked like she was forming theories. I was aware that these people must know that I was offered the job instead of having to try with the usual employment process. Quietly, I made my way back to my seat where everything was just as I left it.

I began with Adil's story, the first page already golden. It was the type to suck you in as soon as your eyes meet the first line. Utterly fascinated with the work between my hands, I succumbed to a focused Gianna state, one that was disrupted by Nolo.

"I'm wondering," Nolo spoke aloud, twirling his pen between his fingers and spinning slowly in his office chair, "How an underqualified mentee got an offer to be a publishing editor out of the blue."

Quiet. Everyone was quiet. I had the feeling that Nolo does this often. Ass. I chose to disregard the comment, continuing to read my friend's work. "And get a special project on her second day." Nolo continued. Who the fuck names their kid Nolo? I like all Nolos except for the one two desks away from me. Our eyes met, "It's what a bright green folder means." he added.

Instead of speaking, I smiled tightly at the bitter jerk who was clearly insecure. Then, I brought my attention back to the papers, eyes flickering to Mia once who was looking apologetic.

"Folder's not the only one green in this room."

I lifted my head and searched for the source of the comment. The voice was masculine. The voice was British. It was Vince. The quiet boy had his eyes on his screen as his fingers typed, looking as if he weren't paying attention to the immature repartee. But he was.

"Shut up," Nolo barked, sounding offended, "You're just like her," he sat up and faced his own monitor, resuming work, "You wouldn't be here if it weren't for your mommy," he mumbled.

Courtney was enjoying herself. Mia looked terrified. I was processing the fact that I've made an enemy within my first week. Quietly, I continued reading Advil's work, willingly letting myself be consumed by it.

Hours later, my mind was fucking blown. With the heaviest sigh I've sighed in a sighful while, I dropped my pen and the file on my table. "Holy shit," I muttered to myself. Holy shit. Holy shit was a good reaction. Adil Essa is a genius. I've always known that he was smart, but I didn't think that he was Tolstoy's fucking descendant. Although I've read excerpts from my friend during the program, they were raw, unlike the heavenly monstrosity before me that's been revised to near perfection.

I packed my things. My coworkers have gone home aka to the pub a kilometer away. They invited me, though I knew that it was only for formality. The sun was starting to set, casting the daily glow of warm tones across the sky—a backdrop for the sinking yellow star. Adil's tale takes place in the nineteen-twenties, revolving around the abduction of a little girl that somehow connects later on to the Wall Street terrorist attack. Not only was the story chilling with the fictional connections, but also with the accurate facts and assumptions that may be foundations for new fucking conspiracies. Had the little girl truly existed, there'd be a plausible stickiness to tie the web of events that took place in America roughly a century ago. I had to deal with the aftermath of having read a good book. Heck, it wasn't even a real book yet.

Wednesday and Thursday workdays looked the same. I read through things, I answered emails, I ate churros, Nolo insulted everybody, Vince defended everyone, Courtney invited me out, I refused, and I went home. I wouldn't say that I was starting to get used to things already, but knowing that someday I will, none of the recent happenings have overwhelmed me enough to consider them important. Thursday night, Keenan teleported to my apartment.

Keenan Sexy-ass Travino laid naked on top of me, elbows on either side of my head. Though a bare Keenan has its special effects on me, I did not let my consciousness fly too far away as he sucked softly on my shoulders. I had a secret assignment.

Hugging his head, I tilted mine up to get a good view of his upper back. Squinting, slightly distracted by his lips trailing to my chest, I was able to see a small scar near his shoulder. Despite its size, it was possible for it to mean something. His lips met mine and we kissed. Pulling away for air, I asked, "Where did you get this?" I poked the healed mark. It was nearly unnoticeable.

Keenan kissed up my neck, very fucking eager. His hand cupped my sex. "Ebay," he muttered.

I rolled my eyes. "I'm serious," I said just when I felt two fingers slip into me.

His face stopped in front of mine, brows sewn together. "High school," he muttered, "I was shitty at sports." then, his digits moved, rubbing a spot that had me moaning into his mouth. My hands traced his arm, subtly finding another mark.

My fingertips grazed a ridge, about an inch long. Peeking as Keenan kissed me, I saw another healed scar, as unnoticeable as the first. "How about this?" I whispered against his lips.

Keenan looked confused, "Rusty nail. Old apartment."

He reached for the foil packet on my nightstand. After taking eight seconds max to bite it open and pull the rubber on, Keenan licked his fingers and wet his tip. Slowly, he eased into me. I spread my legs wider when he started to move.

"And this?" I squeaked, poking another on his right side, just above his waist.

"Drunk college night, involved roller-skates." I couldn't imagine Keenan with roller-skates.

"This?" I traced another on his other side, as small as the others.

Keenan stopped thrusting. He glared at me. I paused, looking up at his sweaty face. "What the hell is your problem?" he grumbled.

I blinked a few times, then shrugged, "Just curious."

We stared at each other. He did not look convinced. Unfucking the situation by fucking, I kissed his lips. Nope, still glaring. I kissed his lips again. The scowl looked permanent. Keenan Travino was trying to figure me out. Five seconds of racking my head for my next move, I flipped us over.

The man looked wary with his eyes narrowed at my face. Leaning close, I kissed him again, longer this time. When I felt him sigh, dropping the concern, I moved for us. "Just curious," I said again, voice a breathy comment into the air. Keenan's large arms settled on my waist and guided as I went up and down.

Minutes later, we had grown sweaty on my bed. There was wetness where our bodies connected, making the pleasure-inducing activity fluid by motions of mutual effort. My hands have gripped his shoulders, squeezing hard, inflicting the pressure within me elsewhere. Brown hair was sticking to my skin, though annoying as it was, the nuisance was the least of my concerns. Keenan cupped my cheeks and brought my face closer to his for a kiss.

I later found myself on my elbows and knees, face against the mattress. Behind me, Keenan quickened his pace, thrusts getting hard but sloppy. I came as I gripped the sheets, groans and moans muffled by the beige cushion beneath me. Keenan followed my climax with his own, propping himself up by his arms on my sides when he nearly stumbled. Once done, he stayed there—behind me, inside, panting.

He slipped out when I turned around, back hitting the damp mattress. It's hot in my apartment, but not for long, I assumed, as it's the rainy season. Keenan tied the rubber off and threw it into the trash can near my bed. Then, he rolled on another. I looked at him, one brow raised. "I have work tomorrow." I announced. Still, he slipped into me as if he didn't just spurt his goddamn children a minute ago. Impressive, really.

He started moving, sensation heightened because second rounds are always the best with my insides most sensitive, "Tell me about work."

"Shit," I muttered as my body pushed into the mattress again and again. Keenan's thumb rubbed the hood, making my legs twitch. Despite being fucked into a near braindead state, I spoke, "Everything's well. The churros are delicious. My coworkers are all friendly except for this Nolo guy."

Bending down, he kissed me once before pulling away and lifting one of my legs to hook on his shoulder, "Do you want him fired?"

"What? No," I shook my head firmly, frowning, "and it's Dominic's company, not yours."

Keenan scoffed as his hips continued rolling forward and back, slipping in and out. His grip on my leg tightened, "Dominic's my bitch."

I rolled my eyes at Keenan, half as a reaction for his line and half because he was working well down there. I whimpered when all of a sudden, he bent over me, entering as deep as our anatomies allowed. With his face looming over mine, though not close enough for us to kiss without hurting my goddamn leg, all I could do was stare at the drop-dead gorgeous face of Keenan Fucking Travino, living up to the middle name.

I tangled one hand into his hair, damp with sweat like the rest of him. Voluntarily, I clenched around the man, making his eyebrows curve as if he were wearing his favorite glare. My other leg was then thrown over another shoulder. In the position, Keenan felt twice as deep, twice as big, twice as goddamn long. For the next few minutes, my unit was filled with nothing but grunts and moans, names in the air and curses following. Silently, I prayed for Ralph a thin wall away.

Not later did we reach our peaks and slumped on my bed, Keenan still between my legs, though had pulled out when I nagged at him. His cheek was on my stomach, eyes closed. Keenan Travino laid like a fucking baby and I don't know what to feel about it. Once his breathing had grown stable, he reached for the packet of cigarettes on my nightstand. I smacked his head, the one with a skull. I grumbled, "No smoking in my apartment."

Keenan didn't look like stopping. I grabbed his box and tossed it to the floor. He glowered at me. Oh, the audacity of this man. After a glare-off with Mr. Black-Lung Travino, he sighed and his head fell to my stomach again.

We stayed like that for a while, me thinking that Keenan had fallen asleep until he shifted positions, moving just a bit to ease some strain. I talked again, wanting to tell him how life's been. We're friends, right? friends do that. "Hey," I started, "Dominic assigned me one of Adil's books. It's... it's amazing, really."

Keenan lifted his head, laying his chin on his clasped hands on my stomach. "I said it before and I'll say it again," he began, "Adlib is a great writer."

It cost him no loss in pride admitting the fact. After much thought, he added, "Maybe even better than me."

My head cocked back. Did he just say what I thought he did? Keenan did not look affected, his line as light as saying 'I ate some apples today'. I stared at the naked man on top of me, waiting for an insult to Adil in the form of a witty continuation. It never came. "He knows it," added Keenan.

That I did not believe, especially after I heard Adil question rhetorically what he has against Keenan. Essa believes that the answer of none. "I don't know," I mumbled, hands absentmindedly caressing Mr. Travino's tan skin, "Adil seems insecure to me."

Keenan looked like he didn't believe me. In the end, he shrugged and said "To me he doesn't."

"Why are we even talking about Adil in bed?" I wondered aloud, the question more directed to me since I brought up the topic. Then, intrigue getting the best of me again, I decided to talk about more serious things. If Keenan pries when I pry and vice versa, will Keenan spill if I spill? Many people I know have proven that humans reciprocate receiving information by giving information. Keenan does not seem like one of those people. Still, I just had to try.

Shifting topics, I spoke, "My mom thought I was dating a girl."

Keenan looked confused, "What?"

My eyes darted to the ceiling. Only the light in the kitchen was open, my bed area dark. "Because I was being cryptic." I said to him, "Had me wondering what my dad might say, you know? if he were alive."

Keenan looked blank. Instead of invalidating the personal turn we took, he questioned out of a lack of proper response, "About sexuality?"

My lower lip came forth as I shook my head, "About everything. About me, who I am, my job, my life."

Keenan Travino, master of words, was speechless. He blinked a few times, mouth linear and firm. I took it as a sign to continue. Even if I started talking about my past for him to feel comfortable telling his, I could not help but get sad. Now I really am wondering what dad would think. Would he like Keenan? Probably not. Why is that even a question? "I know you don't care, but my dad died when I was six. Had a heart attack. I hate that reason."

He only uttered one word, "Why?"

"Why do I hate that reason?" my hands have made their way to his hair again, twirling the lighter browns between my fingers, "because there's no one to blame. Absolutely nothing aside from his health and wrong timing." he considered my reply quietly. Though Keenan was expressionless, I could tell that I had struck something. It made me sad. "How about you?" I asked, courage thrown with the answer.

His jaw tightened, teeth gritted, "What about me?"

I chose my words carefully. I voiced them slowly, cautious, and anxious about how he'd react. I was starting to feel guilty. "Wanna talk about it?"

Keenan not only rolled his eyes, but also rolled off of me. Mission failed. I sighed heavily. Before I could sadden myself further with thoughts about my dead father, I simply said "Fine. I'm going to sleep." and laid on my side, back against Keenan's back. We fell quiet. It was the type of quiet with debate in each other's heads.

Please talk like how they do in movies, please talk like how they do in movies, please talk like how they do in movies— "I hate the reason of heart attacks too," Keena spoke up, sounding as if he had to push through a block in his throat to voice it, "It's not painful enough for people who deserve a painful death."

Did his father have a heart attack, then? Regardless, his mood affected mine. Keenan's silence is usually the judgy type, not the depressed type. I turned around, nose brushing against the man's back. I didn't know where to put my arms. They felt awkward when I laid them on my sides so I hugged myself instead. Then, I quoted him, "You're one violent man."

I didn't expect a response. I didn't expect him to turn around and kiss my lips. There it was again: the feeling that he was distracting himself with lust. Keenan was asking for a cigarette. He was a flick away from igniting me.

Keenan held himself up on top of me, assuming the same position as minutes and minutes ago. He nibbled at my chest first, then my neck, my jaw, chin, and lips. "I said I have work—"

"Tomorrow," he finished it for me.

I grabbed at his hair and pried his head away from me, "Stop cutting me off."

That was apparently his cue to rub my sex with his fingers. "What are you gonna do about it?" he rasped. With that, I'd say that some things are better shown than said.