Page 70 of The Revenge Agenda

“Time?” My brain almost short-circuits trying to keep up with the conversation. “I didn’t know you were here.”

“Figured, after you jumped a foot in the air. I’d offer you my shirt, but …” He waves a hand over his naked form. “I’m probably the wrong person for that.”

“Why do I want your shirt?”

He laughs. “Because I’m irresistible. Everyone wants something from me.”

I tap out a rhythm on my worktop, trying to figure out where the fuck that black silk went. Maybe I’m making this all too complicated. Trying to be different. But that was the point of staying off the meds, right? Not only did they make me feel shitty, they were a total block on my creativity. My work was more consistent, but god fucking damn the things I produced were boring as hell, and I couldn’t get past it. Couldn’t break through that creative wall where everything was dry and brittle, barren as the desert.

My creativity is free now, but I can’t nail the ideas down. They’re a hurricane of rapid-fire vibes. Feelings. An overall vision of what I want that I can’t still for long enough to see it. I know it’s there. The same way I know that everything I’m sketching out and trialing doesn’t come close to the exquisiteness of the real thing.

“I know it’s frustrating,” Madden says from somewhere very far away. “But you ready to sleep and eat yet?”

“When I’m finished.”

“When will you be finished?”

Why is he asking such arbitrary questions? “When I’m done. I’m trying to think.”

“Maybe sleep will help with that.”

“Maybe your face.”

Madden laughs. “What?”

“What?”

“Just drink your coffee.”

I glance immediately toward my sketch desk and the mug waiting for me. Thank fuck. Coffee. Caffeine. Braining.

“Think you’ll go to work this week?” he asks.

“What are you talking about?” My eyes fall shut against the delicious hot liquid that will hopefully help me settle.

“You haven’t been to work in three days. Better hope they don’t fire your ass.”

My eyes fly open. “What are you talking about? I’ve only been in here since last night.”

“Yeah, sure, and out of the two of us, who is making the most sense?”

I huff. “Well, it certainly isn’t you.”

“Check your phone.”

“My phone …”

Madden jumps up, ducks under my sewing desk, then reappears with my phone in his hand.

“You hid that,” I grumble.

“Did not.”

“Did too.”

“Did not.”

I grumble at his immaturity and check the display.

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