Page 26 of Smut

“My roommate,” I tell him. “And she’s about to put a shit ton of makeup on me for beauty school practice.”

“Is that a metric shit ton?”

Lord help me, I’m almost smiling. “Yes, a metric shit ton.”

“And when do you think this will all be over?”

“An hour,” Ana shouts before she goes back to rifling through her stuff. She holds up a brush like a serial killer wields a knife, and just as manic.

“Make that an hour and a half,” I say to him. “It’s going to take at least a half an hour to scrub it all off.”

“All right, well give me your address and I’ll come pick you up.”

“And go where? The library is closed.”

“But my apartment isn’t.”

I’m not sure how I feel about that. “How about a café?”

“How about a bar?”

“Caffeine is better than alcohol.”

“That’s not what Hemmingway said.”

“Hemmingway shot his own head off,” I remind him. “And I believe his quote was write drunk, edit sober. We’re plotting and reading, practically editing.”

“You’re no fun, anyone ever tell you that?”

Ouch. That stings more than it should. In fact, I’m more pissed off by the fact that it hurt than the fact that he said it.

“I’m plenty of fun,” I tell him, trying to sound flippant. “I just prefer a more intelligent way of expressing it.”

“Of course, of course,” Blake says, his tone bored now. “Just tell me your address and I’ll come to you in an hour and a half. Figure it all out from there.”

I give it to him and hang up the phone, pushing it away from me across the table.

“That was weird,” I comment, staring at my cell.

“Mmmmm,” Ana muses, wiping the brush across the back of her hand. “Weird but a good sign.”

I sigh and stare up at her. “Don’t tell me it has to do with sex.”

“It’s a good sign that he cares enough about your little project.” She steps back and her eyes volley between my primer-spackled face and her platoon of makeup spread out over the table. “Though perhaps we’ll put off my class practice for another day. Tonight, I’m going to make you look so beautiful you’re not going to want to wash it off.”

“Please, don’t,” I implore her. “I have no one to impress. Just do whatever crazy thing you were going to do. I’m your guinea pig. Go nuts.”

But from the voracious gleam in her eyes, I wish I hadn’t said that.

I’m not really sure what she attacks me with. After she removes my glasses, it’s all kind of a blur of pointed, colorful instruments jabbing me in the face.

When she spills heavy duty eyelash glue all over the desk and then cries out what I have to assume are Estonian swear words, there’s a knock at the door.

“What the hell time is it?” I say, fumbling for my phone but knocking it off the table. It’s already dark outside but time couldn’t have gone by that quickly.

“Oh, it’s him, it’s him,” she says in a giggling hush. “He’s here.”

“Ana, go answer the door,” I wave at her, trying to get up. “Stall him.”