The Last Person

Shoving the bottle toward her, I grimace. “Take it, just stop talking about it. And you owe me a new bottle. Same brand. No cheap shit.”

“Thanks, Anna. You’re the best!” She scurries off with the bottle.

Within minutes, the apartment is filled with a new chant—oh … ow … god … slower.

Thankfully, I don’t have to work tomorrow. Snatching my purse from the counter, I head to the bar across the street next to the pizza place where I had my first official date with jackass neighbor guy.

“Anna Black, what can I get you?” Travis asks me from behind the bar as he flips a white towel over his shoulder.

“Let’s see … Freya just took my expensive bottle of olive oil to her bedroom to use as lube …” I tap my finger on my chin.

Travis laughs. “Tequila it is.”

After two shots, I forget about my olive oil, and my relaxed gaze starts to wander around the bar, snagging on the couple toward the back by the restrooms.

Jackass neighbor has a beer in one hand and the ass of some girl in his other hand while they stand in a circle chatting with another couple I’ve never seen before.

When Eric’s gaze lifts to the television for a few seconds then makes its own casual sweep of the room, I can’t avert my gaze fast enough. And once he notices me, I find it impossible to move any part of my body.

I hate him.

He’s pure evil.

If the devil walked the earth in human form, it would be Eric Steinmann, looking like sin, fucking women in public restrooms, and eyeing them in bars like he’s doing to me right now.

He’s right. I should write another book. He’ll be the villain, and the heroine will kill him, but not before removing his balls with toenail clippers and his dick with a nail file.

I have a mani-pedi tomorrow … they’re the first weapons that come to mind.

My phone chimes, bringing me out of my murderous trance. It’s a text from my mom.

Just finished The Last Person. It was okay. Don’t be mad. I’m not sure it’s the best book I’ve ever read. Some areas of the story were a bit wordy, and I’m surprised I found so many typos in a published book. Did you see the new miniseries released on Hulu? Night.

My heart sinks into the pit of my stomach. There it is. The person who should be the most biased about me and my writing is my mom. And she would be … if she knew I wrote the book.

She doesn’t. I never told anyone because I didn’t want to see their faces if I failed. This makes my mom the most accurate example of unbiased honesty. The best constructive criticism. A reality check I didn’t see coming.

I take down another shot of tequila … then another. Then I have to pee. Lucky for me, I have just enough alcohol in my body to not care that Eric and his new girl are blocking the way to the toilet.

Swaying a bit as I stand, I gather my bearings and worm my way through the crowd, feeling a little numb while the room spins. “Excuse me. Pardon me.” I have my own chant. As I approach Eric, he eyes me with a worried brow and pitiful frown.

“Excuse me. I need through to pee.” I share a stiff grin.

Blond girl on his arm and the other couple smile and part the sea for me to pee. I giggle as I realize my brain rhymed. Maybe I’m not a novelist. Maybe I’m a poet like Eric’s grandma.

I take a few wobbly steps, and Eric’s hand moves from blond girl’s ass to my arm, steadying me.

“Anna, I think you should go home,” he says.

My hands fly out to the side like a cat preparing to land on its feet. “I’m good. I just need to pee. I can’t go home until anal is over.” I continue forward as Eric’s friends snigger behind me.

“You know her?” One of the girls asks him.

“Sort of. Just a sec,” he replies as I reach for the door handle.

“That’s the men’s room.” His hand covers mine, peeling my grip from the handle and redirecting me to the next door, a few more feet down the hallway.

It’s locked.

I sigh rolling to the side, pressing my back against the wall and closing my eyes so things stop moving on me. “Go,” I mumble. “Blond girl’s ass is probably missing your hand. Can’t blame her … I remember what that feels like.”

“You’re so drunk. I didn’t have my hand on her ass. It’s called her lower back. What are you doing here? By yourself? Getting wasted?”

I rub my temples. “My mom didn’t love the book. Freya has a dick up her ass, and she’s being loud about it. And my chances of finding a publisher are nearly zero. I think I deserve a few shots.”