Rocky Waters (Lovers Lake)

It’s the middle of the afternoon by the time the rain’s stopped falling. It had to drop at least two inches which could be nasty. It will take some time to clear up. Which is fine by me because there’s just something about this story that pulls me in, and I let loose, page after page, thousands of words rush onto the document. I know that I only need one more solid day of writing to have the ending complete.

It’s about three AM again when I finally turn off my laptop and let my head hit the pillow. The rain chooses that moment to begin again, and it lulls me into a deep sleep.

****

The following day, I’m up at it just after eight, writing furiously. I’m not sure what’s driving my motivation, but the words demand to land on the page. Sean may get what he wants a lot sooner than expected. I wonder if this will be my best book yet. I always strive for better, so I’ll read through it and make notes over the next couple of days before sending it to my editor.

Six hours later and I type, “The End.” It feels too damn good. I save it and then send a copy to Sean. Turning off my computer, I think it’s about time for a walk just around the property before I fix dinner for myself. I stretch out my arms for a few minutes because they’re pretty tight right now. Then I get myself prepared to leave the house.

“Shit,” I grumble. I forgot to turn on my phone. Oh well, I’m not supposed to have distractions anyway.

Chapter Two

Darcy

Smiling to myself, I continue to pack my duffel bag for the weekend trip. I’m squealing inside, knowing that I’m going to be working with Michael Cole. He’s a killer photographer that people would sell their soul to work with.

“I’m so happy that you get to go to see beautiful mountains, but you have to promise to be careful,” my sister Georgie says. She’s nineteen going on forty. Without Georgie, I don’t know where I’d be. She keeps me grounded and a hell of a lot less flighty.

“I will. You know I will. Besides, I doubt Michael is going to try anything.”

“I’m not worried that he’s going to maul you. I’m more worried about you being out where there are jagged rocks, wild animals and the like.”

“Seriously, I’m not that clumsy,” I sigh, rolling my eyes at her. I pull my stuffed luggage off my bed, catching my finger in the grip, pinching my skin. Although I’m quick to mask the pain, but not fast enough and Georgie grabs my hand to look.

Satisfied that it’s nothing major, she lets it go and then says, “Yeah okay. If that’s the story you’re going with. I love you is all.”

“I know. I know. I love you too.” Sisters. I roll my eyes and suck on my injured index finger.

“Does it hurt?”

“Not really, but for some reason this helps.”

“You definitely need all the help you can get,” she says, pulling me into her arms for a hug.

“Yeah, well fuck off, brat.”

She’s really a sweetheart, but they worry about me so much it gets hard. I’m the older one and I bust my ass to take care of them financially. They all work, but I’d prefer if they focus on school. Becoming a model has helped a bit with the finances. It’s not enough to pay the bills, but it beats getting my old job back waitressing. I’m performing in a play or rehearsing for my next role most nights, but I haven’t landed anything in a month and my savings is running dangerously low. I love the stage and some parts pay better than others, but it's not enough to pay all the bills.

I’ve been contacted by agents, talent scouts from L.A.. Still, I've never considered going to Hollywood because I'm not glitz and glamour twenty-four-seven.

My most recent gig as a cover model for romance novels has been a blast. New shoots every other week with different costumes, makeup, and wigs. Most of the covers are very sensual even though I'm not naked. They sell like hotcakes, but with Michael behind the lens it may go for a heck of a lot more. He has a way to bring out the magic behind a smile.

We step out into the living room with my suitcase and duffel bag, and I get my messenger bag to make sure I have everything I need including my plane ticket.

“You haven’t left yet?” Lydia asks, popping through the front door of our apartment. We share a three bedroom in the Bridgeport neighborhood just off the Orange Line in Chicago. Two months ago, we moved in together when Lydia turned eighteen since our parents decided Florida sounded a lot better than icy winters in the Midwest.