126 Secret Ln - A Cherry Falls Romance

“Who is Corby O'Neal?” Amethyst asks.

“That’s something most of the world wants to know,” I answer. And I’m the one that’s going to find out for them.

Chapter Five

Corby

The buzz I developed after sparring with the newspaper reporter wears off before I even hit my driveway. The long tree-lined path gives off an eerie vibe as the sun sets. I don’t bother to turn on any lights when I enter the house. I’m familiar enough with it by now, and I can maneuver in the dark. Besides, lights would remind me that I have come to Cherry Falls for a purpose. Since my arrival, I have done nothing purposeful. I haven’t unpacked my boxes. I’ve been rotating about three pairs of jeans and three hoodies. I’m still using paper plates and plastic forks and spoons. Most of my meals are ramen, spaghetti, or microwavable dinners. No matter what the commercials say, those meals taste like ass.

I grab a beer from the fridge and wander into my study. My writing space is actually immaculate, a sign of how unproductive I am. If I was deep into a manuscript, this place would look like a tornado. In fact, it would be approaching Mark’s backseat’s level of garbage with empty Red Bull cans and empty, crumpled bags of chips. There’s not even a speck of dust on the table.

I flick on the laptop and collapse into my chair. The screen brightens the blank page, and its flickering cursor blinks mockingly in front of my eyes. I press my finger against the T key and watch it with disinterest as the character repeats itself one row after the other until it looks more like abstract art than the start of a story.

I drain my beer and exchange the empty can for a set of neon sticky balls that I ordered off the Internet two days ago. Someone on my TikTok “for you” page had said that they were good for stress relief. If my “for you” recommendations say anything about me it’s that I like dog tricks and stress relievers. I’m too irresponsible to take care of a dog, so I bought the rubber balls instead.

I toss one up and count the seconds that pass before the ball disengages from the ceiling and starts to fall. I play catch with myself for five minutes before letting the balls fall on my face. The impact is enough to make me wince but not so painful that I’m enticed to get off my ass and stare at my monitor screen.

It took me three weeks to write my first book. I edited it for twice as long before sending it off to an agent. In the nine months that it took for the agent to get back to me, I wrote two more books. Those three stories went on to be the foundation of my career. I sold millions of copies in over 120 countries. The books went into the fifth printing and then the thirty-fifth printing in a blink of an eye. Hollywood called, and movies were made. I wrote more and more until I had 12 books under my belt in less than 10 years. My bank account became so fat my accountant would send me gifts every Christmas.

He still does because the checks haven’t stopped rolling in, but I haven’t written a word in nearly two years. My editor has told the press that I am working on my next novel. That may have been true eighteen months ago. At that time, I still had hope that some creative embers existed in the corners of my brain that I just hadn’t explored yet. Now I need to face the truth that I’m empty. The cursor on the blank page that used to excite me is the source of my greatest fear.

I left my penthouse in the city, my favorite coffee shop, and the best takeout in the country to move to this tiny town. One night I closed my eyes and typed a few numbers into Google Maps. That entry ended up being Cherry Falls. I packed clothes, books, and my laptop, threw everything in the back of my car, and drove. I found the realtor, bought this hideaway, and have proceeded to write nothing. I am the same Corby that I was in the city—unproductive and uninspired.

But today, standing on the side of the highway, with the water roaring at my back and the wind blowing my shirttails up, I felt a stir of something, and I’m not talking about my dick. I felt a spark of something spiral through me. That spark was lit by the reporter. I can’t tell if it’s her eyes or her plush lips or the blush that tinted her cheeks pink, but there was something in me that responded to something in her. Just standing near her was thrilling, but I want more. Okay, to be honest, my dick is stirring. It’s growing harder as I imagine her on my desk with her legs parted and her other pair of plump lips exposed to my greedy touch. It’s possible I would never write another word if she were here. I’d be too busy mapping out the pleasure points on her body, figuring out what turned her on, what made her come. That seems to be a worthy way to finish out this life—at least better than throwing sticky neon orbs at the ceiling.