On the way, I brainstorm my book. I’ve been working on the outline of a cozy mystery involving a girl who moved to a small town with her mom to open a coffee shop and ends up investigating the murder of a local librarian in her spare time. I’ve just about figured out how I want the first chapter to go when I reach the house in Malibu, but as the gate opens and I pull in, my heart sinks.
Not only is the house not empty, but it’s absolutely packed. Packed with lingerie and bikini-clad models prancing around and dancing to music that I can hear from the driveway as I park. I see Grant’s car in front of the garage and feel a pang in my chest. I glance up and see him standing in the living room, three girls fawning all over him.
No…it can’t be.
A rage fills me, and I nearly take my car door off its hinges as I kick it open. But once I’m out and racing up to the front door, I stop.
Do I really want to do this? Go in there and confront him with all those girls there to see it?
The thud of the bass is like the pounding of my heart. I can feel it in my feet, in my ears, in my chest. My anxiety is at a level I’ve never felt before. I know if I go up there now, there’s a good chance I won’t be able to say anything to him. Or I may actually pass out when I see him surrounded by those girls being all touchy all over him.
No, I have to go. I can’t be here right now.
So I turn on my heels, go back to my car, get in, and quickly back out of the driveway. But the last thing I see as I pull out onto the road is a girl with long blond hair and big fake breasts pulling her top off and throwing it in Grant’s face.
Wow, what a night. What a night.