. 01-02

Hi friends! the following is the first two chapters of the first novel I've ever written...

This is a BOOK. It's not quick spank material; there's character development and world building and themes involved.

I'd love to get any critiques you might have to offer :) this is about 1/10th of what i have written so far. Enjoy!

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The Eden Project

Part I

Chapter 1: Pleather

In the thirty seconds it took Ellie to cross the parking lot from her Corolla to the front door of Luann's, she could already feel sweat beading in the small of her back. Traffic howled on the freeway nearby. A hot asphalt breeze pushed intrusively up at the hem of her dress. She had to hold it down as she walked. Fuck this state and its armpit weather, she thought, as she pulled open the front door of the bar to the welcome blast of cold AC, stale beer, and (though indoor smoking had been banned for ten years) ancient cigarettes.

Ellie ordered her margarita and chose a booth in a quiet corner. She crossed the bar with a manufactured confidence to compensate for her embarrassment at showing up to Happy Hour alone.

She plopped down on the cracked pleather, which hissed a greeting, and situated herself in front of the margarita now condensating on the sticky table. While closing her eyes and taking a deep breath, she pressed her fingers against her lids with a cathartic, soothing pressure that made lights dance in the darkness.

A Slack message pinged out of her purse. Ellie impatiently fished out her phone, dismissed the notification, and threw it face-down on the table so the phone could think about its unacceptable behavior while she worked on her margarita.

Luann's was a good place. A 30-odd year old bar on the eastbound service road of I-10 in Phoenix, sandwiched between two chain hotels. It was close to the university as well as several corporate offices (including her own), so the crowd was an interesting mix.

Ellie absent-mindedly scanned the bar, not yet near capacity at this early hour. Three friends giggled through old stories and a bucket of Coronas, likely former roommates or old friends who finally managed an often-promised catch-up session; Two guys, probably current roommates, were having a great time being bad at darts; an office happy hour of six twenty-somethings were not yet drunk enough to deviate from work talk.

Ellie was too aggressive with her first few gulps of margarita. She gripped the heavy glass as a frosty pain came and went through the back of her skull.

Today was garbage. Ellie's marketing firm had hired a consultant to collect five figures' worth of fees in exchange for a bunch of recommended changes that almost certainly wouldn't happen. Ellie had asked (politely; hell, constructively, she thought) how they would manage to hire two new departments when the year's revenue forecast looked so bleak, and her boss Marco shot her an enraged look while the consultant stammered through an explanation.

Ellie's day ended with Marco cornering her in an empty conference room. He yelled theatrically at Ellie about staying in her lane while tears of embarrassment slid down her cheeks. Ellie could see her coworkers on the other side of the floor-to-ceiling glass, hearing everything and pretending not to. This was a performance, and Ellie was just Marco's prop.

After this humiliating display, Ellie couldn't stand to be in the office anymore. So she left at 5pm sharp with several important tasks left undone, and decided Marco's dressing-down had earned her a couple of drinks.

In her corner booth, Ellie could feel her blood pressure rising again. Her grip tightened once more on the thick stem of her margarita glass. Fucking Marco. Everything about him pissed her off. From using her as a punching bag for his fragile ego, to the stupid fucking way he French-tucked his v-necks into his skinny jeans over his chubby frame (oh wow, so trendy Marco. Do you watch Queer Eye, I wonder?), to his nerve at cornering a female employee in an empty conference room.

Ellie thought spitefully about how at a larger company, you know, one who had an actual fucking HR department, Marco's behavior would get him reprimanded or fired.

None of this even to mention his blatant incompetence. Ellie had never seen Marco contribute to a single project in a meaningful way. Ellie really didn't know what on Earth possessed the agency owner, Lisa, to hire such an inexperienced clown to be Ellie's superior. Maybe she's a sucker for French-tucked V-necks? Regardless, Lisa was blind to Marco's bullshit and charmed by his loud antics. Ellie had seen others of his type: Be loud and obnoxiously present, and nobody will notice that you don't actually do anything.

She tried to release the anger. She adjusted herself to unstick her sweaty thighs from the pleather booth, and took a couple more sips of margarita, choosing instead to think about that glorious incident a few weeks ago: Marco had split his skinny jeans while squatting to take a photo for the agency's Social feed. He had to leave early to change pants.

It was the biggest morale boost the agency had in months.

The beginnings of a smile tugged at her cheeks, thinking about Marco tying the sleeves of his blazer around his waist like a sweater and pretending everyone was laughing with him.

The anger cooled as the tequila snuggled into the folds of her brain. Ellie sucked down a bit more margarita and watched the scruffy bartender show-boat with a rattling martini shaker.

Clearly having not learned its lesson, her phone went off again. Hesitating, Ellie grabbed it and checked the notification. It was from her coworker Kathleen.

[5:36pm] Kathleen: Hey just LYK none of us think what Marco did was ok. You didnt do anything wrong. He's a dick.

[5:38pm] I saw you leave in a hurry. U ok

[5:39pm]?

Ellie let out a slow breath and smiled. Kathleen was always a good ally. Despite how toxic and shitty things got at work, they could always rely on each other for venting and validation. She responded:

Yeah that sucked. I went to Luanns to drink about it. I'm good though.

[5:41pm] Kathleen: I havent left yet. Want company?

Ellie considered. No. Venting wasn't what she needed right then. Just maybe one more margarita, Chinese takeout, and a few episodes of Friends when she got home.

Elizabeth: Nah, I'm gonna take it easy tonight. Have a good night though, I'll see you tomorrow!

Kathleen: Ok ILY <3

She put her phone back in its time-out position, face-down on the table. Her eyes scanned the bar once more and lingered on a new presence. A girl was seated at the end of the bar nearest Ellie, apparently alone.

What drew her gaze initially was the incredible mane of red hair.

Save for a few strands stuck to her temples from the baking Arizona heat, it was otherwise set in effortlessly defined ringlets, as though it simply did that when washed and allowed to air-dry (ugh, fuck you, though Ellie). The girl's only effort to tame it was a tuck behind her left ear. This revealed a face with broad, freckled features. She looked mid-30's.

Large, bright green eyes absently perused the shelves of liquor behind the bartender. She was still working on ordering her first drink by the looks of it. Those eyes sat on top of high cheekbones that supported rounded cheeks. Her jaw, strong but not severe, framed plump lips. Her only makeup was crimson lipstick that clashed violently and confidently against orange-hued hair.

Despite herself (she wasn't typically in the business of ogling strangers, much less women), Ellie's eyes drifted downward. The girl appeared to have cut the sleeves off of her yellow-and-white flannel shirt to reveal broader-than-average shoulders with a smattering of freckles to match the ones on her nose and cheeks. Ellie noticed a patch of red hair peeking slyly from her armpit. Like the rest of her frame, her arms were strong but soft, as if she did a lot of manual labor and ate what she wanted.

The light cotton shirt looked appropriate for the weather. Maybe also because of the heat (or perhaps, thought Ellie, because she's really feeling herself), the girl's top three buttons were undone, framing the playfully-freckled cleavage of generous breasts, shimmering slightly from perspiration. Ellie realized, with a pleasant flutter in her abdomen, that the girl wasn't wearing a bra. This was evidenced by two prominent, shameless points pulling at the fabric.

The hem of her shirt was tied in a knot across her front. A narrow strip of milky pale midriff poked out over waist-high faded denim shorts that concealed her navel and hugged tightly against broad hips. Freckled thighs, thick and strong as redwoods, gave way to muscular calves tucked into black Chuck Taylor high-tops, well-worn and faded.

Ellie's eyes returned to the girl's face. She was startled to see that the girl was looking directly at her.

Fuck!

Ellie averted her eyes reflexively, though surely the damage was done. She picked up her phone, opened Instagram, and started performatively scrolling, registering nothing on the screen.

Oh my God, that's embarrassing. Be more obvious, Ellie. Shit.

After a few seconds, Ellie cautioned a glance back at the girl. She hadn't moved, but her eyes had turned to the beer taps. Ellie thought she could see the slightest smirk on her lips.

Her phone pinged again with a text message. She opened it and groaned.

"For Chrissake, Pete."

Peter was Ellie's ex-fiancee.

What started as a high school romance with a high-achieving Catholic boy who'd won over her equally Catholic parents, turned into an arduous and obligatory six years of forcing a marriage-bound match-up between two incompatible people.

Pete graduated their Catholic private high school summa cum laude, sailed through college and grad school with a performance to match, and won himself a job in Phoenix's most prestigious architecture firm. When he wasn't working disciplined hours, sculpting his body at the gym, going to Mass every Saturday evening, and charming the ever-loving pants off of everyone he met, Pete spent his time gently and infuriatingly tweaking Ellie to his standards; a project he would never complete.

Ellie, on the other hand, was not a slouch, per se. She made modestly decent grades in high school and had attended community college. She didn't get accepted at Pete's university, and boy was that a lovely feeling -- Hey guys, Pete and his girlfriend are here! Oh yeah, you haven't met her, she goes to WACC down the road -- and now she had a decently paid "real job" as an account manager at her marketing agency.

She couldn't call herself particularly ambitious. Ellie didn't mind working a tight 40 hours per week, but she was primarily a creature of leisure and comfort. She could rarely be bothered to join Pete at the gym, electing instead to go on evening walks or do yoga in the living room. Perfectly content to spend an evening playing Nintendo and munching through half a box of Cheez-Its while Pete blasted his core at Lifetime Fitness for ninety minutes (exactly) every evening.

"You ate half the box, honey? Really?"

Pete had proposed a year and a half ago in a predictably perfect way. He swept her off to Colorado for an off-season stay at a luxurious ski resort. They plodded through a scenic and exhausting 5-mile mountain hike (Ellie complaining about her feet and back the entire way) before, finally, Pete went down on one knee. At the top of a ridge. At sunset. My goodness.

Ellie evaluated the perfection of it all; considered that, on paper, she would never find a better man. She said yes.

All stakeholders were thrilled. Parents, friends, family, distant relatives. That Pete, he's the total package. Great kid. We're so happy for you. The occasional aside from Ellie's mother or aunt: I don't know how you managed to land this one, Ellie, but you just hold on to him.

"Babe, just hold onto this job. If you just put in a little bit more effort, you'll be Marco's boss someday. Show 'em what you can do... If you would just apply yourself a little."

It went as far as Ellie spending a champagne-soaked afternoon trying on wedding dresses at an excessive variety of boutiques with her Mom and her little sister Sarah.

"Honey, I don't know if this dress is appropriate for a church wedding. Think about it -- would you wear this to Mass? The back's awfully low. And speaking of -- why am I sitting next to Peter at Mass and not you? You can't get out of bed?"

"Mom, I really don't want to do this right now, can we please just enjoy ourselves?"

"Fine. Here, try this one. A little more modest."

"There's no way Ellie's got the tits to fill that one out, Mom."

"Wow, thanks Sarah."

"Just being honest!"

"Babe, if you're that worried about how those jeans look on you... you can come with me to the gym. You'd be a lot happier with how you look with a little effort. I'm just being honest."

The most confounding thing about these comments was that Ellie was happy with how she looked. At 5'10", slender but soft, with dark, full waist-length hair, photogenic hazel eyes, and a great ass (at least in her estimation; all Pete had to offer was recommendations for squat routines), Ellie knew, or thought she knew, that she was attractive. It only seemed to be Captain Camp Gladiator who seemed preoccupied with improving her appearance. He consistently steered her focus toward the flaws that he very clearly fixated on.

Ellie and Pete had never had sex with each other -- and owing to Ellie's age when she met him, she hadn't had sex with anyone. Not because of her looks (theoretically. Or... Theologically?); Pete was too devout for premarital sex. Though he allowed them to share an apartment for the purpose of saving on rent, and though Ellie insisted that she didn't think waiting was important, the furthest they'd ever gone was over-the-clothes groping.

Moral gratification for Pete, sexual frustration for Ellie. Six years of it.

"Ugh, babe, when we're married, the things I'm gonna do to you." That was always his word choice.

During the first year of their engagement, those words excited Ellie. But in the last six months of their engagement, the more she heard that phrase... "When we're married, the things I'm gonna do to you..." the more the walls closed in. She realized that the things he'd do to her in marriage would probably resemble what he did to her now. It was a realization that escalated into their last fight.

"Fucking... WHAT things, Pete? Nag me about eating fucking snacks? About going to church? About the way my jeans fit? Are you planning to keep that up?"

Pete's response was to scold her for her language.

It didn't matter what Pete said after that. She barely heard the series of "if you just" protests that streamed out of his mouth. What she had probably known for a long time finally clicked into reality.

Pete didn't see her as an equal. He saw her as a project. A fixer-upper. A valuable downtown property with potentially profitable mountain views. If only they had the right architect to clear out the old run-down mid-century structure and build it up into the gleaming work of corporate, focus-grouped, ambitious perfection it was meant to be.

Ellie calmly took off her engagement ring and set it on the table next to their sexless bed against ceaseless background noise:

"Babe, what are you doing? Babe, if you just... Babe. Babe!"

She held up a finger, and Pete paused.

"I don't think this is going to work. We want different things. There is a woman out there who's going to make you very happy one day. That woman isn't me."

Peter was decent enough (so decent, that Pete; you just hold on to him) to leave the apartment while she cleared out her belongings and left.

It took 48 hours before Pete told Ellie's family what she'd done.

Ellie's mother was incensed. "I don't understand your constant need to sabotage yourself, but Peter is a GOOD MAN, and I'm not gonna just sit here while you throw away the best thing in her life."

Her sister wasn't any more understanding; Ever the projectionist, Sarah decided that the only reason Ellie had left was that Peter was making her wait until the wedding to have sex -- an unkind and incredibly ignorant interpretation.

Though, Ellie had to admit, it was refreshing to have privacy for once.

"Babe, why are your showers like 45 minutes long? Water isn't exactly free, you know. If you'd just be a little more considerate..."

After a week in an Extended Stay hotel, she was able to find an affordable -- and austere -- studio apartment further from downtown Phoenix. The privacy was amazing. She could finally do what she wanted: Sing along to Spotify at full volume while she got ready in the mornings. Strip down completely when she got home in the afternoons. Buy a vibrator and masturbate in her bed instead of the shower.

There was no peace to be had with her family. Every person in her life, save perhaps for Kathleen, wasted no moment telling her what an enormous mistake she was making. And Pete, for his part, maintained a consistent stream of texts and calls (finally beginning to dwindle in the last few weeks) reminding her that she's always welcome to come home... he's ready to forgive... move on... "IF YOU'D JUST come home."

She had decided, therefore, to cut contact. Brick wall. At least for awhile.

To her own surprise, Ellie hadn't cried over the affair at all just yet. There was an internal ache that didn't quite manage to push out tears, sure. She supposed she grieved the loss of... Peter? Not really. But certainly the loss of the path planned. The loss of six years of time and emotion invested in a dead end. Though, she told herself, she learned a lot. That was the conventional wisdom. No such thing as a wasted failure.

It felt true.

She grieved the loss of support from her family. She grieved the months of time not spent with her parents. But that was hard to reconcile with the fact that said time, if spent with them, would be saturated with criticism and unpleasantries. No. This is for the best.

No tears over Peter. No tears over her family. Ellie was determined to move forward. The best revenge is to thrive, she reminded herself often.

And so, Ellie sat in her booth at Luann's, cheeks burning at having been caught staring. She sucked down the last of her margarita and opened Pete's text.

Hey babe. I don't know what you're trying to prove to me or yourself, but I'm still committed to you. If you'd just text me back, I'm ready to talk.

"I'm sure you are," Ellie said out loud.

"You're sure I'm what?"

Ellie jumped. A fresh margarita landed in front of her. She looked up, and the girl from the bar was standing there smiling at her.

Chapter 2: Tell Ya Have to Kill Ya

The girl exuded confidence; Left hand on her waist and right hand on her own drink, a pint of beer, she chuckled at Ellie's stunned silence.

"It looked like you needed a refill."

"I.. uhm, uh, yeah, thanks," Ellie stammered.

"Hannah."

"Hannah?"

"Is my name."

"Oh," said Ellie. "Yeah. Hannah. Sorry. My name's Elizabeth... Ellie."

Hannah nodded. "Nice to meet you, Ellie."

She stood there and bobbed her head, looking around like she owned the place, waiting for Ellie to say something else. Finally Hannah broke the silence again.

"Mind if I sit?"

"Oh! Sorry. Yeah, by all means."

Hannah went to sit down opposite; as she leaned over the table to position herself, Ellie detected a scent of bar soap, grass, and just the slightest tinge of sweat. It was nice. It reminded Ellie of soccer practice as a kid. These sensations offered a pleasant complement to the brief view Ellie caught down Hannah's shirt, which gave her another confusing flutter.

For a few awkward moments, Ellie sipped her new margarita and avoided eye contact. Hannah did no such thing. Every time Ellie stole a glance, Hannah was looking directly at her and smiling gently. This time she insisted on waiting for Ellie to speak, sipping her beer.