America’s Geekheart

by Grant, Pippa

  “So,” she continues in the awkward silence that’s weirdly doing nothing to relieve the pressure in my cock, “here we have me, with a few very satisfying lovers in my past, and you, happy to claim that you’re very good at making out.”

  And now I’m getting pissed.

  And it’s still doing nothing to help the swelling in my pants.

  The good swelling, I mean. I don’t have anything I need to see my doctor for.

  Also, I’m almost positive she’s baiting me on purpose, and that she’s having fun watching me squirm, and that she wants me to toss her over my shoulder and carry her to my bedroom and make her scream my name.

  Except I’m only at almost, and I’ve already fucked up enough in the past week where Sarah’s concerned.

  “Satisfying lovers,” I repeat.

  Or possibly sneer.

  “The double O is not a myth.”

  Fucking fuck. “And you think I can’t give you a double O.”

  “I have no idea, but you have several strikes against you.”

  “Are you pulling the scientific experiment card here, or baseball analogies?”

  She’s not getting any less red, but she’s also pushing through it, and there’s a hint of a grin teasing her lips. “People are complex. You said it yourself. So why can’t I be both?”

  “I am so fucking turned on and pissed right now, and I don’t know how that happened.”

  “I’m not trying to insult you,” she assures me. “Merely…express my misgivings. Especially given the temporary nature of our need for contact. But since you brought up making out, I thought I’d be honest with you.”

  “Can you say it in that growly voice your dad uses? That might help the boner situation. If we’re being honest here.”

  She sucks in a smile, cheeks still bright with the outline of flames. “Have you ever given a woman a double orgasm?”

  “I—” I can’t find the rest of the syllables for a sentence, because fuck. Global warming is happening right here in my penthouse. I gulp hard, then I make myself look her straight in the eye, and prepare to confess more than I’ve ever confessed to a living soul, which is mildly terrifying, but still not enough to alleviate the boner. “I don’t have as much experience as my career might make it look like I should.”

  “You’re a virgin?”

  “No. But I don’t—look, the thing about being famous is that sometimes, women want to sleep with you, but they don’t care about anything other than the fact that they’re sleeping with oooh, Beck Ryder! And I’m not—that’s not—I’m more than just a dick with a lot of cash and a pretty face. So I’m picky. Very picky. And more often than not, that means I’m in a dry spell.”

  “You get lonely,” she says quietly.

  Like she gets it, despite the fact that she clearly has more experience than I do with bumping uglies.

  And I never would’ve used that word, but— “Yeah.”

  “I broke up with my last boyfriend because I didn’t want him to know who my parents were.”

  “Did he—never mind.”

  She smiles sadly. “Yes. But what was the point if I wouldn’t let him in here?” She taps her head, then her heart. “Or here, I guess.”

  I reach over and squeeze her hand, because it’s there, and because I know a thing or two about keeping people out. I know a thing or two about not knowing if someone likes me, or if they like who they think I am.

  It’s why I’m so fucking glad for everyone from home. I might not have someone warming my bed every night, but I have family. My family, who won’t accuse me of fathering kids that aren’t mine—and it fucking sucks, by the way, because I would love kids someday—or try to take advantage of me because they don’t care about the heart under the body.

  She squeezes my hand back, and with Sarah, I don’t know if it means thank you or let’s arm wrestle and I’ll kick your ass, but I like her hand in mine.

  Soft, but strong.

  So comfortable.

  And so easy to just sit here. Without saying anything. With a woman I never should’ve met, but who’s quickly becoming one of my favorite people, even when she makes me squirm.

  Probably because it’s a rare breed of people willing to make me squirm, and who also understand how hard it is to trust people on an intimate level.

  “You could teach me,” I offer. “I’m not too humble to admit I could learn a few new tricks.”

  She laughs and pulls herself up off the couch. “Maybe tomorrow.”

  “Maybe?” That’s disappointing.

  I like her. I trust her. I want to make out with her.

  She glances back at the windows, at the world outside. “Okay, that’s not you. It’s me. I have trust issues.”

  “I’d be worried about you if you didn’t.” Especially growing up under the celebrity microscope. “Want to know a secret?”

  “I don’t know. Do I?”

  “I have trust issues too.”

  She studies me closely, then nods. “That’s probably good for you.”

  “Yeah, but it’s not good for getting any experience at giving a woman a double O.”

  She tucks a stray lock of hair behind her ear, but she can’t hide a small smile and a subtle blush. Like maybe that was harder for her to say than I can comprehend, and I just scored points for my own honesty.

  “I’m going to get my computer,” she says. “Did Charlie say there’s office space one floor down?”

  Dammit. “Yeah. Let me see if your clothes are dry yet, and I’ll show you.”

  But I’m not giving up.

  Because I like her.

  And I can’t tell you the last time I liked a woman. Not like this. Is it scary? Yeah.

  But worth it?

  I hope so.

  So slow and steady it is.

  Until our contract’s up.

  And then I don’t know what I’ll do, but I have time.

  I’ll figure it out.

  Unless I fuck something else up in the meantime.

  Twenty-Three

  Sarah

  I’ve barely finished a blog post about an upcoming meteor shower when Beck knocks on the office door.

  Not that I’m surprised.

  He doesn’t seem like he does well when he’s alone. And I don’t mind, because he’s remarkably easy to talk to.

  About anything.

  “Hey. You hungry?”

  I push my computer back and just look at him.

  Which isn’t a hardship, honestly. He gets more attractive with every little twist to his personality. If I weren’t biased against gorgeous men with thick dark hair and movie star blue eyes and easy grins and perfectly formed bodies—yes, including the ape arms—I’d probably call him hot.

  Instead of a classy button-down or a polo, he’s lounging in a white Simpsons T-shirt. His jeans still look like they cost a million bucks and they fit his slim hips and hug his long legs perfectly—again, undoubtedly from his own fashion line—but he’s also barefoot, which adds exactly the right amount of realness to him.

  And somehow, hearing that he hasn’t had many girlfriends adds even more to the appeal. I’m not usually so forward in talking about sex—not that I have a lot of opportunities, because guys are hardly banging on my door every day—but he was the one who brought up making out.

  Multiple times now.

  Like maybe he doesn’t care that I forget to get haircuts and I never wear makeup and I think of clothes as functional items for comfort and to prevent me from breaking indecency laws more than as fashion statements.

  His lips twitch like he can’t stand the silence, and sure enough, within seconds, he’s talking again. Not that I mind. It’s just kinda amusing.

  “It takes a lot of calories to look this good,” he says, as if he needs to explain why he’s hungry again.

  “If I ate that many calories, I’d look like a blimp.”

  “You work out?”

  “Occasional yoga classes and tae kwon do four days
a week. Except this week, because my dad went to check out the studio last night and had a fight with the grandmaster about the windows in the front of the building, and so I have to wait until my parents leave town and then send some kind of apology gift.”

  “Isn’t martial arts above bribery?”

  “Not when this particular grandmaster knows you have fresh local honey.”

  “Your parents should meet my parents. They’ll trade baby pictures and stories for three days.”

  “Do your parents know? About our agreement?”

  He shakes his head.

  “Beck. You have to tell your parents.”

  He shakes his head harder.

  “But—that’s so—cruel.”

  “Would you tell your parents if they were normal people?”

  “We wouldn’t be in this mess if my parents were normal people.”

  “Sure we would.”

  “No, we wouldn’t, because half the reason the world’s shipping us, or whatever you call it, is because they want the excuse to gossip about how you feel about the world speculating that my mom should be in rehab.”

  He frowns. “Has your mom ever been in rehab?”

  “Nope. But she disappeared to South Africa for three months one time when her career was crashing and let people think she was in rehab so that there’d be more attention and speculation when she came back. It worked, by the way. That was right before she landed that role as the single mom animal rights researcher that won her like every award under the sun.”

  “So you were home alone for three months? Just you and your dad?”

  “Just half of it. He was wrapping a movie in LA, then we flew over to join her for a few weeks until he had to report for his next film. It was summer, so I didn’t really miss school. Plus, there was the nanny when he was working. The only awkward part was when I got back to school and my teachers would randomly search my bags because they’d seen the tabloids and wanted to make sure my mom was a fit parent who wasn’t getting me addicted to anything.”

  I go for a smile, even though it’s the truth and still makes me feel uncomfortable, even all these years later.

  Beck doesn’t smile back for once. In fact, he’s still frowning, which isn’t entirely natural on him. I wish goofball Beck would come back, because there’s something comforting about him tossing out nonsense and not taking any of this week seriously.

  “I don’t think I’d be well-adjusted at all if I grew up like you did,” he says.

  “I found my balance.”

  “When you changed your name and disappeared halfway around the world. That’s extreme.”

  He’s probably right. There’s no such thing as balance for a kid from Hollywood.

  “I think I would’ve been okay if it hadn’t been for…you know,” I say slowly.

  “The Hagrid incident.”

  I cringe.

  “Voldemort?” he says.

  “What?”

  “You’re supposed to make that face when I say Voldemort, not when I say Hagrid.”

  “I didn’t dress up like Voldemort and get my face plastered all over every tabloid under the sun with rumors that Sunny Darling and Judson Clarke’s geeky daughter was into evil wizard role-playing sex games.”

  “Were you really into furry play?”

  “I was seventeen. What the fuck do you think?”

  “I think you need to own the story and put it out there and get over it.”

  If I didn’t know if was physically impossible for my eyeballs to pop out of my head, I’d be trying to hold them in right now. Not to mention locking down my ribs so my heart can’t crawl out of my chest. “Did you just tell me to get over it?”

  He grins. “No, I told you to own the story. C’mon. Let’s make another video.”

  “First of all, let’s make a video isn’t something to ever say to a child of celebrities. Second, we’re not supposed to make another video until Friday. It’s in the contract.”

  “Fuck the contract. This is your life. I’ll interview you, you tell your side, talk about how it felt to constantly be in the spotlight you didn’t ask for, and you can be a hero to all those kids growing up under a microscope right now. Like James and Emma. Kind of. Or any other kid who’s going through hell because of any rumors.”

  “That’s low.”

  “You want to save the giraffes, but you don’t want to give hope to kids who are afraid of exactly what you went through, that you got past and recovered from?”

  My heart is racing and my mouth is going dry, because he has a point.

  A very solid, very powerful point. “You’re evil.”

  “I have my moments. And yes, my mom is very proud of me.”

  “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  He pulls a chair out from under the utilitarian table I’m sitting at and pulls it close, then sits, leaning right into my space. “Sarah. It’s already out there. My team’s fielding calls from all the major news networks wanting exclusive interviews with both of us, and they’re asking about more than just the coverage of you and your prom. They’re talking about your entire childhood. Guarantee your parents are getting them too, and I know you’re ignoring your website’s email inbox. So grab it. Own it. Tell your side. On your terms. Where no one profits but you, and only in here.”

  He taps my chest, high, but still at the top of my left breast, right where my heart is clawing for a ledge to hang on to so it doesn’t fall off that cliff it’s sitting on.

  “I like dumbass Beck better than whoever you are right now,” I tell him, but my voice is froggy and thick.

  “Just think about it.” He pulls back and stands and stretches, showing off those billion-dollar abs when his shirt lifts. “I’m thinking Mexican. Can’t remember the last time I had fajitas. You like steak or chicken?”

  “Both,” Charlie calls from her small office across the hall. “And go buy a new computer, because I’m tired of checking your email, but then come right back to this building.”

  “You just started an hour ago,” he calls back.

  “And that’s long enough. Why do you even subscribe to half this stuff? You need an email purge.”

  “Was she listening in?” I whisper.

  “She’s the robot,” he whispers back. “So probably. But she’s super trustworthy. I programmed her myself.”

  Crap, now I’m laughing in the middle of a near panic attack. “That’s terrifying.”

  “I dressed up like Mrs. Potts for my freshman year high school talent show and sang ‘I’m a Little Teapot,’” Charlie calls, “but it came out I’m a little pee pot, and the football team put bags of urine in my locker every day for two solid weeks after that. If I hadn’t known how to set off stink bombs in their locker room, I probably would’ve also changed my name and moved to Liberia.”

  “That’s horrible,” I say.

  “It’s on YouTube, but because some dickweed actor got caught trying to screw a hole in an oak tree while high as a kite that week, I didn’t go viral.”

  I look at Beck.

  “Beef? Chicken? Both?” he asks. “I can do tofu, but I’ll have to follow it with a half-dozen churros and some fried ice cream, and that’ll mean I probably do need to run, but I can’t run until I know the yoga classes are all done in Reynolds Park for the day since my treadmill and I aren’t on speaking terms.”

  “I can see now why your parents had to keep their day jobs,” I say, earning a snort-laugh from Charlie and a shameless grin from Beck.

  “Damn right,” he says. “Both it is. But no refried beans. We learned that lesson the hard way, didn’t we, Charlie?”

  “Speak for yourself, Ryder. My farts smell like candy canes.”

  I should be at work. Dealing with a frog habitat issue on a proposed windmill site.

  But this afternoon was worth the vacation time.

  And it’s barely started.

  Twenty-Four

  Beck

  I wake up Wednesday morning expec
ting more of the same as the last four days. Some hiding out, some badgering Sarah—it’s fun, and I swear she gets prettier with every smile, plus, I had some wicked hot dreams about her and maple syrup last night, and now I’m craving waffles—some conference calls, checking in with Vaughn, some group text messages with the guys, and probably a threat or seventeen from Sarah’s dad.

  What I don’t expect is to see a pig snout right at eye-level.

  “You better not be naked under there,” Sarah says, “because Cupcake likes sausage.”

  Been a long time since I’ve been grinning before I even rolled out of bed.

  “Morning, honey,” I say as she comes into focus in the doorway. She has the leash, which means the pig is moderately contained. “Miss me that much?”

  “We’re doing the video,” she replies.

  “You wanna shower first?”

  “What?” She sniffs her pits. “I already showered.”

  “I meant with me. Naked. If we’re doing this video, you owe me lessons in double orgasms.”

  “Say that to my daughter again, and I’ll slice off your nipples and shove them up your asshole,” her dad growls.

  “Oh, fuck! Jesus! Shit! Sorry, sir. Didn’t see you there.”

  “And I’ll shove your nut sack up your nostrils,” he continues, and I don’t think that’s him practicing for a role.

  “Sorry, sir. Sorry.”

  Sarah’s laughing as she tugs the pig away. “Leave him alone, Dad. He’s probably still dreaming and thinks he’s talking to a prime rib.”

  “And I’ll slice your dick off and peel it like a banana and feed it to the monkeys at the zoo,” Judson adds.

  “Dad. Too far. That’s gross. And monkeys are vegetarian.”

  I start to correct her, but realize that won’t help my case.

  “I don’t understand why you let anyone traipse in here,” Sunny Darling tells me, because apparently it’s bring your parents to your fake boyfriend’s bedroom day. “Your security is appalling.”

  “Mom, he gave me the code to the elevator.”

  “You and these seventeen people already in his apartment. Is there anyone in this city who doesn’t know how to get in here?”