Dream Lover

by Aubrey Wright

“Um, I’m an LA girl,” said Shania, “but that sure as shit doesn’t look like Austin to me.”

  “Why the hell is my fiancé hanging out with a cosplay chick behind my back?” I asked.

  My hand holding the phone dropped to my side, and Shania took it and looked through the pictures.

  “‘Holy boobs’ is right,” she said.

  “Where’s George?” I asked, panic flipping my gut around like a pebble stuck in a blender on the smoothie setting. “Where is he?”

  My face went hot, and my fingers went cold. I had no idea what was happening, but I sure as shit didn’t like it.

  “Pepper,” said Katy. “Don’t get all worked up. I mean, I’m sure he’s here somewhere.”

  I didn’t even wait for her to finish her sentence before I had my phone out and was firing off messages like the Annie Oakley of SMSes. And then I decided to go further, calling up George to get to the bottom of things.

  No answer.

  “He picking up?” asked Shania. “He better.”

  One more call, and again nothing. On call number three, it went straight to voicemail. I’d blown off enough bad dates over the years to know what this meant—he was silencing my call.

  “I need to find him,” I said, the sick feeling in my gut growing by the second. “Need to find this dweeb.”

  Over the protests of the girls, I burst out of the convention room and onto the main floor. My eyes darted here and there, trying to pick out Indiana Jones among the crowds of Stormtroopers and Na’vi and Harry Potter characters. The chatter rose to an unbearable din, and I could feel the burning gaze of both the wedding attendees and the convention fans.

  But no George.

  “You OK, princess?”

  A hand fell onto my shoulder and I whipped around to see that it was Mark, my dad. Mom had passed over a decade ago, and he was the only close relation I had in this place. Normally just being around him was enough to make me feel a little better if I was freaking out, but not then, not there.

  “George,” I said in between short, quick breaths. “Where is he?”

  Neither of us had a chance to say anything next. Up ahead, a cute little boy dressed up like an Ewok climbed up onto a chair, cleared his throat, and spoke up like he was the town freaking crier.

  “Um, everyone!” he said. “The wedding’s, um, not happening!”

  Everyone around me froze in place, and I was no exception. Whatever the hell was going on, some eight-year-old knew more about it than me. I broke away from Dad and zipped over to the kid.

  “What did you say?” I asked. “Please tell me you’re just screwing around or something. Is this a meme? Like a real-life meme like planking? But a million times worse?”

  “Oh, hey, Pepper,” he said. “George gave me this.”

  He reached into the pocket of his little teddy-bear-looking costume and pulled out a piece of paper. The borders done up with Avengers and Harry Potter and Star Wars characters alerted me right away that it was a place setting for the wedding dinner later. But it had been repurposed as a note to me—I could tell because my name had been written on it in George’s tiny little typeface right-brained handwriting.

  With shaking hands, everyone gathered around, I opened the note. Seconds later, I dropped it to the ground.

  And just like that, my life changed. And all thanks to a freaking Ewok.

  2

  PEPPER

  Six months later…

  Wine and art—who ever knew such a simple combination could bring such total, head-clearing, extravagant bliss? And, of course, it didn’t hurt that the life model posed in the middle of us ladies and our easels was pure tanned-and-toned LA, prime-cut sex.

  His hair was a sun-kissed golden blond, his lips full and ripe, his eyes sexy little slivers that glimmered like a jungle cat’s primed for the pounce. And his little come-hither smile came so naturally.

  I’d never been much of a painter, but you could say that at that moment I was a little…inspired. Between the booze and the dude, I was in the damn zone, deftly alternating between making little swoops and swatches with my charcoal pencil and taking sips of the lovely, full-bodied cab that the place was so very kind enough to provide.

  Katy and Sam and Shania were among the dozen or so salivating women trying not to drool on their drawings. The wine-and-painting course had been the latest of the ladies’ attempts to get me involved in something that wasn’t work or sitting around in my pajamas watching The Office reruns on Netflix.

  I got that they were just trying to take my mind off the now-half-year-old disaster that had been my wedding day, but at times I felt like they were treating me like some kind of housebound invalid, one of those women in old Victorian-era books who was relegated up to one of the spare bedrooms where she darned socks and watched the wallpaper do spooky things.

  I appreciated the effort, of course, but I had my own ways of coping. This painting course and specifically the guy on display were making me change my mind about their help, however.

  The dude had to know what he was doing. Every now and then he broke character to glance at one of the women, letting those luscious, red lips tug up at one end. The more I stared at him, the more I was certain that he looked familiar, all Nordic and gorgeous, like the kind of guy you’d expect to step off a Viking ship, ax in hand, ready to throw you over his shoulder to give you the ravishing of a damn lifetime.

  OK, Pepper, I told myself, clearing my throat and focusing on my amateurish attempt at capturing the shades of his, um, abs.

  I went back to it, trying to work through the tightness rapidly forming between my legs. I pressed my thighs together hard, hoping the insane horniness would pass. More than anything, I wished I could just turn it off like a light. Being worked up was about the most pointless thing imaginable—I was single, and I hadn’t, ahem, attended to business in a long while in a way that didn’t involve my Hitachi Wand.

  About halfway through my second glass of vino, however, I glanced up to see that the life model was making some serious, serious eyes in my direction. My face went hot, red. Was he really looking at me like that? No way. I chalked it up to the booze, thinking that maybe the instructor had slipped some hallucinogens into the bottle.

  “Make sure to work with the light,” she said as she dramatically swooped around the room, all long hair and flowy cloths. “Wrap yourself in it. Play with it.”

  “I see something I wouldn’t mind playing with,” said Katy, who was seated to my left, her voice low enough that only I could hear it.

  My eyes went wide, and I did my best to hold back my laughter.

  But hey, she wasn’t wrong. The model was posed in such a way that his you-know-what was hidden just out of view. Specifically, right behind those solid-oak-trunk-looking quads of his. OK, I’d be totally lying if I were to say that I hadn’t snuck a peek—fine, a straight-up shameless ogle—of the thing when he slipped the towel off his hips and took his position on that podium of his. And let me just say, it was worth ogling.

  I did my best to clear thoughts like that out of my mind and put charcoal back to paper. But as soon as I did, the second I took my eyes from him, the guy did it again! He shot me a hard glower, one that nearly set my pussy aflame.

  What was this dude doing? Was he seriously being this obvious right in the middle of class? I swallowed hard and took a sip of my wine, hoping a little more cab might calm me down.

  But it was hard. I’d sketch just a little bit more, and right when I was right there on the verge of losing myself in the process, the sexy little fucker would do it again. He’d glance at me, smile just a bit, and look away like he hadn’t done a damn thing.

  “Are you seeing this?” I quietly asked Katy.

  “Seeing what?” she asked.

  I knew I was going to risk sounding like a crazy woman, or even a total freaking egotist, but I had to ask.

  “This guy,” I said. “Have you noticed—”

  “Have I noticed this guy?” she said
back, still speaking softly. “No, I haven’t noticed the little snack that I’ve been drooling over for the last half-hour. Are you crazy?”

  “No,” I said back. “Not that. I think… I think he’s looking at me.”

  “Looking at you how?” she asked.

  “Looking at me like he wants to meet me after class and, uh, take a look at my work.”

  “Are you serious?” she asked.

  “Yeah!” I said, raising my voice enough to catch the attention of the girls around me.

  I blushed and lowered my stupidly giddy voice. Nice one, Pepper. Maybe next time just hop up and announce to the class that you think the life model wants to work on a little art project of his own.

  Once I was sure the girls nearby had gone back to their work, I went on.

  “He’s been looking at me,” I said. “Like in a sexy-times kind of way.”

  “OK,” said Katy. “Just going to move on past the fact that you just said ‘sexy-times.’”

  “Trying to be discreet here,” I said. “But watch him.”

  My timing was perf. Right after I spoke, buck-naked-surfer-Viking boy glanced up and shot me another one of his trademark smoldering stares. It was such a powerful, sexually charged look I halfway thought he really ought to patent it. Maybe find some way to bottle it up and sell it as pure sex—just apply a little dab or two behind the ears whenever you’re in the mood to make a girl not get a damn thing done.

  “Holy shit,” she said. “I think you’re right.”

  “See?” I asked, raising my voice again.

  “Well?” she asked. “What are you waiting for? Flirt right back!”

  “Are you serious?” I asked, keeping my face still and trying not to make it totally obvious what we were talking about.

  “Why wouldn’t I be?” she asked. “He’s hot, you’re hot, and that was kind of sort of a total I-want-to-fuck-you-stupid kind of look he gave you.” Her eyes went wide. “And he just did it again! Come on, Pep—how obvious are you going to make this guy be?”

  “What do I do?” I asked, feeling nervous and turned on all at the same time.

  “Flirt!”

  “Why do people who know how to flirt think that all they need to do to explain it for people who don’t know how to do it is just say the word?” I asked.

  “Because it’s that simple,” she said in between swipes of her pencil. “You telling me that you didn’t flirt with George during your ill-fated courtship?”

  “Not really,” I said. “We kind of just hung out and watched old crappy sci-fi movies that we’d already seen in high school until the wine kicked in enough that things just kind of…happened.”

  “Ah,” said Katy with a smile. “The old-fashioned kind of romance.”

  “Oh, stop,” I said with a smile.

  “But seriously,” she said. “It’s easy. Just follow his lead. He smiles, you smile. He winks, you wink. He pulls out his dick…”

  “I pull out mine—got it.”

  Katy laughed. “Seriously!” she said. “Just give it a try and see what happens.”

  So I did. Katy went back to her picture, and I went back to the drawing and the dude. I didn’t have to wait long for him to make a move—he flashed me another smile soon after Katy and I were done talking. I did the same.

  His smile broadened a bit, and I figured that meant I was on the right track. Moments later, just as Katy hinted he might, my dude winked, the wink-smile-combo on a face like that nearly starting up the great flood part deux down below.

  Then he licked his lips. I shit you not, he licked his lips. And not in a weird, creepy way like a lizard or something. No, it was pure sex, followed by a silent little laugh that made it clear he was feeling very playful.

  So, I followed suit, in the back of my head wondering if the teacher was noticing how very not-still he was being. But I didn’t care—by that point I was so turned on I probably would’ve hopped on his cock in front of the class if he were to give me a signal.

  It felt weird to lick my lips all sexy-like, but it was actually more fun that it was weird. Was this flirting? Was this what I’d always felt too awkward to do all these years? It was so easy, and it didn’t hurt that I had a very, very instructive teacher.

  “OK, class,” said the teacher, snapping me out of my sex trance. “Let’s see what we have.”

  She slowly made her way around the room, the life model reaching for his towel and, to my immense dissatisfaction, wrapping it around a pair of hip notches I just wanted to suck on. Before too long, I felt the looming presence of the teacher over my shoulder.

  “Uh, interesting interpretation, Ms. Barnes.”

  My eyes flicked to the paper in front of me and I realized, to my shock and horror, that I’d gotten a little carried away with the sexually charged atmosphere. I’d drawn the guy all right, but I’d accentuated a particular part of his anatomy more than was realistic.

  To put it bluntly, I drew him with a huge, dripping hard-on. It wasn’t bad, to be honest. Really captured the texture.

  “What can I say?” I said nervously. “I was, um, inspired.”

  “I can see that,” she said. “Excellent, ah, chiaroscuro.”

  “Thanks,” I said, blushing hard.

  With that, the teacher finished up and let us know the time for the next lesson and all that jazz. But I wasn’t concerned about that. I was more interested in my model, the muse of the glorious cock that I’d so artfully etched.

  That same smile flashed on his face. Then, miracle of miracles, he started toward me, nothing but the towel on his perfect body. My throat tightened, and my mind began to race with possibilities for our impending conversation.

  OK, OK, I thought. Calm the eff down. You learned how to flirt without talking just now, right?

  He came closer, his muscles working with each step.

  Just do that, I thought, my heart pounding. Do that, but with words. You use those all the time, right? Of course you do—you’re a freaking executive for a publishing company.

  He was almost to me, now so close I could see the glisten on those perfect lips.

  Right, I thought. You wouldn’t be where you were if you didn’t have some skill with words, right? And he’s totally into you—you probably won’t need to say a damn thing. Well, maybe “yes” or “your place or mine.” Easy stuff.

  Closer. Then closer. My whole body tensed and tightened. My nipples peaked underneath my shirt. My pussy was as wet as a freaking steam room. Closer…

  Then…gone.

  He whooshed past me, the scent of Abercrombie Fierce—de rigueur for a guy like him who’d look at home on the front page of one of their catalogs circa 2002—hanging in the air. Confused, I whipped around in my seat just in time to watch him wrap his arms around…

  The freaking girl who’d been sitting behind me the whole time.

  You know, the girl he was actually flirting with.

  She was tiny and blonde and pretty—still with big tits somehow, of course—an archetypical LA girl for an archetypical LA guy. Figures. They kissed and kissed, her hands moving over his bare, hairless muscles.

  “Nice work, baby,” she said. “Very nice.”

  “And you know what I always want to do when the session’s over, right, gorgeous?” he asked in a low, smoky voice.

  “You don’t need to say another word.”

  After a little more necking, both of them too into one another’s lips and hips and everything else to even notice the woman ten years their senior watching them like a total perv, they hurried out of the class.

  “Ouch,” said Katy. “Better luck next time, kid.”

  I was mortified. I grabbed my things and hurried out of there, crumpling up my handmade dick pic and dropping it into the trash.

  The girls were behind me as I stepped into the warm, afternoon air.

  “Don’t worry about it!” said Sam as she formed up at my side. “Could’ve…could’ve happened to anyone.”

  “Did you
tell them what happened?” I asked Katy.

  “Come on,” said Katy with an impish smile. “I had to.”

  I felt totally defeated. My first kind-of foray into the world of dudes since the wedding, and it couldn’t have gone worse.

  “What would you even talk about with a guy like that, anyway?” asked Shania. “He’s, like, twenty. Probably nothing on his mind but pussy and beer.”

  “I feel like a dumbass,” I said. “And the art wine isn’t taking the edge off.”

  “Well, good news on that front,” said Sam. “Because we’ve still got a big night ahead.”

  Girls’ night out. I’d almost forgotten. But at that moment I wasn’t exactly feeling up for fun.

  “I don’t know,” I said, feeling defeated. “Part of me just wants to go back home, crawl under the blankets on my couch, and watch crappy TV until I somehow manage to forget about the ridiculous embarrassment I just put myself through.”

  “No way,” said Katy, grabbing my arm. “You’ve spent enough nights frying your brain with Netflix.”

  “Yeah,” said Shania. “You’re coming out, and you’re going to have a good time—bet anything on it.”

  “And who knows?” asked Shania. “Might even find a cute guy while we’re out for a little no-strings-attached fun.”

  “God,” I said. “The idea of a guy wanting me in the state I’m in…just seems like total insanity.”

  I glanced over to the door leading into the building, a metal reflective surface that gave me a good look at my appearance. I was just as tall and lanky as ever, my long, slender frame towering above the rest of the girls. My shoulder-length, ink-dark hair was up in a messy ponytail. And my outfit of a flannel shirt and tight jeans made me look less like a hot, single girl and more like a hipster bartender. All I was missing was the little mustache.

  In short, totally unfuckable.

  “Oh, come on,” said Katy. “You know you’re hot as shit. Don’t let the fact that some surfer stud was already spoken for make you think you’re destined to a life of spinsterdom.”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “It just still feels like the wedding was so recent, like I should have at least five more years of therapy before I think about dating.”