#1 Muse

by T Gephart

  “Scully is still waiting in the car, we should go before this gets any worse.” Luke’s head jerked to the door.

  I bit my lip, glancing around the room before my eyes fell back on a still-sleeping Nick. “But I didn’t get my pages back.”

  “Honey, I think the manuscript is the least of your problems. Cut your losses and let’s get out of here before the woman who you were impersonating turns up and we have some serious explaining to do.” Luke circled his hands around my arm and yanked us away from the couch.

  Of course he was right; we needed to get out.

  And I had every intention of leaving.

  Except . . .

  “Can you help me move him to the bedroom?”

  The look of horror had returned to Luke’s face, dropping his hands from my arm like my body had caught fire. “Are you fucking crazy? What part of we’re not supposed to be here and we need to get out do you not understand?”

  “Oh please, don’t pretend like you expected me to be logical about this. We’re both here aren’t we? It’s too late for that.” The time for exploring my sanity, and whether or not any of it was a good idea, had probably expired the minute we’d all climbed into the car like vigilantes and driven to his house. I’m not saying it was my proudest moment as an intelligent human, but there was no point splitting hairs that late in the game. “Stop being so dramatic and help me get him to his bedroom.”

  There was no reason for me to do anything other than leave. Sure, I hadn’t recovered the manuscript—the prime reason for me being there—but I highly doubted that was going to happen at this point. Leaving made sense, but as I looked at him, his body tossed on the couch, I felt compelled to make sure he was okay. Or at the very least save him from falling off the couch and hurting himself. Maybe it was my way of finding redemption, my good deed to try to negate all the shady shit I’d recently done. Or maybe I’d woken up from a rough night of drinking and felt like absolute hell and wanted to make it easier for him.

  In any case, whether it was apathy or for restitution, it felt important that I do it. And then lock the door behind us in case some other nutter had similar ideas. He’d been too trusting, too unguarded, and even though he lived in a nice part of town—it had been too risky.

  Luke huffed in exasperation but thankfully didn’t continue to argue. Instead he followed me to the couch, where I gently grabbed Nick’s legs while Luke took the lion’s share of the heft, wrapping his hands under Nick’s arms and lifted.

  In what could only be described as an awkward dance, the two of us managed to shuffle him off the couch and haul him down the hall to where we assumed his bedroom was. At least I hoped that’s where it was, because I wasn’t sure what else we were going to do if his bedroom was in some secret hidden room. Not going to lie, he weighed a ton, the sigh of relief both literal and metaphorical as we passed an open door that revealed a room with a bed. I didn’t even care if it was his room, my arms starting to shake as we lowered him down onto the mattress.

  By some miracle—or from the copious amount of alcohol that no doubt had been consumed—he didn’t wake up, allowing us to manhandle him without so much as cracking an eyelid. He moaned softly as I positioned him, curling to his side the minute I’d taken my hands away.

  He looked so innocent, so vulnerable that I almost felt bad for seeing him like that.

  Almost.

  Because as I’d mentioned before I had questionable boundaries and wasn’t the best person in the world.

  “Claire, we need to go.” Luke’s hand curled around my elbow and jerked me away from the bed.

  I nodded, or at least that was what I thought I did. But as my feet stayed on the floor at the edge of his mattress, I couldn’t get over how beautiful he was.

  Lying in front of me.

  Vulnerable.

  “Oh my God, you killed him?”

  Luke and I whipped our heads around, finding Scully in the doorway, her hand covering her mouth in horror.

  “Seriously?” I hissed back. “You both have been watching waaaaaay too much television.”

  Knowing we were well past the point of pushing our luck, I grabbed Luke’s arms pulling him outside Nick’s doorway as we gently pushed Scully out of the way. Thankfully the room was mostly dark, the only light streaming from the hall which I put the kibosh on the minute I shut the door.

  At least if he woke up, he wouldn’t be able to identify us in a lineup. Not physically anyway. I hadn’t completely lost my mind.

  “Hey, I didn’t even get to see him properly,” Scully giggled, retreating back to the living room as we moved further away from his room.

  “You saw him plenty tonight when you gave him my story, which I might add, still hasn’t been recovered.”

  Ironic that my sole objective had become an afterthought. Still, no point dwelling on it now.

  Scully tapped her lip, looking at the closed door. “Do you think he gave it to Audrey?”

  It was the second time I’d heard that woman’s name, and in both instances I didn’t like it.

  So maybe I was a tiny—microscopic—albeit irrationally bit jealous. Clearly I needed to reevaluate my earlier statement that I hadn’t lost my mind.

  Dumbass.

  “Who cares?” Luke tapped his foot impatiently. “Maybe he gave it to Santa Claus, it doesn’t change the fact we need to get the hell out.”

  Yes.

  Leave.

  We needed to.

  “Who’s Audrey?” I asked as Luke pulled us to the front door. It was more like a huddle at the line of scrimmage being moved down the field, my feet barely touching the ground as we made it to the threshold.

  Scully pushed back, arching her back defiantly as she stood her ground. “The writer’s assistant, they are supposed to be looking for a project together. And stop pushing me around, one of you needs to tell me why the hell he was unconscious on the bed.” With her hands anchored on her hips, she dared either one of us to move her.

  As quickly as I could, I gave her the rundown.

  He was extremely drunk.

  Tripped on him.

  Helped him into his house.

  See, your Honor, there was no foul play and/or trespassing when I entered Mr. Larsson’s premises.

  “Wow, he must have hit it hard after I left then because he was totally sober when I saw him.” Scully looked perplexed and in no hurry to leave.

  Great, maybe it had been my writing that had driven him to drink.

  Shit.

  Because I didn’t have enough self-esteem issues, I had to add hypotheticals to it as well.

  Luke looked between us, tipping his head to the street. “Again, this is a conversation we should have in the car. Preferably as we drive home.”

  “We can’t just leave him here,” Scully protested, her body stopping us from getting to said car.

  “Of course we can, he lives here. This is exactly where we should leave him. We on the other hand, should—” Luke didn’t get to finish his sentence when he heard a faint—but definite—moan coming from the bedroom.

  Scully looked at me, my urge to go check at odds with my self-preservation as I twitched where I stood.

  “If he was so drunk he was unconscious, he needs someone to look after him.” Not sure if it was her maternal instinct showing up a couple of months early or she was genuinely concerned, but either way, it gave me a reason to stay.

  A reason I hadn’t even realized I was looking for until then.

  Well look at that.

  I really was crazy.

  Abandoning any pretense that I had my mind right, or that I wanted to leave—one and the same really—I threw my own argument into the ring. “She’s right. What if he hurts himself? Or worse? He ends up a headline tomorrow, drowned in his own vomit, I’ll never forgive myself.”

  “Not to mention our DNA is all over the place, and I don’t want to have this baby in jail.” She rubbed her belly to reinforce the point.

  Luke shook his
head, the I-can’t-believe-you-guys written all over his face. “You said back in the car it was a first offence, they’re not going to lock anyone up.”

  “Murder is a felony, Luke. I have to stay for all our sakes.” I stood with Scully in solidarity. “You two go, and I’ll hang out until almost morning, make sure he’s fine, and then catch a cab home.” I pushed lightly on Luke’s chest.

  Another head shake and with few “fucks” muttered under his breath, he took Scully’s arm and pegged me with a final look. “If this goes bad, call me immediately. And for the record, I think this is crazy.”

  I nodded, agreeing that as far as sensible decisions, this wasn’t one of them, but made my peace with it.

  “I’m fine, go.”

  God I hoped I was right.

  Because, as I watched my two best friends disappear from view, I had no idea if any of it was going to be anywhere close to fine.

  It was the opposite of fine.

  It was definitely not fine.

  I LOCKED THE DOOR AFTER my friends had left. I didn’t want Audrey or anyone else paying us—listen to me, us, like we’re a fucking couple and I belonged there—walking in unannounced, and tossed the keys on the coffee table.

  Then I patted myself on the back for my good deed—which would hopefully balance out my not-so-good intentions—before I returned to the bedroom, crossing my fingers to find a still-sleeping movie star.

  It would be helpful if he was still breathing as well, considering that was the reason I was supposed to have stayed.

  My body tensed as my fingers wrapped around the knob. Slowly—and praying to the DIY Gods someone had had the good sense to WD-40 the hinges—I opened the door.

  Breath.

  Held.

  The exhale only came when the light from the hallway illuminated a stunning, alive, but still sleeping Nick, thankfully where I’d left him.

  Thank you, God.

  With his welfare confirmed, I seriously considered snooping around and turning up the manuscript I’d come to find in the first place. Even though he hadn’t seemed to have had it when he walked in, there was a chance he’d dropped it in the bushes or tossed it in his mailbox before I’d found him at his front door. Or maybe my manuscript was shoved into his pants, just waiting for me to extract it. All I had to do was reach down there and . . .

  Ugh.

  Not even I could sink that low. Besides, as I watched him, the guilt ate at me.

  Because as dumb—and irrational—as it sounded, it felt wrong to take advantage of him.

  He looked awkward, still clothed and wearing heavy black boots. I was almost positive it couldn’t be comfortable, my own shoes getting toed off as I stalked closer to the bed.

  Don’t do it. My subconscious warned, the idea not even fully formed in my mind as it was discounted.

  Maybe only the boots, I rationalized.

  It’s not like touching his feet was a violation. He’d be wearing socks, there’d be no skin-to-skin contact at all.

  No.

  No touching.

  Ok, fine . . . just the boots.

  I got closer, my fingers quickly undoing his laces as I loosened both boots. My hands wrapped around the heel, attempting to be both agile and delicate as I shimmed the boot off his foot. He stirred but didn’t wake, letting me get the other one off before setting them both down at the base of the bed. His socked feet wriggled as I came back up to inspect him.

  He purred a sigh of satisfaction, like my small act of kindness pleased him, tempting me to take more off. Socks maybe?

  No.

  I had already pushed my luck too far.

  My hands were shoved into my pockets—my attempt at restraining myself—as my head shook, returning to the safety of the doorway.

  As tempting as it would be to lay on that bed with him, I would be spending the night on the couch. There, I could “observe” him, make sure he was okay without infringing too much on his personal space. Hopefully I could leave in the early hours of the morning before he woke, and no one would be any wiser.

  Or he could potentially emerge from his drunken slumber, find me in his house, mistake me for a burglar and bludgeon me to death with one of his award trophies. It really could go either way.

  And with that little nugget ping-ponging in my brain, I retreated to the living room, laid on his couch and stared at the ceiling.

  Remember when my biggest problem was writer’s block and not having a steady job? Funny how I thought it couldn’t get worse.

  Thank God my parents weren’t around to see.

  Even though I’d been a grown-ass woman in college when they left, they’d still worried I’d end up in some kind of mess. Not anything illegal per se, more likely low-key mayhem. Cody and Courtney were born a year a part with Cody—the elder of the two—five years younger than me. We’d get up to stupid pranks as kids, making my parents gray before their time. And yeah, as I sat in the living room of a famous man who probably didn’t remember me, I questioned if perhaps my parents were right.

  Although, my evening escapade would make a great idea for a script. Who didn’t like an intriguing spy-esque tale about a girl who only had her wits to keep her out of trouble? Maybe she had to infiltrate a hostile foreign embassy, her mark a devastatingly handsome diplomat from an eastern European country. I imagined Nick in a suit, traveling covertly with a polypropylene ballistic black suitcase as he rendezvoused with contacts in different countries trying to find the mole. He’d fall in love with the beautiful spy of course, torn between betraying her and serving his country or defecting. Maybe she’d be playing him, using his feelings for her as a weakness to destroy him.

  Man, he was good.

  Or more to the point, I was in the presence of him.

  Perhaps there was some science behind it that could explain it. As to why he helped me tap into creativity I couldn’t seem to reach by myself. I’d always preferred sex to masturbation, liking the assist rather than being there alone with my own hand. So maybe it was sort of like that.

  Like my brain had been rewired and recalibrated, ideas and thoughts percolated. It was fresh, unforced and made me excited to write again. I hadn’t had the compulsion to put pen to paper like that in a long time and sitting around and fighting the urge wasn’t an option even if the setting wasn’t ideal.

  Except, the setting—and the person it belonged to—was exactly what prompted the urge in the first place.

  I needed to make good life choices, and as I looked around wondering if this was my bottom or the beginning of my magnum opus, I wasn’t going to squander the opportunity I’d been given. Not today, Satan. Not today.

  So while I camped out on Nick’s couch like a squatter, I pulled out my phone and opened my notes section. I’d have preferred my laptop but I would have to make do. The sexy spy wouldn’t moan about her lack of materials. No—she would get shit done, which was exactly what I was doing as my fingers plotted out ideas and tapped out notes.

  Damn, it felt good.

  “Thank you, Nick Larsson,” I whispered, turning my attention to my phone.

  Maybe the night wouldn’t be so bad after all.

  I just had to make sure I didn’t fall asleep.

  I DIDN’T SLEEP.

  Instead, I wrote like a madwoman, backing up my notes every twenty minutes to my cloud so I didn’t lose anything. It wasn’t fan fic either, but an actual script—something I could potentially shop.

  And best of all.

  It didn’t suck.

  Well, at least I didn’t think it did.

  Delirium had probably set in, madness consuming me as I purged out words, which unfortunately had happened while I was trespassing. Still, you couldn’t control when the creativity struck, and maybe all that bullshit about Nick being my muse hadn’t been bullshit after all.

  There was something about Nick that affected me like other men didn’t. Not that I hadn’t dated other guys or found them good-looking, but not to the level I was attracted t
o Nick. Maybe it was because he was insanely hot and talented, but I wasn’t going to rule out magical powers either.

  Hell, if being in his vicinity was enough to revive my productivity and bring back my mojo, I’d drink his freaking bathwater and not bat an eye. I’d probably drink his bathwater even without the additional incentive. And yes, I needed serious professional help.

  Due to dedication, delirium, or possibly just stupidity, I hadn’t realized that those nighttime hours had faded, and the morning was no longer a distant possibility. Unlike jail time, which was probably going to be in my future.

  SHIT.

  The door I’d left open a crack last night so I could hear him, meant I had no real warning, Nick groaning as he stepped out into the hall. His bare feet—the socks gone—moved slowly from his doorway, making his way to the kitchen.

  My whole body froze, every muscle still, as I watched, wondering how hung over he was, and whether or not I could lay flat, camouflaging myself or try my luck at impersonating a lamp.

  I didn’t dare even blink, worried that just the fluttering of my eyelashes would be enough to attract attention. As for my heart, it was beating loud enough I was shocked he hadn’t heard it.

  If he’d noticed me, he sure as hell wasn’t letting on, his slow dance with next-day regret happening in front of me while I looked on like a silent voyeur with a panic-induced fever.

  And.

  Oh.

  My.

  God.

  At some point of the night/morning he’d obviously shucked his clothes, the boots I’d helped him with nothing compared to what else he took off. I guess even drunk he’d managed a certain amount of dexterity—something else to admire. But currently, that wasn’t the talent I was most in awe of.

  He was topless, a pair of sweats hanging off his hips seductively so he didn’t flash anything indecent—not that I would have complained—and more of his bare, taut skin than I had ever seen up close before.