High Horse Bastard

by Smart, Kit

  Three hours later I surveyed the bags and boxes littering my entryway satisfaction. If everything here worked as well as the boots had, I was well on my way. Surrounded by visual reminders would make it much more difficult to backslide into old non-pirate habits. I am nobody’s Girl Friday.

  * * * * *

  Three pages into the manuscript, I knew why the asshole had assigned the High Horse Bastard as my editor. Setting the manuscript aside, I grabbed my phone and sent a message to the Bastard’s assistant.

  Twenty minutes later, I left the new tea shop armed with a box of Earl Grey tea, and the hope that providing Hastings with what, according to his assistant, was his favorite tea would go a long way to dissipating the tactlessness of him having been singled out to edit a romance novel with a disabled male protagonist.

  6

  The doorbell rang just as I was curating my living room with an eye to the piratical. Having already decided that the giant glass jar of flowers that customarily kept on the coffee table were inappropriate to my new mind-set, I had banished them to the kitchen. The gleaming circular sterling silver tray with its collection of candles that occupied one end of the rough hewn wood table could stay I decided. There was something about the silver of the tray in combination with the variously glass and metal candle holders that was reminiscent of a pirate's treasure. Just to be certain, I lit the candles and stood back to admire the way the light lit up and flickered against the metals. Definitely pirate appropriate.

  I was less certain of the mounds of pillows and sheepskins that dominated my dark sectional sofa. Initially, the first few sheepskins and cushions had been chosen with an eye to lightening up the unrelenting black of the sofa, however, once I had them, I had discovered just how useful they were for cozying up and nesting on the wide seat of the sofa; and I had eventually collected a plethora of cushions of all shapes and sizes. Eyeing the sofa now I wondered if it was all too cozy for a pirate. Do pirates coze? My gaze fell on my favorite pillow; the one I used to support my back when I was writing on the sofa. Do pirates care about back support? I thought hard but couldn't ever remember reading of a pirate using pillow or a sofa for that matter. I sighed. Maybe all the sheepskins balance out the pillows? Anything containing the word skin seems like something a pirate would use on their sofa.

  The doorbell interrupted my reverie and I glanced over the room one more time before I started for the door. As I reached the entrance to the living room a thought occurred to me and turning back, I toed the low two banana leaf ottomans under the coffee table. There was nothing I could do about the area rug in the next couple of minutes I decided sending a quick prayer to the powers that be that Hastings would not catch himself up on the rug and sue me for grievous bodily harm. A very real possibility; the way our relationship is going. Resisting the urge to sigh, I marched to the front door, and, pasting an approximation of a welcoming smile on my face, pulled it open.

  I felt my mouth drop open in response to the sight of Hastings soaked through and through. His hair was all but flattened to his skull by the rain and I found myself paralyzed watching in fascination as rivulets of water ran down his face and neck. Glancing down I saw that his long trench coat was also dripping water. "Wow!" I said inanely. "It really is raining out."

  "Yes.” He replied shortly.

  "Come in." I stepped back giving him room to enter the foyer."Don't you have an umbrella?"

  "Crutches and umbrellas are an either-or-proposition Sinclair." He told me as he shut and locked the door behind me. The sound of the lock echoed between us.

  "Uh—Yeah. Sorry." I said absently as I contemplated the situation. "I'll get some towels." Good. Towels are good. "If you take off your coat," I called over my shoulder as I made my way down the hall to the bathroom. "I can hang it up to dry over the radiator or maybe pop it into the dryer if it’s dryer safe." Grabbing a stack of towels from the shelf in the bathroom I turned and made my way back to the foyer.

  "I don't think the dryer will hurt it." He told me as I exchanged the towels for his coat. "Thanks." He called after me as I turned to take the coat to the laundry room. "Just go on through to the living room and make yourself comfortable." I waved at the entryway to the living room with my free hand. "The manuscript is on the coffee table. I'll bring some tea along when I'm finished with your coat."

  Fifteen minutes later, I entered the living room tea tray held before me to find Hastings sitting, not at my desk as I had had expected, but rather ensconced on my probably-not-strictly-piratical sofa making use of my questionable cushions. Eyeing the way he had my favorite back cushion propped between his back and the corner of the sectional and several smaller cushions piled beneath his knees and calves while another cushion served as a lap desk for the manuscript he was reading I carefully entered the room and set the tea tray on the coffee table nearest to him. Not wanting to disturb his work process, I poured the tea as quietly as possible.

  "I hope you don't mind." His voice broke the silence and I looked up. Catching my eye, he nodded at his legs where they rested along the chaise lounge section of the sofa.

  I shrugged. "Not at all." I set a tea cup on the table beside him and took up my own. "It's what sofas are for. I have a lap desk if you’d like?”

  "Nah." He leaned forward and grabbed his tea. "The cushion is fine."

  "I'll, uh, turn on the fireplace so you can dry out." I told him after catching sight of his damp shirtsleeves as he reached for the tea.

  "Thanks." He said absently as he refocused on the manuscript in front of him.

  * * * * *

  "This is utter shit."

  I glanced up warily from my position curled up in my favorite reading chair, where I had been enjoying my tea and making project notes while Hastings went through the manuscript. "Excuse me?"

  "This,” He held the manuscript up in one hand and waved it. "is utter shit.”

  "Is that your professional opinion or—"

  "Don't." He snapped. "Just don't." Leaning forward he tossed the manuscript on the table where it landed with an angry thunk.

  I considered him carefully. "I know it isn't exactly high literature but it does fulfill all of the project requirements. I watched in fascination as the pulse in his throat began to beat frantically.

  "This is a cheap, lazy, cash grab." Every word reverberated with an icy anger that was somehow worse than if he had shouted. "This is simply another romance in which a disabled lead is given a token disability to meet the genre or line requirement. There has been no effort to portray the disability accurately. Did you even bother to do any research?"

  “I—no." I admitted then hastened to defend myself as his scowl deepened. "I just used the notes that the author prepared.

  "Bitch move Sinclair."

  "Hey!" My body began to hum with indignation. I mean, yes the man was my editor and all, but ‘bitch move’ was carrying criticism too far. "I have fourteen days—fourteen days to finish this book." I leaned forward and stabbed my fingers in the direction of the manuscript where it lay on the table. "This book that I inherited from another writer. What exactly do you expect me to do?!"

  He glared at me. "I expect you to never again bring up the issue of time. The fact that you were too much of a wimp to negotiate a reasonable amount of time for yourself is not my problem."

  "Wow! Are you this supportive with all of your authors or is this reserved only for me?"

  "The rest of my authors know better than to present me with bullshit." He snapped brown eyes flashing with anger. "You're better than this Sinclair. Do. Better."

  * * * * *

  The second my front door slammed behind him I stormed to the hallway line closet and grabbed my bucket of cleaning supplies. Forty minutes of angry cleaning later; my bathroom was gleaming and I had regained a semblance of calm. I pulled off my rubber gloves, deposited them in my bucket of supplies, and carried the bucket back to the linen closet where I stored it next to the vacuum.

  Next, I headed to the ki
tchen and put the kettle back on. As I dropped a couple of mint tea bags into a teapot, I checked out the clock on the wall next to the pantry and winced when it informed me that it was a quarter past midnight. What have you gotten yourself into?

  A few minutes later I was headed back into the living room armed with a new tea tray. I ignored the sofa area entirely and headed straight to my desk.

  Two hours of research later I knew two things: Hastings was right in his analysis of the disabled lead; and I had very little time to adequately do both the research and the writing required to make this book a worthy effort.

  "Fucked. I am fucked."

  7

  “I can’t help but feel that you’re about to ask for something Sinclair.” Hastings nodded at the overburdened coffee table as he took a seat on my pirate sofa. The rain from the previous day hadn’t stuck and he was a distinct contrast from the damp version that had dripped his way through my door the previous evening. I eyed his immaculate suit and not a strand out of place hair. I think maybe I prefer the damp version.

  I fought the urge to deny it. “Actually, I would like to make a proposal.” I took a seat across from him.

  “An indecent one by the look of things.” He eyed the plates of scones, sandwiches and assorted pastries that I had arranged on the table. “You must have been baking all night.”

  I leaned forward and hefted the tea pot. “Tea?” I had ordered everything online from a local tea shop and replaced it, but I wasn’t about to tell him that.

  “Please.” He remained where he was forcing me to pour the tea into his cup where it rested on the table. That monumental exercise of balancing a full tea pot over; I filled my own cup. Once I had doctored my tea with milk, I childishly nabbed a scone and several sandwiches for myself and then proffered the tongs. We don’t stand on ceremony here.

  Hastings eyed me from his position leaning back against the sofa. “What do you want Sinclair?”

  “Is that the expression you use on writers who have the nerve to ask for an extension?” I set the tongs down.

  “Are you asking for an extension?” He regarded me sardonically over raised eyebrows.

  “Nope.” I took up a tiny cucumber sandwich took a bite. I eyed him as I chewed. I must be nuts to think this could work. “I am asking for a collaboration.”

  Sardonic morphed into incredulous. “For god’s sake Sinclair, you have fourteen days to finish this project. Exactly who do you think I can get on such short notice? I’m an editor not a wizard.”

  I popped the remainder of the sandwich into my mouth, and smiled at the image of Hastings dressed as Harry Potter that floated through my mind at his words. “You.”

  He blinked. “Me?”

  “Yes.” Enjoying his reaction, I took a moment to contemplate the choices on my plate. Is it scone time or do I continue with the sandwiches? Eventually, I selected a salmon sandwich. “Problem?”

  “Why?” There was a hard edge to the question that I didn’t understand and a tension in his posture that hadn’t been there earlier.

  “Because you were right.”

  “Does it hurt?” He quirked an eyebrow at me.

  “Hurt?” I echoed, confused.

  “Admitting I’m right.” He clarified finally leaning forward to snag his cup of tea.

  “Smug bastard.”

  “So I’ve been told.” He regarded me over the brim of his cup. “What brought this on?”

  “Last night, after you left I did some research.” I felt my stomach begin to squirm uncomfortably as I prepared to venture into potentially hazardous territory. “About what you said.”

  He took a sip of tea. “I leave and you immediately start to research?”

  “Well—no.” I scowled at him. “First I cleaned the bathroom.”

  “First you cleaned the bathroom, and then you hit the computer?” He tilted his head back.

  “I was pissed.” I muttered into my tea.

  “At me?” Was that amusement? I glanced up at him. It was.

  “Yes at you.” I nabbed my scone and began to break it into small pieces. The destruction satisfying both my residual irritation and my building squeamishness.

  “Are you shredding that scone in my place Sinclair?” Again the sardonic eyebrows.

  “Yes.” I admitted.

  “You’re still pissed at me.” He looked vaguely satisfied. Smug bastard.

  “Yes.” I answered his non-question. Some things need to be stated.

  “Why?” His question hung between us for a long moment as I tried to find the words to answer.

  “Because it would have been simpler.” I dropped the remaining piece of scone on my plate with a sigh. “And I only have fourteen days. And—” I waved at hand in the general direction of the powers-that-be. “But,” I amended my conjunction. “You were—are right about the existing material being utter bollocks.” I let that settle between us as I took a deep breath. “And I need help.” I hated the way that sounded so I opened my mouth to add to that, to modify it somehow.

  “Why me?” Laying his arm across the sofa back, he cut me off with a quiet aggression that had me trying without success to read his expression.

  “As you said, there’s no time to get anyone else,” I stammered still trying to read him while my stomach churned. “And as you demonstrated last night you already have opinions about—and you’re available…”

  “And?”

  “And?”

  He glanced down at his tea briefly before leveling his gaze back at me. “And I have a disability—Cerebral Palsy. Like the hero in the book.” His tone was as level as his gaze. “If we are going to collaborate Sinclair you’re going to have to overcome your discomfort with that and learn to look directly at it. Fourteen days does not allow for a lot of time for dancing around your feelings.”

  I felt as though someone had swept the proverbial rug out form under me. My feelings? “Okay.” I said slowly, feeling my way along. “So is that a yes? You’ll collaborate?”

  He studied me for a long moment. “That’s a conditional yes.” He affirmed. “So long as you don’t get squeamish on me, I will collaborate.”

  Despite the fact that it was clearly a warning, I felt a surge of relief, albeit one that evaporated as quickly as it had come at his next words.

  “Have you ever fucked a man with a disability Sinclair?”

  * * * * *

  I felt my jaw begin to drop in shock before it occurred to me that it was a test, a shock tactic to see if I was as good as my word and I converted the motion to a laugh instead. “Nice try.” I nodded at him and took a swallow of tea.

  That earned me a crooked little smile. “The question stands Sinclair.” The smile disappeared. “Have you ever fucked a man with a disability?”

  Are you offering? “Can’t say that I have Hastings.” I deliberately answered in the same tone I would have used had he asked if I had tried a new brand of cookie. It’s ten percent what you say and ninety percent how you say it right? “Is that relevant?” I forced down the squeamishness that told me that what we were discussing was inappropriate. I will treat this like any other type of research—with matter-of-fact professionalism. I told myself.

  “It speaks to the problems with the initial scenes of the book.” He told me matter of factly. Apparently matter-of-fact professionalism is going around. “Able-bodied people do not tend to see people with disabilities as sexual beings or sexual prospects. It is, therefore, unrealistic, that our able-bodied heroine would: a) pick up our hero in a bar and b) see—fuck him immediately thereafter.” There was a hard edge to that, one that couldn’t be completely concealed by his deliberate tone and I tucked that away for future contemplation as I leaned forward to grab my notebook from under the table.

  “What are you doing?”

  I looked up from jotting down what he’d just told me and caught him giving me a look so focussed that I froze feeling suddenly that being the center of this man’s attention was a very dangerous pla
ce to be. “Taking notes?”

  He blinked; looked disconcerted by the notion, and the mercurial change in expression drew attention to the lines of strain beside his eyes and the way he was gripping his tea cup a little to hard. You’re not as cool about this as you would have me believe are you? “Is that a problem?”

  “I—uh, no.” He told his tea.

  Silence.

  “So,” I prompted. “Finding someone to fuck can be challenging?”

  He looked up quickly. Startled are we? I can swear too Hastings. “Yes…”

  “But not entirely outside of the realm of possibility surely?” I pressed, determined to salvage any part of the manuscript I could at this point. Fourteen days is not a lot of time to be starting from scratch.

  “All but.” There was the slightest hint of tension to that—the kind brought on by a clenched jaw and tight throat. His face showed nothing. But his milk chocolate brown eyes bored through me.

  “Surely…” I began without any clear direction of what I was going to say. The calm, contained expression on his face made me doubt what I had thought I had heard seconds before.

  “Surely?” He prompted.

  “Surely people aren’t so…” I trailed off.

  “A disabled body requires accommodation that an able body does not.” He told me dispassionately. “There are not many people eager to sign up for that.”

  He held up a hand to stave off my instinctive and possibly guilt driven protest. After all, it isn’t like you’ve ever dated or even considered dating a man with a disability. “Which is why, the initial sex scene in the manuscript is also rubbish.” He eyed me apparently anticipating a protest.

  “Why?” You wanted a collaborator. I reminded myself barely suppressing a sigh. You may as well put your money where your mouth is and make use of him.

  “It’s just regular able-bodied sex with a token disabled person thrown in.”

  “Okay.” I scribbled that down in my notebook. “So the sex needs to be re-written.” I can handle that. “Is rewriting the meet-cute scene really necessary? Surely it can’t be that difficult to—” I broke off at his sigh.