by Karina Halle
She pouts, looking absolutely adorable. “When did you become such a criticism guru?”
“Darling, I went to an all-boys school in England. You only heard criticism. You learn to handle it.”
“And somehow your ego survived intact and grew bigger than ever.”
I grin down at her, slipping my hand down the soft skin of her chest. “What can I say, it was overdue.”
“Seriously though,” she says, putting her hand on mine to stop me. “We have to keep going. With the writing,” she adds.
“All right, well, back to the drawing board.” I sit down across from her and steal her coffee again.
“Hey,” she chides me.
I shrug, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand and pushing it back to her. “Sorry, darling, I’ll make you another cup. Okay, so we still have those other ideas we came up with.”
She rubs her lips together in thought. “We do. But I think we need more. Our tastes have evolved since then. At least our aspirations have. This book did really well. We have to come up with something that will do equally amazing. We don’t want to be a flash in the pan.”
“We really should have written in some characters that could have been spun-off of.”
“Nah, not in erotica. I say we do a tried and true staple with a twist.” She smiles to herself. “What about Slammed by the Single Dad?”
I laugh. “That could work,” I concede. “I’m guessing it’s self-explanatory.”
“Yeah…but never mind. Let’s put that aside for now.”
My mind starts flipping through all the books I see bloggers using all those eggplant emojis for (eggplant equals cock, by the way).
“I’ve got it,” I announce. “Dirty Broken Bad Boy Billionaire. About a billionaire with a big cock who loves to eat pussy but can’t commit.”
“It’s been done.”
“The title?”
“The concept.”
“Yeah…but there’s a twist! You see, the heroine is the nanny of his child. And she uncovers a secret about him.”
“Sounds a lot like Falling for the Secret Male Stripper.”
“Well, we can’t stray too far from the formula that works.”
“All right. Dirty Broken Bad Boy Billionaire is up next for Blake Lovecox.” She pauses, looking me up and down. “Can we put you on the cover, wearing a suit? I think that would be really hot.”
“Hot for the readers or hot for you?”
“Both.”
“I’m okay with that,” I tell her, flattered that she wants me on the cover. I flip her computer back open. “Let’s leave Ford Titan and Shasta Black in the past for now. Our new hero and heroine need names.”
Let the brainstorming begin.
16
Amanda
I used to think one of the more compelling reasons authors write together is because they have someone else to cheer them on, someone to be accountable for besides themselves. If you slack off, you have someone to tell you to pick up the pace, to hit you upside the head, to force you to work. After all, it’s harder to let two people down rather than just one, especially if you’re used to disappointing yourself all the time.
But the more I write with Blake, the less I get done. Somehow when we hated each other we were able to get a lot more writing done. Now that we’ve tried to actually make this a career, now that we’re actually making fucking money, the words have stopped flowing and writer’s block is forever rearing its ugly head in my life once again.
Oh, who am I kidding? I can’t pretend I don’t know why we’ve been slacking. It’s not the pressure of trying to top Falling for the Secret Male Stripper (not entirely). It’s the challenge of choosing writing over fucking. Because, Jesus, for once in my life I’ve got every single sexual fantasy I’ve ever wanted, everything that my ex never was, all at my fingertips. It’s instant access to an orgasm whenever Blake is around, and when he isn’t around, I’m getting hand cramps from masturbating so furiously. It’s not just the smut that we’re writing. It’s the smut that we’re doing.
Every spare second.
Obviously the only solution is to avoid each other and try and write separately. That was my plan anyway, and I knew just the place to do it. My parents have a cottage on a nearby island that’s been in the family for at least fifty years. It’s small, nothing fancy, though some of my fondest memories were being young and running amok there with my sister. Usually our nanny Karen would take us there when my parents wanted peace and quiet in the house, but sometimes, some lucky weeks during the dog days of summer, it would be the four of us—Dahlia, me, Mom and Dad. For once I could actually feel what it was like to have a family, and since the cottage is small, we really got to know each other. Even my mother, who never drinks anything other than wine now, would drink beer on the porch, wear flip-flops and no makeup, and take us for walks along the beach while I entertained her with stories.
The minute that I told my parents I wanted to use the cottage for a few days to “relax,” the more I realized I wanted Blake there with me. It’s a completely stupid idea to invite the very reason why your work ethic is non-existent. But I can’t really explain it. It’s not that I want his company, I mean the guy drives me crazy outside of the bedroom, but some tiny part of me wants to show him something of my past. Besides, a change of scenery will probably do us some good, and even though it’s scary to take the two of us and remove us from the world we’re used to, I think it will work out.
If it doesn’t completely blow up in our faces.
But we’ll see.
First, though, I have to work up the nerve to ask him. And the fact that I have to work up the nerve, that I’m actually nervous, that I’m actually worried, says a lot of things I don’t want about me. Mainly that I care what Blake Crawford thinks of me.
Because, shit. I do care.
A lot.
On Wednesday night I send him a text. I’d just seen him yesterday for another writing session turned sex romp, and I’d casually mentioned that the next time we saw each other we had to get something done besides each other.
Totally fine if you say no, but did you want to get away for a few days to write? I was going to go to my parents’ cabin on Salt Spring Island this weekend for inspiration. Thought it might help.
I stare at the phone and lie back in bed.
Just staring.
Waiting.
I spy on a few Facebook profiles.
Still waiting.
Paint my nails emerald green.
Still waiting.
I hear Ana opening the fridge so I scamper out into the kitchen, looking for a distraction.
“Busy writing?” she asks me before pulling out a jar of mayonnaise and closing the fridge door with her ass. I watch, mystified, as she unscrews the lid and then dips a spoon inside of the jar. She leans back against the counter, that dollop of mayo resting on the spoon, her dark purple gel nails like dinosaur claws.
God, I hope she doesn’t eat that.
“Uh, no,” I say. “I’m having a hard time concentrating.”
“It’s all that penis you’re getting,” she says, the spoon going to her other hand.
“Cock,” I tell her. “It’s always cock. Maybe dick. Never penis unless you’re talking about someone related.”
She scrunches up her nose. “Why would you talk about the penis of someone you’re related to?”
“I have no idea but from now on its cock.”
She shrugs. “I can deal with cock. I can deal with a lot of cock. This, you know.” I watch as she opens her palm and plops the spoonful of mayo into it. She puts the spoon down and starts rubbing her hands together, like she’s putting on hand cream.
“What,” I start, pointing at her, “uh, what?”
“What?”
I nod at her mayo hands. “What are you doing?” I hiss.
She looks down and grins. “Oh, you’ve never seen this before?” she asks, seeming pleased. She then starts rubbing her mayo
-covered hands over her fucking face. “It’s great for your skin.”
I raise my brow. “Yeah. I’m sure GMO-filled canola oil does as much good for your face as it does your immune system.”
She makes a dismissive sound. “My grandmother used to rub fresh goat’s milk all over her face and she had skin like a baby.”
I don’t bother pointing out that fresh goat’s milk and canola oil are like comparing apples and poisonous oranges. Instead, I try not to stare at her in revulsion as her face turns an oily white. It must be the erotica writer in me because all I can think about is how much it looks like an epic cum shot. Cream pies all over the place.
“Well, tell me how I can help you,” Ana says as she washes her hands in the sink. “Need me to be firm with you, like a dictator? I have experience.”
I shake my head, unable to take her seriously as a dictator with a face full of mayonnaise and/or cum. “No, that’s okay. Actually, I may go away for the weekend, you know, for inspiration.”
“Oh yes? Where?” She frowns quickly, looking hurt. “Am I too much of a pain?”
“No, no,” I assure her, even though she is around an awful lot now that her makeup schooling is over. “It’s not you. I just can’t think. I can’t concentrate and I’d rather be doing everything else except writing. Procrastination is at an all-time high.”
“And you’re sure it’s not me?”
“Nooooo,” I say again. “My parents have a cabin on Salt Spring Island, just a thirty-five-minute ferry ride from Swartz Bay. It’s small, cute, with a little wood stove and a big deck overlooking the ocean. It will do me some good. Recharge the batteries.”
“So you’re going all alone…”
“Well…” I say slowly, studying the linoleum pattern on the floor. “I may have just invited Blake.”
A lengthy pause falls over us. She takes a moment to think that over, pursing her lips. “I see,” she eventually says, her expression growing disarmingly suspicious.
Don’t take the bait.
“Interesting.”
Don’t do it, Amanda. You don’t want to hear it.
But I can’t help myself. “Why, why is it interesting?”
Damn it.
She shrugs. “I might not know many things, but I know things about people, particularly men.”
“Do tell.”
“This isn’t about writing.”
“It is!” I exclaim. “A change of scenery, fresh air, all of that will be good for me!”
She wags her pointed nail at me. “You do not jet off to some island somewhere with another man if you’re not interested in him.”
“Hey, it’s not like I’m not interested at all. I mean…I’m only human.”
“Mmm-hmmm.”
“I mean…” I bite my lip, wondering how much I should say. “The sex is just…incredible.”
Her eyes roll to the ceiling. “I know, I live here, remember?”
I ignore the heat in my cheeks. “But just because I like to have sex with Blake doesn’t mean I like him. More than a friend. I mean, I guess it is more than a friend. But we’re fuck buddies and that’s pretty much it. You know. A fuckboy, like Rio would say.”
“Which makes things kind of complicated when you go away together, don’t you think?”
Shit. Will this make things complicated? Maybe I’m scaring him off. Maybe he won’t want to write with me anymore…or have sex. I’m not sure I could survive without either.
Then again, the other week we both agreed to get tested for STDs. I mean, that’s a pretty big commitment in its own way. It said we weren’t sleeping with anyone else. And luckily, the tests came back negative. I’ve been on the pill forever, so it’s just been that much easier, and the sex has gotten that much better. There’s nothing like the feel of his raw, hard cock inside me.
I just hope I haven’t scared that cock away.
“Well, he hasn’t responded yet so maybe…” I trail off, wondering if I should quickly send another text, telling him I’ve changed my mind and would rather go alone. But what if that makes him feel rejected? Wait, can Blake even feel rejected? I’m not sure that’s an emotion he’s capable of, along with empathy, sympathy, or shame.
“He’ll say yes, don’t worry,” she says with a sigh, heading into the bathroom. “Time to wash this off.”
I watch her go and then nervously head back into my room, eyeing the phone as it sits on my pillow, like it’s going to lash out at any moment.
You can fix this, I tell myself.
I gingerly pick up the phone and peer at it.
Blake finally texted back, for once not calling.
Sounds great. When do we leave?
Ah.
Shit.
It’s Friday morning and I’m standing on the curb outside my place, waiting for Blake. The sun is just starting to peek out over the maples, streaming through in columns of golden light. There’s always been something magical about summer mornings. I guess because when I was younger, the summer meant vacation, and if you were up early during the summer that usually meant you were going somewhere fun.
That’s true today, but even though I’m excited about heading to the cabin for the weekend, I’m also flat-out nervous as fuck. I woke up before the sun even rose, taking my shower and spending extra time on my appearance, like I’m going on a date. And in some ways, it is a date—a really long one. I also went through my duffel bag for the millionth time, packing and repacking my clothes. I want to stay comfortable, earthy and sexy, which is somewhat of a tall order. The girls in the Free People catalogs can pull it off, but I’m another story.
Even though I’m the one who invited Blake and we’re going to my family cabin, he insisted on taking Mr. Mean. Can’t say I have a problem with that. The Cooper is cute, but Mr. Mean is a sexy beast, just like its driver.
Butterflies toil in my stomach, heating up my spine and cheeks. I suck in a deep breath and somehow manage to hold it in as I hear the roar of Mr. Mean’s engine and see the black car coming around the corner.
Blake pulls up alongside the curb and gets out, shooting me a grin that I wish didn’t weaken me in the knees.
“Madame, your chariot awaits,” he says, sliding his aviators on top of his head. “Sorry I’m late, I literally rolled out of bed fifteen minutes ago.”
“It’s fine,” I tell him, coming over with my bag. To my surprise he takes it from me and puts it in the trunk, then opens the passenger door, gesturing to it. “After you.”
I shoot him a wry look. “How very gentlemanly of you. You feeling okay?”
“Darling, you should know I’m not a morning person by now,” he says, going around to his side while I get in. “And you should know that they make me delusional. Appreciate the gentleman while it lasts.” He starts the car and slips his shades back down, the corner of his mouth quirking up. “I’m certain all vestiges of decorum will vanish the moment I get you alone.”
“Number one,” I say to him, holding up a finger. “We’re alone right now, and two,” I tick off another finger, “you need to stop reading the thesaurus. It’s good in a bind and that’s it.”
He leans over and snaps his teeth at my finger, trying to take a bite out of it.
I shriek, a little too loudly, and then dissolve into nervous giggles, also a little too loudly. I need to calm my panties, stat.
“And you, my peach,” he says, “need to relax a little.”
“I have been relaxing. Too much. Hence this trip.”
“No,” he says with a quick shake of his head as we cruise down the tree-lined street, passing by folks walking their dogs and a kid delivering the paper. “I said yes to this trip not because we’re going to work.”
“What?”
“Let me finish. I said yes because I think the problem you’re having with so-called writer’s block isn’t that you’re not inspired. After all, you’re getting my dick, how much more inspired can you get?”
“You think that’s the solution
to everything.”
“It’s never not been,” he admits, and I can tell he believes it. “Your problem, Amanda, is that you’re succumbing to the pressure of success.”
“The pressure of success?” I repeat. “You really are delusional in the mornings.”
“Hear me out,” he says, licking his lips. “Look, when we wrote our class project together, we were so focused on just getting it done and producing something and fucking surviving it that neither of us really thought too much about the final grade.”
“Speak for yourself,” I tell him, even though he’s somewhat right. Even though I cared deeply about getting an A and acing it, I also knew I would be graded on how well my part was done and the act of completion, rather than the quality of the story as a whole.
“Then,” he continues, “we decided to have a go at Stripper and see if we could really do the whole erotica self-published ebook thing. There was no pressure at all—it was, for all intents and purposes, an experiment. It was for fun. It was a challenge. And it led to some pretty amazing discoveries. Like you’re phenomenally good at not only writing about cock but getting it too.”
I let out a snort.
“And you’re incredibly cute when you make those noises,” he adds.
I try not to take that as a compliment. “Anyway…”
“Anyway, now that we’ve proven we can do it, now that we’re committing to do another book, to make the fucking big bucks, to make this something real…the pressure is on. And I don’t think I’ve ever met someone who takes on pressure like a job itself. It’s like if you don’t feel the weight of the world on your shoulders, if you’re not grim and serious and suffering, then it’s not real.”
I swallow and gaze out the window, wishing I made coffee to go. The coffee at the ferry terminal is heinous and I’m going to need some sort of stimulant to handle all of this. “I can’t help it if I take it seriously,” I say quietly. “If it’s going to be my career, I have to take it seriously. Stephen King said that writing isn’t something to be approached lightly.”
