by Karina Halle
“No,” I tell him. “But I’m not sure if this will be worse to you or better.”
“Great,” he says dryly. “Okay. What is it?”
“Dad, it turns out that I don’t really want running this bookstore to be my full-time job.”
He stares at me blankly. I’m not sure if he’s heard me or not.
I go on. “The thing is, I do have a full-time job, and it’s one that’s making me a lot of money. More than I could have ever dreamed of at this age.”
“Are you running a prostitution ring?”
“No,” I say warily, trying to read his face. “But sex does sell.”
“Blake…”
“Okay, well I love this store and I love you and I want to help, I really do, but the only way I can help either of us is if we hire a full-time manager for the store. A financial whiz. Someone who knows what they’re doing.”
“But you have a business degree,” he says gruffly. “You’re supposed to use it.”
I scoff. “No one uses their degrees anymore. Welcome to the new generation, Dad.”
“And how do you propose we pay for the manager? With what income?”
He’s taking this surprisingly well so far. Maybe he’s thought of hiring someone too.
But the other shoe is about to drop.
“I told you,” I remind him. “I have money. The money will go toward that, and I promise the business will go back into the black.”
“Son, if you don’t start explaining where the hell this money is coming from…”
“Dad.” Here goes nothing and everything. “I’ve secretly been writing books on the side and self-publishing them. Under a pen name.”
“What?”
“They do really well. Really, really well. Amanda is my writing partner and we write them together.”
“I don’t…” He blinks dumbly.
“Our pen name is Blake Lovecox.”
His head jerks back. “That’s a terrible name.”
“And we write smut.”
Now he’s speechless. “What?” he growls.
“We write smut,” I say with a helpless shrug. “Erotica. We’ve released two books already and we’re working on our third. The reviews are great. The money is better.”
He’s slowly shaking his head and I can practically see the steam escaping from his ears. “This better be a joke.” His voice is practically choking with anger.
“No joke,” I tell him, pulling out my phone and showing him. “These are our books.”
He takes a quick glance. “That’s disgusting,” he seethes.
“Yeah, sometimes it is. But I didn’t want it to be a secret anymore. I’m not ashamed.”
“Well you damn well should be!”
“Why?”
“Because it’s not real writing. It’s not literature. It’s garbage.”
“That’s what people said about Shakespeare back in the day. His plays were just entertainment. But what’s wrong with that?”
“That’s what movies are for.”
“That’s what all art is for. Your creations can become anything to anyone. I’ve realized there’s nothing wrong with letting people escape for a few hours. Plus, you should hear about all the sex lives I’m saving.”
“Other than your own?”
“Dad, I know how you feel about the genre and that’s fine. But really, if you want to save the store, the first thing you need to do is start carrying smut. Or at least romance.”
“I would never,” he grumbles, his face growing red. “And I would never carry that junk of yours.”
I knew he would be like this. I don’t even bother taking it personally.
“Dad,” I tell him, pulling up the calculator and entering a few numbers. “I get my first check from Amazon very soon.” I place the numbers in front of his face. “This is how much I’m giving to the store. The rest is going into savings.”
He stands there, stunned.
“And that’s from one month of sales from one book.” I enter more numbers.
He’s speechless. He licks his lips, eyes darting to me.
“Are you serious?’
I nod.
He clears his throat. “Well then. Congratulations on your new career.”
He pats me on the back, and I watch nearly all his worries lift away.
I wish I could say the same about mine.
22
Amanda
It’s been a week since I last talked to Blake.
He’s called, texted, emailed me every single day.
I ignore them all.
I mean, it’s ridiculous the way I’m acting. I know I’m being a brat. I know I said a bunch of things I didn’t mean because I was just so hurt and vulnerable. And I know I can’t keep ignoring him forever. Even if we weren’t writing partners with two books out and a third in the works, even if we didn’t have paychecks coming that we’d have to divide between us, I’d still have to talk to him because I’m in love with the asshole and that feeling isn’t going away anytime soon, no matter how hard I try to crush it into the ground.
But I’m stubborn, way more stubborn than he is, and when he finally stops messaging me, then I feel the pinch. The real fear. It never was about our secret coming out and that people might judge us. Losing him has always been my number one worry.
I know he cares for me. I know, especially after talking to Sarah, who told me just how wonderful he was at the party, the things he was saying about me, that he would never intentionally do anything to hurt me. And I know that the manwhore is gone and what’s left is one hell of a sexy man who makes me laugh, makes me come, and worships the ground I walk on.
But I worry it’s too late.
Because it was so easy for me to close myself off again. And after everything that has happened with Rachel, I’m not sure he’d be willing to open up and give me another chance.
I just don’t know anything anymore.
So I go for a run.
It’s Sunday morning and Ana is making turnip pancakes once more, so I head out of the house and decide to run into the city and dodge tourists. She’s been very supportive of my new career. After I was outed, it was only a matter of time before I had to tell both her and Rio. They were shocked, no doubt, and Rio made me promise to write Slammed by the Single Dad one day and that she’d give me detailed descriptions of their escapades. I told her I’d think about it.
Ana, of course, wants some sort of credit in my books for being the world’s best roommate. I told her I’d think about that too.
Then there are my parents, who haven’t called me since that day. I’m fine with it. They’re blood and family, so I know that eventually we’ll reconnect. But I’m in no hurry. I can get by without their money, at least until I graduate and my loan runs out, thanks to the Amazon payments, and I think it’s about time that I put some distance between them and myself. I can’t grow, can’t become the person I am with them holding something over me. Besides, after talking to Dahlia the other day, I know that they’ll come around and be more meddlesome and involved than ever, so I should enjoy this break while I can.
For once the run isn’t burning up my thighs and knees, and the city is still a bit sleepy in the morning sun. I cut down across the Empress Hotel and start jogging along Wharf Street when I hear someone yell my name.
“Amanda!”
The voice belongs to a kid.
I turn around and see a tall, stately looking brunette, very Kate Beckinsale circa her romantic comedy days and Kevin, Blake’s stepbrother. While she’s dressed in a white pant suit like she’s about to board a cruise ship, he’s dressed head to toe in plastic armor and carrying a flag with a yellow crest on it. He waves the flag at me.
“Hi,” I say, feeling awkward as they come toward me.
Kevin looks up at his mom. “Mom, this is Amanda, Blake’s girlfriend.”
I force a smile on my face, not sure if I should correct Kevin or not.
“Hi,” I say, giving
her a wave. “Sorry, I’d shake your hand but it’s sweaty.”
She smiles. “I’m Angelica, Blake’s stepmother.”
“Nice shirt,” Kevin says to me with a big smile on his face.
His mother peers at my chest. “Is that Benedict Cumberbatch?” she asks incredulously.
“Mom loves him,” Kevin says, shoving his glasses up on his nose. “Our whole house is a shrine to him.”
“Oh, it is not,” she says, putting her hand on his shoulder and giving me a quick smile.
“Yes it is. Remember when Blake broke your Sherlock shot glass set and you got all mad and made him buy you a new one?”
Oh my god. I see where Kevin’s nerd genes come from. I can also finally see why Blake hates Benedict Cumberbatch so much.
She keeps smiling, nervous now as she tucks her hair behind her ears. “They were a gift, sweetie, that’s the only reason why I was mad.”
“And then you wouldn’t let him touch that mug that says ‘seductively deductive.’”
“That’s enough, Kevin.”
He just keeps smiling, turning his attention to me. “Hey, guess what day it is?”
I frown. “Sunday.”
“No, why I’m dressed like this.” He pats his armor.
“Still figured it was just a Sunday.”
Angelica looks at me. “I’m taking him to Beacon Hill Park to do his…what is it again? Comic con?”
“LAIRE,” Kevin says. He frowns dramatically at me. “Did you forget, Amanda?”
Oh shit. The fucking LARPing shit.
“Blake is doing it with you, right?” I ask him.
“Yeah, he’s meeting me there in a few hours,” he says. “But you also promised.”
I wince, giving Angelica a look. “Well, the thing is…”
They both stare at me. Obviously Blake hasn’t told them anything.
I sigh. I really, really don’t want to go there dressed as Phoenix from X-Men and potentially be shunned by Blake. But I’m not sure I have a choice. “Do you mind if I bring my friend?” I ask him. “She’s really good at fantasy makeup.”
“Sure!” Kevin says. He stabs his staff into the ground, the flag waving. “Come on, mother dear, our kingdom awaits.” He then turns around and starts strutting away.
“Thank you for doing this,” Angelica says to me. “It will be really good for Kevin. And for Blake.” With that, she turns around and trots after her little king.
Hmmm. Blake. Maybe she knows something after all.
There’s no time to think about it though. I continue on my run all the way to a costume shop just outside of downtown where I manage to snag a Phoenix costume that’s straight from a cosplay sex catalog. Then I run back home and break the news to Ana.
“I’ll bring the wine,” she says excitedly.
Two hours later, Ana and I descend on a scene of utter pandemonium. All of Beacon Hill Park is awash with fellow freaks and geeks from all walks of life. There are children and adults, men and women, and a few people who could go either way since they’re dressed like Groot or an orc of sorts. Everyone seems to be split into groups, battling each other with weapons and shields, the air filled with cries and the dull thud of foam against foam. There’s even a beer garden in the distance and a few food trucks that I have no doubt are serving up Game of Thrones style meals.
My Phoenix costume makes me look slightly out of place—there seem to be a lot of people here dressed up as their own creations, and barely any of the women are dressed in such a form-fitting manner. Ana blends in a little more, wearing a full-length red and white Estonian folk costume she pulled from her closet, albeit with a makeup case in one hand and a bottle of opened wine in the other.
“Hello, fair maidens.” Two men are walking toward us, one round like a potato and dressed like a medieval squire, the other looking like Zaphod Beeblebrox from Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy.
“I am Randy the Retiree,” the potato man says. He gestures to his friend. “And this is—”
“Zaphod Beeblebrox,” I fill in.
“No,” Zaphod says, frowning, tossing his straggly blonde hair over his shoulder. “I am Darth Star Lord from the planet Clorox, guardian of the galaxy.”
I cock my head. “I think you’re getting a bunch of things confused.”
“We are from the Senate of Calgon,” Randy the Retiree says and gestures to the field with his arm. “We put on this affair for many to enjoy. All are welcome. Especially the fair ladies.”
“I brought makeup and wine,” Ana says with a wide smile, totally in her element.
“Very good,” Randy the Retiree says. “Your services are needed here.” He puts his arm around her and leads her away.
Zaphod peers at me. “And what is your warrior name?”
“Um, Jean Grey, turned into Phoenix.”
“Peculiar name, Jean Grey Turned into Phoenix” he says. “Come, let us retire to my tent up on yonder hill so we may properly get acquainted away from prying eyes. Everyone is always watching the Senate of Calgon.”
He tries to put his arm around me but I shrug away from it. “I’m not here to battle, or whatever you’re suggesting. I’m here to find someone.”
“Ah,” he says, folding his arms. “And who is this warrior you seek?”
I try and think. There are hundreds of people here fighting in a blur. “He’s British…”
“Everyone here is British,” he says. “Doth not hear thine accent?”
“Right. He should be with a kid. His name is Kev…I mean Betoolamous the Brave.”
“I’m afraid I can’t help you, for there are many brave ones here.” He takes a step closer to me. “As am I. Did you know I’ve been called the best bang since the big one?”
“All right, Zaphod,” I tell him, going around him. “Go back to your Pan Galactic Gargle Blaster.”
“My what?” he asks as I start jogging across the field toward the beer garden, figuring that’s where Blake probably is. That’s where I’d be.
Unfortunately, I have to head right through a battle to get there.
Foam weapons are coming at my head from all directions and it doesn’t seem to matter that I don’t have a shield and I look like I’m trying to go somewhere, because I am hit absolutely everywhere. Foam to the face, shoulders, boobs, gut, ass. Then the ass some more by some medieval pervert with a very large sword.
“Ahhhh!” I cry out, trying to run and shield my head and ass at the same time when suddenly the pervert is struck on the back and he falls to the ground in dramatic fashion.
“Death is such a pity,” he ekes out, reaching for me with his hand before he mock dies.
There is no pause in the battle before the hits start up again, but there is a hand grabbing mine and leading me out of the chaos and clamor.
When we’re a few feet away from the action and I can breathe, I look up to see who my rescuer is.
But I already know from the feel of his hand.
Except this isn’t Blake at all. It’s Tom Hiddleston. I mean, Loki.
Don’t ruin my fantasy.
“You saved me,” I tell him.
Blake’s face is far too serious for the battleground and far too serious for playing Loki. But it’s him, dressed from head to toe in his armor, from the green cape and gold-plated shoulders, to the horn helmet atop his head. He looks menacing.
Badass.
And fucking hot.
“What are you doing here?” Blake asks as the battle rages around us.
“Kevin didn’t tell you?”
He shakes his head, his helmet starting to tip over. His hand shoots up to steady it. “No.”
“Oh,” I say, feeling stupid. “Um, well I ran into him today. He was with your stepmother. You never told me about her and her Benedict Cumber—”
“Don’t even say his name.”
“Anyway, he expected me here today and your stepmother seemed really grateful when I said I’d still come so…here I am.”
�
�And that’s the only reason?” he asks softly, peering intently into my eyes.
“No,” I tell him. “I came here for you. To tell you I’m sorry.”
His brows come together. “For what?”
“For being a twat. For not returning your messages. For blowing up at you like I did.”
“Amanda,” he says. “You had every right to be mad. I knew it was our secret and I wasn’t thinking. Clearly. I get it.”
“No,” I tell him. “I shouldn’t have freaked out and left you. I just didn’t know what to do. You know…being with you…it scared me so much to imagine losing you, I couldn’t handle it. It’s almost like I made it happen so it wouldn’t have to happen down the line.”
“That is such a guy thing to do,” he says.
“Don’t be sexist,” I tell him, punching him in the armor. It kind of hurts. “Girls are allowed to do stupid shit too.”
“I don’t know if you’re allowed to do them, but you do them anyway,” he muses.
I raise my fist. “Don’t make me punch you again.”
“Hey, you’re Phoenix. You can change the whole damn world with your mind, just as you can with your writing. Why do you think I wanted you to come dressed as her? You can do anything you put your mind to, whether it’s making a fortune on erotica or writing something very dear and personal to you. You’re practically a superhero. And you’re really good in bed.”
I swallow hard, the butterflies in my chest taking off. “So…it’s not too late?”
“For what?”
“For us,” I say feebly. “You stopped calling me.”
“Just because we write about stalkers doesn’t mean I am one. I wanted to give you space and time to figure your shit out. I wasn’t going anywhere. We’re writing partners.”
“And sex partners.”
“And friends.”
“And dorks.”
“Speak for yourself,” he says, raising his head high. “I’m the king of mischief.”
“Well, the queen of mischief needs a beer,” I tell him.
He grasps my hand. “My queen,” he says gallantly and we head toward the beer garden. The battle rages on and Blake fends off a charging warrior with a fell swoop of his staff. We keep walking.
