by Gage Grayson
That night is now our anniversary. Macy still likes to acknowledge it every month by giving me a plush stuffed coconut.
There are now a dozen stuffed coconuts in my collection, so…you do the math.
Macy impatiently gestures for me to join her before ascending the steps into Palais des Festivals et de Congres.
After hearing about the stuffed coconuts, you may be wondering what I give Macy for our monthly anniversaries—is it ever a stuffed shark?
The answer is that she’s never asked for a stuffed shark, and what I buy her is whatever the fuck she asks for.
Like her own movie studio, for instance.
I think she asked as a joke, but I had the capital, and—especially with the buzz surrounding Believers—I had the clout, as well.
The cameras start going fucking nuts after I catch up with Macy and we walk up the stairs arm in arm. They love to get shots of us together, which is totally understandable seeing as how we’re fucking photogenic.
And, as Macy pointed out, we’ll never have to hire a couple’s photographer—a Google search can give us the same thing for free.
“These stairs totally work for me,” Macy says softly as the cameras click behind us, “getting to burn nearly two calories on my way to attend a screening? Yes, please.”
“Does looking insanely fucking sexy also count as a benefit?”
“Are you talking about me? Or you?”
“Well, I was talking about you. But now that you mention it…”
The last thing the paparazzi cameras capture before we disappear inside is Macy playfully hitting me with her Louis Vuitton handbag.
There was no official release of Believers after the Radio City premiere—I realized that there were a couple of changes that should be made.
Putting the kibosh on the planned limited run drove buzz into the stratosphere, and investors were happy to come along for the ride. The decision to open a studio, with our own distribution, made the changes much easier to make.
Soon after we take our seats at the Cannes screening, the lights dim and the atmosphere becomes electric.
Finally, those words appear on the screen:
HarpSwim Productions.
Hey, do you know how hard it is to come up with a name for a film studio?
How about one that’s not too generic sounding, and that everyone involved agrees on?
Macy and I know what it references—that swim with Harpo—but we’re happy to let everyone else think it’s abstract poetry or whatever the fuck people think it is.
It’s just the words on the screen for now—we’re still working on a logo.
Everything else about the movie is the same, except I have a writing credit, and Macy Evans has story and executive producer credits—along with someone named Cara Milligan.
I don’t recall anyone of that name working on the film, but when Believers wins the Palme D’or and hits big with a wide release, she’s going to be one fucking seriously wealthy lady. And whoever this Cara Milligan is, I bet she has an awesome best friend, as well.
Macy and I have sat through this entire picture countless times by now while preparing for Cannes and its wide release. But it wasn’t in a darkened theater, with a huge audience, surrounded by a charged cloud of anticipation.
Cannes audiences are tough and fucking honest, and they’ll start booing and heckling during the movie if they don’t like it.
They don’t during this screening.
When the line is delivered—What we have is something real, and it’s not worth walking away from—the electricity in the room almost becomes tangible, and there’s a smattering of sincere applause.
When the house lights come back up, as I suspected, a standing ovation is already starting.
To be fair, that’s also nothing new at Cannes. What makes this one special is the chance to stand up with the woman I love, as she’s surrounded by adulation for the creation she inspired.
I watch Macy absorb the applause, and I start applauding for her myself as she wipes away a tear, then another, and maybe, for a moment, fully realizing the rare beauty she possesses.
A beauty that comes from inside. A beauty that radiates, and exhilarates, and can even drive someone crazy with its power.
Realizing everything that’s so astonishing about who she is, everything that can’t be defined in a single word, or even at all, but which I still feel so strongly, nearly brings me to my knees every time I look at her…Her power to inspire, to encourage, to challenge somebody to find the good in themselves, and strive to be the best person they can be.
She even encouraged and inspired someone like me, and it’s something she still does every day. As the applause for her goes on, showing no signs of letting up, I hope that this makes her realize its strength, if only for a moment.
And if it is only for a moment, and she lets go or forgets all those realizations, I will be there always, to remind of all those things and more.
Lucky Neighbor
A Second Chance Secret Baby Romance
By Gage Grayson
Copyright 2018 by Third Base Press
This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or persons is entirely coincidental. This work intended for adults only.
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1
Killian
“Ah, you again? So, it’ll be the usual, will it?”
Huh. Okay, then.
Walking up to the bar, I try to place the barkeep’s face somewhere in my memory. I give that up right quick as soon as I realize how much effort it’s taking.
“Why are you asking me questions before I’ve even said a word?”
“You think I don’t know you well enough by now? Killian Walsh.”
So, he remembers my name. I don’t know if that’s a good or a bad thing.
It’s only been a hundred days—that’s what it says on my chip at least.
The chip I’ve been moving up and down the fingers of my left hand from the moment I walked through the doors of the local pub.
Okay—I’ve been holding it all day. Since early this morning.
For fuck’s sake, I’ve almost earned a 101-day-chip at this fucking point.
“Pint of Guinness, Mr. Walsh? I’m right about that, aren’t I?”
No, I don’t think I’ve ever seen him before. My memory’s not that far gone yet.
Or maybe it fucking is at this point.
Hopefully not, because I’ve got a fucking novel to write. The ink’s still drying on the contract.
A hundred thousand fucking words—and that’s a minimum.
Look, that shouldn’t be a problem for me. And I’m not too bothered even if it turns out to be.
Either way, the advance check is already locked safely in the fortress of the local Bank of Ireland branch, a few kilometers down the road. It should be clearing well before I get that first nagging phone call from the publishing house.
“So, that’ll be a pint of Guinness, will it?”
This young fellow’s being rather insistent, isn’t he?
“Are you expecting a big rush or something? You seem to be in one.”
I flash a little bit of that famously charming fucking smile to show that I’m just taking the piss.
Seems like all I do these days is take the fucking piss, but this fellow doesn’t seem even a wee bit offended.
“Seriously, though—what I’m craving is that Tall Blonde in the Black Dress.”
A flicker of recognition fizzles through the bartender’s face.
“I haven’t heard anybody call it that in a while.”
“Just how long could a while be in your young life?” I query, stepping around the stool in front of me and resting my weary duff for the duration of the celebration.<
br />
The pre-novel writing celebration that lies ahead of me, that is.
“Long enough to read two or three of your books, Mr. Walsh.”
Of fucking course—another fan. Another young fellow who connected with my own typewritten angst, writ large across several internationally bestselling tomes—and yes, that includes the list in the New York Fucking Times.
It’s not like any of them came out too long ago. Maybe I’m just shaking off the last of that youthful angst myself.
Maybe I’m still in the thick of it without knowing.
Fuck, I shouldn’t be taking fucking notes, shouldn’t I?
“Blonde in the Black Dress,” the barkeep says. “Coming right up, Mr. Walsh.”
“Call me…Killian.” I like saying my name like that. On a few rare fucking occasions such as this one, anyway. “And I’ll call you…”
“Rowan.”
“No kidding. Well, Rowan, to answer your question…” I’m still running that chip through my fingers under the bar. “What was your question again?”
“Never mind that, Mr. Killian.” Rowan’s focused on trying to pull the perfect pint, trying to impress, well, one of the more famous authors to emerge from this tiny village—or hamlet—or whatever the fuck you want to call it, in the middle of the sparsest yet greenest county here on the island of Eire.
“Blonde in the Black Dress,” Rowan announces, placing a fresh pint on the little cardboard coaster in front of me.
Would you believe that the coasters in this place are fucking blank? I don’t even know where they get them. You think those promotional ones would come free from Guinness or from fucking Killian’s Irish Red or, I don’t know, one of those fucking whiskies or something.
You gotta love this fucking pub, though, with these blank, dark red little circles of cardboard to protect the ancient, dusty wooden bar from our glasses sweating the nectar of life.
Trying to forego the pretense of having anything to fucking hide, I hold up my hundred-day Alcoholics Anonymous chip. It’s partially a show for Rowan, but he’s not even watching me. He’s busy chatting up some crowd of fleece-wearing tourists at the other end of the bar.
“That’s probably for the best,” I say to myself, letting go of the small, bronze coin and watching it sink into the pint of lager.
My sponsor told me that these chips are some of the rarest sobriety chips that you can find. A hundred days now—you wouldn’t think it’d be that fucking rare.
He’s splitting town for a while, anyway. I hope he’s okay, wherever he is by now. A day can carry you a long way sometimes.
Now as for me, I’m happy to let the chip fall where it may—right into the Blonde in the Black Dress.
If any of you out there are worried about sanitation issues, I’m convinced that this stuff could kill the bubonic fucking plague if it wanted.
With just a few wee nips, it’s already starting to kill that coiled up tension and anxiety that’s loved to do nothing more than eat away at my fucking gut for the past three fucking months.
Speaking of wee nips, there’s a sudden stiff wind nipping at my back as more townsfolk of various fucking kinds are filing into the pub.
I can hear them but not see them. It’s a sonic blur of laughter, loud voices, people excited to be going out on the drink.
All I need is another few sips of stout. Then another few.
There’s a point I lose track of my rare, bronze AA coin. That point comes early enough in the evening.
The point where I can judge what point I’m at in the evening comes and goes with some swift fucking speed, too.
“Pint of Guinness, Mr. Killian? Lady in the Blonde Dress?”
“Are you drinking tonight, Rowan? You just used the words blonde dress as if that’s a normal thing for a human to be doing.”
“It’s a busy night, Mr. Killian.”
“Just call me Killian.”
“Would you like a shot of whiskey to go with your next black-blonde dress stout in a pint glass, then?”
“What’s the well whiskey here, Rowan?”
“Ah, you should know Mr...You should know, Killian. My stars, it feels strange calling such a figure as yourself by just your first name, sir.”
“Is it Jameson?”
“Of course it is, Killian...sir.”
“Then I’ll have to say thanks but no thanks. Just keep the Guinness flowing, if you don’t mind.”
The Guinness stops flowing at some point, but only because I choose for it to stop. There’s no rhyme or reason to it. Most likely, I just make an executive fucking decision, which I can’t even fucking remember.
Another such executive decision I make is to find my way to the coat rack and slow dance with it to a Pogues song playing on yonder jukebox.
Another such executive decision is to sit at a table with that group of fleece-wearing tourists and let them buy me stew from the kitchen while asking me repeatedly when my next fucking book is due on store shelves.
Then, sometime before closing, the Guinness starts flowing again.
It’s probably the best executive decision I’ve made all night. A few more heavy pints to send me on my way.
“Are you sure you won’t be having a shot of Jameson to go along with your last Blonde Lady, good sir Killian?”
“You know, that nickname I don’t mind, Rowan. But for feck’s sake I can’t be drinking any shots of that whiskey tonight or ever. I’m not enamored with taking that tone, but please stop mentioning that word that starts with the tenth letter of the basic Latin bloody alphabet.”
“No problems at all, Mr. Killian.”
Maybe I made the next executive decision, or it could’ve been some other entity, but after some length of time, every patron in the pub is joined in a song, belting at the top of our lungs.
Beauing, belling, dancing, drinking,
Breaking windows, cursing, sinking,
Every raking, never thinking,
Live the Rakes of Mallow.
That collection of loud, boozy voices soon becomes just my own solitary voice, singing the same song, wandering through the quiet night air along the side of the road connecting the heart of the village with my little cottage.
Living short but merry lives,
Going where the devil drives,
Having sweethearts, but no wives,
Live the rakes of Mallow.
I’m not even sure if I’m getting the fucking melody right anymore.
2
Rebecca
The fine line between dream and reality is becoming goddamned thin.
Watching the headlights flood the perilously narrow stretch of barely paved road in front of me, I realize that I’d crossed that line ago.
Hours ago, possibly.
Thousands of miles ago, even more possibly.
What was the last normal, believable thing that happened to me, anyway?
Fuck, I may have to go back years for that one.
Left turn ahead onto…
The voice coming through my smartphone speaker crackles and fades abruptly.
“Left turn onto where? What left turn? It all looks straight! Help! Where did you go?”
Okay, a left turn, that’s what I’m looking for.
If my eyes stay open.
Fuck, should I just pull over and sleep in this goddamned SUV?
It’s certainly frigging big enough.
Much bigger than I thought I’d be getting at Shannon Airport. I booked a subcompact to make the drive out to my cottage in…
Somewhere in the middle of Ireland.
Even in my head, I sound like a stereotypical American dope. That’s one reason I wanted to get the most unassuming vehicle possible to drive to my rental home in the middle of nowhere.
I didn’t want to stick out in any way. Of course, this meant not making a big stink when they handed me the keys to the largest vehicle they had on the lot.
Possibly the largest vehicle in any part of Europe at that, wi
thout a built-in GPS, which I had not only booked ahead of time, but went so far as to confirm several times with the rental counter via email and VoIP calls from the States…
Erm—maybe I had this coming, actually.
It’s fitting, really.
I acted, albeit unwittingly, like an obnoxious American, so I ended up with an obnoxious American car.
Although to refer to this rolling behemoth as a ‘car’ would be stretching the very definition of…
In...hundred…eters, take a slight right onto D…
“What? What? Wasn’t I supposed to turn left? Now I’m turning in a hundred meters, or nine-hundred kilometers, onto some street with a…no!”
This really is a dream, isn’t it?
Next, I’m going to be back in high school, except, Jack Nicholson’s going to be the principal, for some reason; and Principal Nicholson will tell me I have to come back for a semester to take some course I had somehow missed twelve years ago. But then I’ll forget to attend any classes and get lost on my way to the final ex…
Left turn ahead onto—
Static. Then nothing.
It’s too frustrating to even yell anymore.
And besides, it’s not my poor phone’s fault I accidentally pissed off the staff of the car rental counter at Shannon Airport.
In fact, it did have me heading in the right direction for several hours.
At least, I think it was the right direction.
Fuck. If I really wanted to eschew American stereotypes, I could’ve taken a goddamned bus or something.
Although, if all the roads in this area are as narrow as the one I’m on, I doubt there’s much bus service in the area.
It looks like I’ve got about a half tank of fuel left, and I’m bound to reach some sort of civilization eventually.
I’m not keen on just stopping out here in the middle of the moorlands.
If that’s even where I am.
Dream or not, I’m not convinced there aren’t some sort of sprites or faeries—the type of creatures who’d be at home in an illustrated book of Celtic mythology—but would turn out to be quite real and furious about my intrusion on their moorland homes if I were to stop here for even a minute.
