After setting the empty cup on the table, she grabbed her purse from the bed.
“Are you leaving?” Jack asked. And I was relieved to see that’s exactly what she appeared to be doing.
I was just happy the guys interrupted us when they did. There’s no telling what she and I would’ve been doing by that point if they hadn’t.
Before walking out of the room, Monica turned back and brushed her hair behind her shoulder. “I’ll see you boys tomorrow.” With one rhythmic tap of her fingernails to the doorframe, she disappeared around the corner and the door slammed shut.
Jack crossed his arms over his chest and raised an eyebrow.
I put my hand up to stop him from speaking. “I don’t want to hear anything you have to say, Jack. This weekend is far more complicated than I wanted it to be. This was supposed to be our last hurrah! I don’t know if I’m ever going to see your hideous faces ever again,” I joked, “and now this woman thinks I’m a Dominant!” I glared at Duncan—who was drinking the rest of my whiskey—but he merely laughed.
“So you’re not taking the bet?” Jack asked.
“He’s not saying that, per se,” Duncan cut in.
I sighed and threw my hands up in the air. “What the hell do you want from me, man? You want me to take Monica to bed? What is that going to prove?”
“It’s not really going to prove anything. When I made that bet with you last night, it seemed genius at the time. But now that I need you off my back for the rest of the weekend, this whole setup is the perfect opportunity for me.”
“What do you mean?” I asked. “Why do you need me off your back?”
He smeared his black hair back and smirked. “If you’re spending time with Monica, then that leaves Lauren all alone. And I’d like to get my mouth on that tart candy of hers.” He wiggled his eyebrows. “If you know what I mean.”
My jaw flexed and I ground my teeth. Martin lay on the bed and pulled an earbud from his ear to listen. Duncan rummaged through the refrigerator to see if I had any more whiskey, but I remained standing. My arms and face burned, and my nostrils flared.
“Keep your foul mind—and hands—off that girl.”
“Sorry, Mike. You can’t claim both ladies for the weekend. And if you’re with Monica, you can’t be with Lauren too. So I’d say she’s fair play.”
“She’s a sweet girl, Jack,” I pleaded. “Just leave her alone.”
“I’ll bet she is sweet.” He walked to the door and turned the knob. “Maybe even a virgin. Now that would make for one lucky weekend.”
The door slammed, and I stared at it for what felt like minutes. Duncan cleared his throat and brought me out of my rage-filled haze. Martin wore a grimace and stared blankly at the comforter.
We all thought the same thing: Jack was a prick.
“Well. I guess I’ll be on my way then,” Duncan announced uncomfortably. “See you two cats in the morning.”
I plopped down on the bed as the door closed for the last time that evening, and I prayed that Jack didn’t know that his room was only two doors down from Lauren’s.
Martin shook his head and sighed. “Fucked up,” he mumbled.
Cliché Five:
The jaw-dropping makeover.
It was midnight and Martin snored in his bed. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Jack trying to paw Lauren’s leg under the table or imagined his greedy hands all over her on the dance floor. Every possible slimy scenario passed through my head, including her futile protests if he ever got her alone.
It had nothing to do with any kind of emotional attachment, but had more to do with a guy like Jack taking anything from a woman like Lauren. I hoped that she could take care of herself, but she was so small and frail that I doubted she’d be able to defend herself in a moment of desperation.
The problem was Jack’s charm. I saw right through him, but it took me a while. He was what some had described as chiseled and handsome. But his ego had escalated in the past year, and he’d become a self-righteous dickhead.
Instead of tossing and turning all night wondering if Monica and Lauren were okay, I opted for a walk down the hallway, passing their door to make sure there weren’t any signs of Jack being anywhere near. I took the ice bucket in case I needed an excuse to be wandering through the halls at such an hour.
I passed their door slowly, lingering a little too long near the ice machine. And when I was satisfied that the ladies were asleep, I walked back, passing the elevator just as it dinged and opened.
“Michael?”
“Hey!” I was taken off guard at the woman before me. She looked like Lauren, only with dark red lips and heavy eye makeup. She wore dark stockings and a dark pink dress that stopped above her knee.
“Lauren?” My mouth hung open and I couldn’t take my eyes from her legs. “Holy shit,” I whispered.
What is it about librarian-types? Quiet and shy one minute, and the next an irresistible siren. The sudden heat radiating from my chest was uncomfortable, and as I went to undo my tie, I realized I wasn’t wearing one.
She gave me a wry smile and attempted to cover herself with her purse. “Um. Yeah, this…” she gestured to her hair and dress, “wasn’t my idea.”
“What happened?” I shook my head, trying to backtrack. “I mean, why are you so dressed up?”
“Monica said she didn’t want to waste her ‘look’ for the evening, so she dragged me into the bathroom for a twenty-minute makeover, then down to the lobby bar. She was making out with some guy when I left.” She shrugged. “Monica is Monica. She doesn’t always make the best choices, but she’s my best friend.”
I nodded. “But you weren’t making out with anyone? I mean,” I hesitated, trying to get the resurfaced image of Jack and his predatory hands out of my head. “it’s none of my business really, but…” I exhaled, trying to put my thoughts into words. “I guess I just want to make sure that you’re safe.”
She laughed sweetly, shifting her weight to her other foot. “Yes,” she softly replied. “If you haven’t noticed, I’m the shy friend. You know? The one that never gets noticed because she sits in the corner awkwardly, laughing when she’s not supposed to, nodding during group conversations, and the one who always hovers in the shadows of her best friend.”
I stared at her in wonder, getting a second look at her full ensemble. With a small chuckle, I said, “I don’t know how anyone could’ve missed you down there. You’re breathtaking.”
She looked down with glossy eyes and sniffed. “Thank you.” Taking a step toward her room, she let her eyes linger on me for a second too long. “Have a good night, Michael.”
“Wait,” I muttered, not knowing what to say next.
She stopped in the hallway, and we stood several feet away from each other. “Yes?” Her eyes lit up as she tilted her head curiously.
“You want to go somewhere and talk?” I don’t know why I said it. I was suddenly afflicted with the inability to form sentences whenever I looked at her, so I doubted I’d be much of a conversationalist.
She giggled. “Where are we going to go at midnight in an unfamiliar town?”
I contemplated our options. It wouldn’t be very couth of me to invite myself back to her room. Monica was in the bar, and Martin was sleeping in his bed.
“Um…” I had no idea. “A cab ride? A coffee shop? Or we could lock ourselves in my bathroom and sit on a towel.” I joked, chuckling. “I just want to spend more time with you. I don’t care where we go.” I shrugged. “Unless you’re too tired.”
“No, I’m not tired.” She paused, looking at her door. “I guess we could go back to my room.”
“I don’t want to make you uncomfortable…”
A smile spread across her cheeks, her bright smile gleaming. “No. You don’t make me uncomfortable.”
I nodded and joined her in the few steps back to her door, sticking my hands in my pockets. “You’re sure?”
“I’m sure, Michael. Besides,” she laughed, “I ha
ve mace.”
I laughed with her. “I promise you, Lauren, you won’t have to use it.”
***
“Do you have a finished manuscript?” I asked. I didn’t feel comfortable sitting on her bed, so we’d been sitting on her floor for over an hour discussing some of our favorite literature, and not surprisingly, we didn’t have a passion for the same kinds of books. But in that time I’d discovered that she hadn’t had a boyfriend since high school, had an odd fixation with M&Ms, and by how she looked at that moment, it was obvious she’d rather be in pajamas and old socks than in the glittery getup she wore in the hallway.
“I do. I mean, I have several first drafts. But I haven’t had the kind of money it takes to get them professionally edited, so I haven’t really jumped into the whole agent-slash-publishing thing. But I will someday. This convention is the first one I’ve ever been to, and when I heard about it, I thought why the hell not?” She swung he legs around to lie on her stomach and perched her chin into her small hands. “I’ll start graduate school in the fall, and I don’t want to jump into anything. I want to make my stories the best that they can be, and I know they’re not there yet. I have a lot to learn.”
“That’s admirable. Most of the guys I know think they’ve learned it all. They’re convinced they’ve written the next bestseller.”
She shook her head. “Not me. For me it’s not about money or fame. I think I’d go crazy if I couldn’t write. It’s more about the release—so many thoughts about stories and characters clog my brain that I have to write it all down to make room for more. An orgasm of words,” she added, smiling. “That makes me sound batshit crazy, doesn’t it?” Her eyes bugged out briefly and her laughter followed.
I flashed a wide grin. “We’re both insane then. So pass me the Risperidone, and we can lick the walls together.”
We chuckled our way into an awkward silence, giving each other quick glances, hoping the other would speak. Her nervousness showed as she constantly brushed her hair behind her ear and bit her lip, looking down and away from me.
It wasn’t that I enjoyed seeing her squirm, but I just couldn’t stop…watching her. I wanted to speak, but my mind emptied as I enjoyed the light blush to her cheeks and her uneven breathing as she picked an invisible piece of lint from the carpet.
Her makeup wasn’t as vibrant as it had been in the hallway earlier, and I preferred it that way. She had flawless skin, and the thick coating of blush and peach powder had hidden it from me. Lauren was the kind of woman who unknowingly flaunted her natural beauty, and though she definitely pulled off the sexy look, there was a quiet contentment in her body language while we lay on the floor. She glowed—something she hadn’t done in the pink dress.
“So,” she said, interrupting my stare, “you said earlier that you didn’t read much romance. I’m surprised you don’t like many books in that genre.”
“Why is that surprising?”
She shrugged. “You just seem like the kind of guy with an open mind about the written word.”
“Well, to be honest,” I began, “I’m not really a romantic kind of guy. I’ve never been good at,” I pointed my finger between the two of us, “this sort of thing.”
She opened her eyes wide and looked down.
I’d clearly made her uncomfortable, so I clumsily continued, trying to get her to forget I’d said it. “And really, romance novels are chock-full of clichés. You have to admit, there’s really only so many times you can swoon over the same stuff written thousands of times.”
Her eyebrows rose. “Clichés? What kinds of clichés?”
“Oh you know, the same kind of guy saying the same kind of stuff, all while he’s taking her on a picnic or a carriage ride or a sunset walk on the beach or eating at a fancy restaurant he could never afford. Or! Or the clumsy virgin heroine who plays the damsel in distress, knowing that if any of that shit were to happen in real life, she’d cringe at him treating her like a baby. It’s like the real world is on fast forward, and contemporary romance novels are stuck in traditional roles set in modern day.”
She sat up, giving me her full attention, and crossed her arms over her chest with contempt. “What was the last contemporary romance novel you read?”
I looked around, trying to remember. “Men Are from Mars, Women Are from Venus.”
She sighed. “See, here’s your problem: you’re a pompous generalist who believes that the journey a reader has to take should be categorized as either genre fiction or uppity literary fiction. Why should it matter to you which journey I choose to take if it makes me happy? I’ve read all the greats: Proust, Joyce, Melville, Twain, Fitzgerald—all of them. And they were all excellent writers.” She leaned in closer to me, crossing her hands softly against her chest. “But none of them spoke to me—none of them grabbed ahold of my beating heart. I didn’t stay up until the wee hours of the morning reading them, or have dreams of their characters when I slept.” She cocked her head. “So you can sit back and have your Greats and hypothesize over their messages. I’ll be over here with a smile on my face reading what I want to read, and not worry if The New Yorker, USA Today, or The New York Times thinks they’re worthy enough for me. Let me worry about that.”
I licked my lips, trying to suppress a smile. “You feel pretty strongly about this.”
“You can’t fight my logic. I’ve spent half my life with my nose buried in books. I used to read during my lunch period throughout high school, I stayed up late on the weekends reading and rereading favorites, and I even missed my own prom because I had to know what was going to happen in The Chamber of Secrets.”
“Oh! Well, now you’re talking my language, sweetheart. I know Rowling.”
“And did you enjoy that series?”
I nodded. “Yes, I did.”
She leaned back on her hands and quirked her eyebrow. “So how could my taste be that bad?”
I smiled with an idea brewing in my head. “What are you doing tomorrow?”
A wrinkle creased her brow. “The convention, of course. There are more panels and workshops I’d like to attend.”
I scratched my jaw.
“Why?” she prodded.
“Because I want to prove to you that the clichés in romance novels are never as cool as they’re written. You said so yourself: ‘if Prince Charming ever existed, he certainly doesn’t in 2006.’ An average guy in contemporary America shouldn’t be able to pull the wool over your eyes.”
She dipped her chin and raised her eyebrows. “Cliché.”
I laughed. “I promise you, you won’t be swooning over me by the time tomorrow night rolls around. What do you say?” I begged. “What doesn’t kill you only makes you stronger,” I said, adding another cliché with a smirk.
She giggled and bit her lip. “Let me guess: there’s no time like the present?”
“Yep. Believe me. This is going to hurt me much worse than it does you.”
She nodded her agreement. “Very well, then. Two peas in a pod, we’ll be.”
I hopped to my feet, and walked to the door. Turning the knob, I looked back and wiggled my eyebrows. “Two to tango and all that.”
“Where are you going?” she asked.
“It’s almost one o’clock, Lauren. If I’m going to try to sweep you off your feet tomorrow, I’m going to need some time to plan. And sleep. Besides, I really don’t want to be here when Monica gets back. She’ll be ready with nipple clamps and leather chaps.”
She grinned, but looked confused.
“Never mind. Thanks for tonight.” I opened the door. “I’ll meet you in the lobby tomorrow morning at nine.” I stepped out and turned around, framing myself in the doorway.
Lauren had a strange smile on her face as she stood there drowning in her over-sized gray sweatpants. “Okaaay…”
With a wink and a quick nod, I said, “Goodnight, Lauren. Sleep tight.”
“Don’t let the bedbugs bite?” she offered.
I chuckled. “That’s a n
ursery rhyme, not a cliché.”
She nodded and gave a small wave. “Goodnight.”
I closed the door, renewed. I wasn’t sure if I was excited to prove her wrong, or if the anticipation hitting my chest was because I’d get to spend the entire day with Lauren.
Cliché Six:
A horseback ride on the beach.
After my shower in the morning, I sipped from a cup of coffee in my room at 8:42. Martin had been awake for twenty minutes and I’d already told him that he and the guys would be on their own for the day.
I stared out the window, confident in my plan: I was going to show Lauren that romance clichés never worked in real life. That all of the heroes she’d fallen in love with in her novels wouldn’t be as spectacular experiencing them first-hand.
I rode the elevator down, and to my surprise, Lauren was early. She sat in the lobby mindlessly thumbing through a newspaper, wearing a pair of jean shorts and a purple T-shirt with a headband to match.
I approached from the side, and my presence alarmed her until she looked up into my eyes. I wore a sly smile and winked. “Ready, toots?”
Her lips pressed into a hard line, but she ended up smiling anyway.
“What? I can’t call you toots?”
“Not if you want to survive past lunch,” she said playfully. She stood and we walked toward the hotel’s entrance.
I laughed. “All right, all right. I’ll go back to princess, then. Isn’t that what romance novels do—come up with eye-roll-inducing nicknames that make you want to punch the hero in the gut? Oh! Maybe I should call you kitten.” I looked at her sideways.
She cracked a smile. “Okay, you’ve made your point there. There are some ridiculous nicknames. But you can just call me Lauren today. Not princess. Not toots. And please, never kitten.”
“Deal.” We walked onto the sidewalk and the warm summer air was a thick coat over my skin. I hailed a cab, and with little traffic, we were on the freeway headed south.
“Where are we going?” she asked.
Four Play: A Collection of Novellas Page 26
