by Rye Hart
“I suppose,” I said.
Yeah, I got laid – and I didn't realize how badly I'd needed to get laid until sleeping with him. But now it only made me want him more. The amazing chemistry, that connection with him – it had been incredible. And now, to know that for my sake, I needed to step away, and never get more than that small, simple taste of pleasure was going to kill me.
“This is why people need to leave me the hell alone and let me work,” I said.
My phone buzzed again. This time, a text message asking me to call him and saying, “It's not what it looks like.”
Come on, I've heard that one before. Did he think I was an idiot? Hell, maybe I was. I did talk myself into getting involved with him in the first place. I got off the phone with Kirby as the driver pulled up to my house. As I got out of the car, I saw a familiar face sitting on my porch.
Harry. Because my night wasn't fucked up enough as it was.
“What are you doing here? How did you even find out where I lived?” I asked him, walking up to my porch. “Don't you have a party going on over at your place?”
He stood up, towering over me now. “It wasn't a party. It was a stupid idea my friend had, and I wasn't into it. At all. I invited them over for him, Abigail. I wasn't doing anything with anybody. I swear it to you.”
“How did you find out where I lived?” I repeated.
Harry shrugged, then looked past me as if he wanted to avoid the question. It said something when he would rather talk about the naked girls at his house than answering a simple question like that. It was actually kind of amusing.
“Come on, tell me,” I said, feeling an awkward smile stretching across my face.
“I called your mom,” he muttered. “I asked her where you lived, told her you hadn't let me come over to your place yet and I had a surprise for you.”
“You have my mom's number?”
“She gave it to me when you were using the bathroom when they came over for dinner,” he said. “Said if I ever needed help with you, to call her. Said you sometimes liked to ruin perfectly good relationships. I told her that made two of us.”
“You went through all that trouble for me?”
He nodded. “I did, yes,” he said. “Because when I saw you leave, my heart hurt, Abigail. I wanted nothing more than to run after you and explain what happened. Explain that I was trying to be a good friend to Tom. To tell you that I was thinking about you the whole time and how I couldn't wait to get them out of my house.”
“You don't have to lie to me, Harry. I know we're not that serious –”
He cut me off with a kiss.
“Maybe we're not right now,” he said. “But maybe I want to be.”
“What is that supposed to mean?” I asked, my heart racing as I stared into his gorgeous, gray eyes.
“It means – well, as much as I hate to admit it, Abigail, you're the first woman I've met who I can't stop thinking about. You're the first woman who's ever made me think, 'Geez, I'd rather spend time with Abigail than sleep with this blonde model wannabe. .' You have managed to turn my world upside down.”
“I guess I should be flattered?” I said.
“Maybe I didn't phrase it the right way,” he said. “I'm bad at romance. I've never been very smooth or suave. But what I'm trying to say is that I like you, Abigail, a whole lot more than I ever intended to. You're so much more to me than just a friend with benefits. And believe me, nobody was more surprised than me to realize that.”
I raised up onto my toes and crushed my mouth against his. It was as if I could feel the tension leaving his body in that moment.
“So, you forgive me?” he asked.
“Yeah, even though there’s really nothing to forgive,” I said.
“But there is. I’m the idiot that let you leave the other night after we slept together instead of convincing you to stay like I wanted. I’m the idiot that let my friend bring two naked girls back to my place when all I wanted was you. I’m the idiot that wants to make this right, to make it real,” he said.
I never, in a million years, would have expected for him to suggest that we take our fake-relationship and make it real .
I wasn't sure if I was ready for this. My emotions were everywhere. If he was bad at romance, I was a goddamn train wreck at it.
“What's wrong, Abigail?” he asked me, lifting my head to make me look him in the eye.
“I'm scared, Harry,” I said. “I'm scared of ending up with another broken heart.”
“You know what I do for a living, right?” he teased. “I can't promise you that I will never hurt you. That's impossible, and let's be honest, I'm kind of a douchebag at times. I know that. But I want to be better, Abigail. You make me want to be better. We're both career-driven, smart people. I think we could work well together. All I need is for you to give me a chance.”
“Maybe so,” I said.
“So, is that a yes to giving it a shot?” Harry asked, a smile on his lips.
I gave him a small smile and a nod. “Yes,” I said, feeling as if I might burst with joy.
For once in my life, I could finally see things going my way.
The End
Rock Hard Lumberjack
A Lumberjack And A City Girl Romance
CHAPTER ONE: SAM WASHINGTON
OMG I HAVE THE BEST PRESENT FOR YOU!!!
As soon as I see the text message from Lacey I know that I’m in for an interesting afternoon. Not only does Lacey not traffic in subtlety, I’m not sure she’s ever considered the alternative.
Back in junior high, while I was a junior and Lacey a senior, she made an effort to cheer me up after my first hangover. Lacey covered the car of a boy who had jilted me in graffiti. She was on the verge of slashing his tires when the high school rent-a-cop startled her.
I, of course, didn’t know this until later. It did cheer me up. I’m not sure if that says more about Lacey or me. But we take our fun where we can get it.
Life is meant to be lived, right?
Or, in my case, I take whatever fun comes my way. This is one of my problems- I have always relied on other people to bring the excitement into my life. I’m not so good at drumming it up for myself. Good thing, most of the time, I have people like Lacey around to send cryptic texts that I know will have volcanic consequences.
But for now, you’re probably wondering what I needed to be cheered up about. Honestly, cheering up isn’t quite the word. Here’s the least you need to know for now: I had been dating a guy named Owen for a year. I knew him well before that, but we only dated for about a year. Owen was…jeez, I’m not sure how to put it - except to say that Owen was Owen. He was just…there. Kind of like how gravity is just there. You don’t really think about it, and since it never leaves, you forget what life is like without it.
Owen had a coin collection. Has. I’m sure he hasn’t gotten rid of it. I initially thought it was a cute hobby but it revealed itself as more of an obsession. He used the word “numismatics” constantly. That means coin collecting. Maybe you already knew that, but I didn’t. Over time I began to suspect that the only reason Owen started collecting coins was that he learned the word numismatics, couldn’t find a way to work it into a normal conversation, and could not therefore use this addition to his chick-slaying arsenal. Stupid Owen.
You might be asking yourself, “What kind of woman gets turned on by a coin collection? Or a collector?” Well, silly me, that’s who. But before you relegate me to the pathetic bin of women who don’t aspire to enough, just know that Owen was my first real relationship. I didn’t know what I didn’t know. And coins weren’t really what did it for me. I actually fell for his inner nerd. I don’t want to be too harsh on him, since I was the girl that chose him in the first place. He shouldn’t take all the blame.
That’s not actually true.
In my calmer moments I keep forgetting that Owen cheated on me. The problem is, really, that I’m not good at being harsh on people. My best friend Lacey, on
the other hand, is a different story. When you ran afoul of Lacey you placed yourself in the path of a pitiless kamikaze, which would have terrified a legion of Spartans. A good person to have on your side.
I met her downtown at a hotel bar called The Morocco. I don’t know what it has to do with Morocco except that the waiters have to wear those curved knives on their belts like they were sultans or sheiks. Okay, full disclosure before returning to Owen’s nerdiness and shortcomings: I am a history buff. Well, buff doesn’t really do it justice. All I ever want to do is read about history and take myself back in time. Lacey says this is because I “can’t tolerate the present.” Maybe she’s right.
When I get there Lacey is already a couple of minutes (and probably a couple of drinks) into a conversation with a hunky Maître D.
Knowing her, she will have him in her bed as soon as we end our gift exchange or whatever this is going to be. I’m not always jealous of her lifestyle, but a part of me honestly envies her confidence.
As soon as she sees me she sends him away. He scurries into the corner like he has been waiting for her command his entire life.
“Sam!” she says, jumping to her feet. Her dress has so many sparkles on it that it’s like seeing a sequenced hourglass rush towards me. I needed the hug more than ever. Stupid Owen.
“That stupid piece of garbage,” says Lacey as soon as we sit down. “He has no idea what I’m going to do to him. Oh, but he will.” She tightens her grip on her glass and her knuckles turn white.
“Maybe, let’s not go there yet,” I say, trying to get the bartender’s attention. “Let’s talk about my infinitely lame stories at the tabloid. I’ve got to do something to land a real gig, or I’ll claw my own eyes out from boredom.”
Lacey clears her throat and taps the oak bar with one long-nailed finger. As if she has turned on a switch in his brain, he comes over and smiles at her with a dopey look on his face like he just drank too much cough syrup.
“This fine lady is going to have as many of whatever she wants on me,” says Lacey. “And if you hurry, there will be a gargantuan tip in it for you. Go. Show me how fast you can move.”
It’s like she has waved a checkered flag. He races away and then returns, putting a whiskey sour in my hand so fast that I barely even remembered ordering it. While I sip at it, Lacey reaches into her purse and takes out a package that looks like it has been wrapped by a pro from Saks Fifth.
I see myself in the bar mirror. I look good. Tall, nearly 5’10.” Gorgeous auburn, thick hair that goes almost to my waist. Smooth, clear skin. Green eyes.
Stupid Owen.
“Oh my God I can’t wait for you to open it!” says Lacey. To prove it, she starts tearing at the bow herself. I wrench it away.
“This is my cheering up present,” I say. “And as thoughtful as it is, maybe you should let me open it.”
“Okay, just hurry. I’ll sit here and think about how to get back at Owen. You’re better off, believe me.”
Actually, I already do feel that way.
Owen cheated on me. That’s how it ended. And we’re all better off without cheaters, right? The fact that I had been so bored with him seemed like it should have mitigated the blow, but there’s really just no easy way to be utterly rejected, even if it’s by someone who thinks finding a Buffalo Eagle coin from the nineteenth century is like winning the lottery.
Owen’s actions said … I don’t want you.
You’re not enough for me.
I’m better off without you.
You’re not as good as she is.
She’s better in bed than you are.
Okay, so that last one was in my head, mostly.
“Once you told me that he couldn’t get you off I started praying for him to cheat on you,” says Lacey, ordering herself another drink.
I get the bow off and start tearing the corner of the wrapping paper. “Guess that’s proof that God exists.”
“Oh, I didn’t tell you who I was praying to,” says Lacey. “Don’t get ahead of yourself.”
The first time Owen and I had sex—and the second, third, or the hundredth, for that matter—I thought to myself: Is this it? Can that really be what all the romance novels are about? What caused the Peloponnesian War and the siege of Troy? This is why Romeo and Juliet died? This is why Lacey is always glowing and looking for her next conquest?
The easiest answer was to blame myself. I was probably the one doing something wrong. Owen had always seemed to be enjoying himself. During, I mean. But he enjoyed sex the same way he enjoyed coins and ramen noodles: with gravitas and decorum. Not exactly the stuff to set anyone’s bed and panties ablaze.
“It’s high time you get some satisfaction,” says Lacey.
“Oh, what’s the occasion?” says the bartender, coming over to watch the festivities. The Maître D appears at his side just in time for me to remove the lid from the box.
Inside is a vibrator which looks like it’s about the size of a Nerf football.
“That’s what I’m talking about!” says Lacey, pulling it out of the box and pointing at my face. “Owen who? That’s what you’ll be saying. Tell her, boys!” She waves the vibrator at the two guys who are now receding into the background, vanquished by the suggestion that their anatomy is now superfluous to our conversation. “This is what you need to be writing about. Owen 2.0 right here. You’re bored with all the local gigs? Take this bad boy for a spin and you’ll burn the damn front page down.”
“Oh my God.” I grab it away from her, stuff it back into the box, and put the lid on. In my haste I manage to knock the box off my lap. When it hits the floor the vibrator spills out at the feet of an elderly couple who has just arrived.
“Good for you, dear,” says the woman of the pair. “Variety keeps everything revving.”
Lacey gives her a high five while I drop to my knees and quickly snatch up the colossal vibrator to hide Owen 2.0 back into his box.
“But I have to warn you” says Lacey, “You’ve got to beware of its powers. It’s not going to be a substitute for a real man forever. But it’s more than a match for all these weenies who would rather flip a coin than give it to you the way you deserve.”
The thought of coins make me gulp down another drink. I don’t want to think about Owen at all. Lacey’s definitely right about one thing, though: I’m bored with my journalism job and would do just about anything to escape the local beat for a while. Maybe Owen 2.0 is just the ticket.
As soon as Lacey leaves (the Maître D in tow), I go home with my consolation prize - determined to treat myself to a night of…well, I guess I would just have to find out.
***
After my meeting with Lacey, I go home and fire up Owen 2.0. Once I get over the whirring noise—the contraption sounds like it’s about to take off from a launch pad—and as I dial it down to its lowest, least-intimidating setting, I’m able to induce something like pleasure in myself. But Owen keeps intruding on my fantasies. This is one of the problems with being so inexperienced: I don’t have a wealth of mental material to draw from when it comes to pleasuring myself, and I’m not that good at inserting men I have never been with into the scene. The Maître D, for instance, or anyone from True Blood.
Later that night, I have weird dreams. Owen is chasing me around, begging me to take him back and begging me to look at his latest coin, something from Prague. When I wake up, I feel extremely hung over.
I glance at my bedroom clock and gasp. I only have an hour before I have to be to work. Given the commute—two trains and three blocks on foot—it’s going to be a hell of a sprint. I jump in the shower and jump back out before my hair can even start to get wet. I get into my clothes so fast that it’s like I’m doing it to win money during a challenge on a game show. Breakfast isn’t the most pitiful it’s ever been—which was once a handful of croutons and pickle chips—but neither is it sumptuous. It’s a dry bagel that I chomp through on the elevator down to ground level, leaving brittle flakes and crumbs in m
y wake. Oh well, I pay a ton and my place sucks, so they can clean up after me.
I manage to make it into the meeting room two minutes late. I’m one of the only ones there, which means either everyone else is late or I made a mistake and there’s no meeting today. Turns out it’s the latter.
My boss, Trinity, looks up and says, “Well, well, well, if it isn’t Sam here to…wait, what exactly are you doing here? Aren’t you supposed to be covering the firehouse thingy? No, scratch that - that was someone else. Let’s talk. Readers are complaining that we’re not entertaining enough and drying out. Let’s come up with new ideas, and I don’t want to hear about anything you’re already working on.”
This dizzying display of confusion and managerial expertise at an end, I sit and put my purse down.
“So how’s it going?” says Trinity. “I can tell you’re bored so don’t bother lying to me. I just want to know what’s boring you.” She picks up a pen and starts chewing the cap while locking her eyes onto mine.
“Well, as long as we’re being frank,” I say, trying to come up with something to say. “I guess I’m bored by…everything?” I hate the rising note at the end of my sentence. I used to be driven, like all youth. Jesus, listen to me, I’m only twenty-five and I make it sound like I’m just counting the days until my retirement. But it was true. “Yeah, basically everything.”
Trinity puts the well-chewed pen down and crosses her arms. “So what’s going to make it better? You’re one of the best writers we’ve got, but it’s clear we’re not challenging you enough, or using your assets as best we can.”
Trinity continues to chewing the pen cap before she finally raises her head.
“So I’ve got some good news for you, cub reporter of mine. It just so happens that there’s a job, far off the local beat, that nobody else wants to do.”
“Oh, this sounds wonderful. Please tell me everything,” responding in a cynical tone. Was this what it had come to? She offers me a job that no one else wants?
